Cunningham adds giggles to the BJ debate... no pressure, sense of humour needed.

The BJ Debate... hey, no pressure, sense of humour needed.


I’ve noticed recently amongst the girls that there's been some fun debate on BJ’s (blow jobs). Some women like it, some absolutely do not. Even a few males have chimed in to say they wouldn’t if they were women.

Perchance, I mention the topic in my thriller ‘The Penance List’, I promised the girls a quick read of this Chapter, to add to their debate and hopefully raise a few giggles.

The scene is of ladies chatting over lunch.  Light hearted banter that helps build fear in the storyline, just moments before their contrasting worlds of light and dark, collide. Avenging evil sits just around the corner, watching, waiting, patient - they have no idea that they’re on his list.

So here it is girls... I hope it helps the debate… (smile).

N.B  please do not take this fiction seriously, do not read if of a sensitive disposition, sense of humor needed.





by S C Cunningham







Cellini’s Restaurant, Chelsea, London


“Granted, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, if you swallow, you are in the minority, it needs sugar or brandy or something,” Tara blew her blonde fringe out of her eyes, concentrating on her defence.

“Depends on the guy’s diet of course, pineapple is meant to be good, no fast food, no ciggies, no drugs and it could almost be palatable,” her two girlfriends looked at her blankly.

“It’s full of protein, low on calories,” she enthused, but no, they were still not convinced.

Click, click... hidden in a cafe across the street, he pulled on the focus, fitting all three into shot.


As per normal for most Fridays, the girlfriends giggled through lunch discussing men, or the lack thereof. Tara, Helen, and Josie were single, beautiful, intelligent, best of friends. They’d reached the age of thirty having avoided the three things that sap a girl’s energy; marriage, divorce and kids.

It wasn’t that they didn’t want long term relationships; they were sexually active and adored men, they’d just never quite understood the workings of the male mind.

If you give them what they want the chase is over and they move on, if you don’t give them what they want, you are a frigid bitch and they move on. If you give them the babies their egos crave for, they are out the door, financing as little as possible, and seeing their offspring at weekends, between the golf, football and their latest sexual conquest. They want commitment yet freedom, for you to be faithful, yet them to be free, for you to be a full-time mother, yet them a part-time father. You couldn’t win.

Sourcing a man that knows what he wants, is a balanced, reliable, trustworthy soul mate, a good father, exciting and sexy as hell, was a tough call. Maybe the girls asked for too many boxes to be ticked, their quality control buttons set too high.

Maybe they shouldn’t even consider long term stuff until the guy was at least over thirty five, forty, settled in who he was and what he wanted. The trouble was a girl’s time clock ticked away. The choices were test tubes or older men. The most important choice a person makes is the parent of their child; no one wants to give the poor innocent thing a dodgy one that they have to live with for the rest of their lives.

It was tricky, can’t live with men, and can’t live without them. Hell, did they need to have babies anyway? Weren’t they overrated and oversupplied?

Tara Warr had a particularly high setting on her quality control button, although highly sexed, she was extremely choosy, the consequences of which led to long periods of man-drought. She was currently going through a serious dry patch, climbing the walls; she hadn’t been with a man for a year. She craved the relaxed laissez-faire attitude of Helen.

Helen Howard had a lower par setting, ‘love the one your with’, she made do with whatever was available on the day, or rather, whoever actually showed an interest in her, which, because she was beautiful, was quite a lot of men.

Josie James had little interest, what was all the fuss about? She would laugh along with the girls stories of man-woe, giving advice and sympathy where needed. She seldom dated, was wary of men and happy to be alone; she was more interested in her career and quite satisfied with the trusted middle finger of her right hand.

However cynical they appeared, they each had the romantic seed of hope, that one day Mr Right would come bursting in on his white charger or gas-guzzling SUV and whisk them away to a life of happily ever after. Meanwhile they waited, grazing on titbits that were, more often than not, bad for them.

Tara and Helen had met as juniors at a convent boarding school for young ladies, upsetting a multitude of nuns in their wake. Josie had been adopted by the feisty twosome years later at college. Her cheeky up-front London cockney savvy and their self-effacing Sloaney wit made an entertaining mix. They had stuck together through thick and thin, enduring life’s roller coaster; a good team.

Their bond was about to be tested. Evil was entering centre stage of their cosy, comfortable lives. It had been sitting on the periphery for years, plotting, planning, and patiently waiting. It was watching them now; they only had to look up through the restaurant window to see it, hiding behind the large black lens that focused directly on them.

Click, click... the shot pulled in tight, slender fingers wrapped the stem of her glass.

“I love it, but I totally understand those that don’t, especially when you think about where it’s actually coming from… so to speak,” giggled Tara. “Excuse the pun!”

“Yes, urrgh!” Helen groaned, jumping on the gruesome fact with gusto.

Although she loved sex, she was not an advocate of placing anything remotely live or squidgy in her mouth. Her retch-reflex was too sensitive, oysters, snails and egg white had the same effect. She hated blow jobs.

“Think about it T, they urinate out of the same hole, it’s absolutely disgusting!” she raised her hand to the front of her face, blocking out the image.

“Yuk! Second thoughts don’t think about it, don’t even go there,” too late, she’d gone there, her face scrunched up with disgust.

“But, so do we,” corrected Tara, levelling up the case for the opposition.

Helen grimaced; covering her face with both hands to push away two sets of visuals. Looking down at her wine glass, the yellowy chardonnay didn’t look quite so appealing.

“Urrgh… STOP… I’m eatin, do ya mind?” moaned Josie, her cockney accent shouting over the two girls. She punched them both smartly on the shoulder, secretly loving it when they got into full debate on the endless subject of men and their ever-fascinating appendages.

The girl’s discussion mainly flowed in this vein; their witty banter moved at a gallop, sprinting through sentences that didn’t need completing, interspersed with giggles, tears and hugs. They ‘got’ each other with intuitive precision.

When a man joined the table, the conversation would politely shift a gear to less risqué subjects. Men were simple souls; they may not be able to cope with the intense level of, utterly pointless, discussion given to their private parts.

Tara did sometimes wonder how they could talk such utter rubbish for hours on end; she put it down to a necessary form of free DIY therapy from those who actually loved, cared and understood you. Knew how to make you laugh and what made you tick. She believed in avoiding shrinks whenever possible, buy a friend lunch; it was cheaper and didn’t keep the drug trade in business, too many unnecessary pills out there.

“I hate BJ’s…  I hate the taste, the feel, the pressure. I am SO useless at them, they make me gag, which is SO not such a good look,” complained Helen, pulling a very unattractive gagging face.

The girls giggled; Josie put her fork down, giving up trying to eat.

“No, seriously,” continued Helen. “I try really hard, but I can’t swallow to save my life, and my hand jobs are a nightmare. I get into a nice rhythm, everything’s going fine, then it starts, the insecurity creeps in. Am I doing it right? Am I holding too tight, too hard? Am I yanking too fast? He’s not saying anything, not helping, except the odd sharp intake of breath or animal-like groan. Was that a ‘pained’ intake of breath or a ‘pleasurable’ intake of breath? A ‘yeah, good’ groan or an ‘ouch! fuck that hurt’ groan? How the hell do you know? You have to be a mind reader. My hand gets tired, my knees ache, my jaw starts to lock, my teeth get in the way, I remember that he pees out of it and..”

She takes a slug of wine, soldiering on with her regular moan about her disastrous sex life.

“... whoosh!…I lose it, hand-to-mouth coordination gets all out of sync and I go into a blind panic, knowing that he knows, that I know, that I’ve lost it. It’s like reverse parking; start analysing it and I mess up, every time…”

The girls look at her quizzically, trying to keep up with her line of thinking…reverse parking?

“And, to make it worse, he’s looking impatiently down at me, like, ‘come on, babe, get a move on,’ probably waiting for the footy to start, spotting my roots need doing, and trying not to laugh at the farting noises my mouth is making…urrgh!! It’s all SO unattractive.”

She sighs, serious faced, topping up wine glasses, the girls trying not to laugh.

“How do you know if you’re doing it right?” she pleaded.

“Hey relax gal, you don’t ‘ave to do it, it’s not mandatory. Some guys don’t like blow jobs, having a set of gnashers around their privates fills them with terror, and some guys don’t like to go down on us for the same reasons; we pee out of it, and the little ‘panic button’ is hell to figure out,” Josie tried to calm her, but she wasn’t listening.

“And why the hell is it called a ‘blow job’? Granted, it’s a bloody job, but there is no bloody blowing involved, unless I’m doing it wrong,” she stopped in her tracks and looked quizzically up at the girls.

“Do you blow in the hole?” they both shook their heads, trying not to laugh.

“I don’t want to force a bloody air bubble down his tubes, he’ll go blue... try explaining that to an ambulance crew. No one teaches you these things, its real trial and error stuff.”

“Well maybe that’s what the older man is for, hun… to teach a girl the sexual basics,” piped up Tara.

“That’s even worse, they take Viagra and never bloody stop... they have a hard on for days, your bits are sore as hell… and they never bloody come, where’s the fun in that? To top it all they end up having a heart attack,” Helen gulped more wine, shaking her head.

Josie giggled. “We’re a bit old for older men don’t ya think? Ours would come with a wheelchair and bus pass. It would be more useful to learn a few resuscitation techniques... a good bit of slap’n tickle and a cheeky bit of CPR, very sexy.”

Click, click... the frame catches their three heads rock back with laughter, a cauldron of witches.


Chapter Five   (continued)

Cellini’s Restaurant, Chelsea, London

“Spit, don’t swallow, I say, can’t stand the stuff either, no matter ‘ow much sugar you put wiv it,” announced Josie, cheekily spicing up the debate. “It’s the texture that gets me, egg white gloopyish.”

She squeezed her red glossed lips tight into a rigid line and shook her head, not about to let a drop of anything in, gloopy or not.

“Spitting is SO not a good look though, Jose. Just pretend you love it, spread it all over your chin with the tip of his dick,” Tara tilted her head back, pouted her lips, and waved a clenched hand seesaw fashion across her euphoric face, demonstrating her enjoying-it look.

Click, click... he recognized her action, licking his lips; what a bad girl.

Josie giggled; she of all people did not need a lesson in blow jobs, but Tara had a sweet way of talking naughty whilst making it sound as if she were discussing pruning petunias. Tara took her sex tips seriously; she wanted everyone to have the fun she had.

“That way, he’s in heaven with the view and the thought that you love every damn inch of him, while not having had to swallow a drop. Perfect; everyone goes home happy,” Tara beamed, her blue eyes sparkling with the simplicity of it all.

Enzo, the handsome young Italian waiter in smart white apron, had been forgotten.  As he deftly dispensed the crisp Chardonnay into their glasses, he listened open-mouthed, barely breathing, following Tara’s performance.

Josie couldn’t resist mimicking Tara. Exaggerating her demonstration, she ridiculously wielded her cock-clenched hand all over the place; across her face, in her eye, over her shoulder, in her ear, over her head, under her chair, in her handbag, up her nose, across her chest, over the table, under her armpits.

“Like this, dahling?” she asked in her poshest voice, arms flailing, mocking wide-eyed innocence, teasing her wonderful friend.

Helen burst into giggles. Tara gave them both a withering look and soldiered on.

“You may jest girlies,’ shaking her head. ‘But I think some form of BJ expertise is important for a girl to master, a necessary tool of the trade, so to speak,” she giggled at the pun. “Blatant spitting is trashy, SO not ...”

“… A GOOD LOOK!” Helen and Josie joined in loudly, teasing her some more. According to Tara, whatever you were doing, you had to look good, with a bit of style. It would be on her tomb stone, ‘this is SO not a good look’.

“How do you get them to kiss and cuddle afterwards?” asked Helen, as she twisted the stem of her glass a little too roughly. “Most roll over, fart, fall asleep, or light up a fag and turn on the footy!…or, maybe, they just don’t like the taste of their own stuff and don’t wanna kiss you afterwards… bloody cheek, and they expect us to swallow it; where is the justice?”

“Jeez, girls, do you mind, I’m trying to eat ’ere,” Josie cut in. “Bloody hell, can we stop talking men’s juices just until we get past the main course, for once, puhlease…”

Enzo, still in a daze with the blow job demonstration, subconsciously wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His other hand, dispensing wine into Josie’s glass, had been forgotten. Wine decanted out of her brimming glass onto the tablecloth.

“’ere! wotch it sunshine, I don’t wanna swim in the stuff!” barked Josie.

Tara, realizing he was listening, deftly changed the subject. Butter wouldn’t melt.

“I love this time of year when the flowers come out; they look so pretty, they have such wonderful window boxes here; I wonder which florist they use,” she mused, pointing to the magnificent display of flower boxes outside the restaurant window.

The girls nodded, momentarily confused at the sudden change of tack in convo.

Click, click... they’re looking out the window, had they spotted him? fuck, fuck, fuck!!

Red-faced, Enzo muttered an apology, mopped the mess with a napkin, dropped the bottle back into the ice bucket, and made a fast exit to the kitchen. English girls were frightening, the pastry chef agreed with him.

“How’s Ed the Head?” asked Helen, seizing the opportunity to change the subject.

Click, click... good, they hadn’t seen him; he pulled in tight on her mouth, licking his lips, soon he would taste the fear in her sweat.

Tara took a deep slug of her wine. The memory of Ed still made her tingle, after all this time; he was one of the sexiest men she had ever met. He’d also broken her heart and was the reason for her current dry patch. He was so unfaithful, so unreliable, but oh so deliciously charming. Once you realize that you don’t marry guys like Ed, you just play with them until ‘the one’ comes along, you are fine, never fall in love with an Ed.

Sadly Tara, being a romantic, had. It ended in tears, when she realized she was not the only one he whispered sweet nothings to and shared his beautiful cock with.

“Ed was many tears ago,” she said distractedly, getting bored with the hurt of longing for him. Forcing cheer into her voice, she counted up the months since they had split.

“Shit, it’s been nearly a year… so long without sex, this is a serious dry patch… I keep dreaming about it, I wake up covered in sweat with the bed a mess, it is so frustrating, I’m gonna heal over soon if I don’t meet someone. Wish I wasn’t so damn choosy,” Tara’s eyes scanned the table, searching out the butter dish.

“He was so bloody good he has ruined me for anyone else, fuck him!” she yanked the innocent dish towards her. “Where the hell have all the good ones gone?”

Brutally tearing off a chunk of crusty bread roll, she stabbed it into the perfectly formed butter coils, and scooped up an unhealthy amount of the hip-enhancing stuff. She then waved it baton-like in the air between the two girls, and popped it into her mouth with a feisty chomp.

“Yuk...!” cringed the girls in unison. What was it about being hurt by a guy that made a girl stuff her face with food?

“They are either gay, married, or into skinny young fings. Young fings are safe, cause they are not wise enough to know ‘ow lousy they are in the sack,” informed Josie, as she won a quick tug of war with Tara, and snatched the butter dish out of her reach.

“All the beautiful, fun, fit ones are gay! It’s so bloody annoying,” sighed Helen. “They should teach us these things in school: blow jobs, reverse parking, understanding the wine menu, and spotting dodgy men.”

“I can’t imagine Sister Stanislaus turning the next page of our text books: ‘Now girls, page 12, Chapter 4, Blow Jobs, who did their homework last night?” mimicked Tara in her best Dublin accent. “Helen Howard, D minus, that’s outrageous! Have you learnt nothing? Your Blow Jobs are a disgrace, detention after school for you young lady!

Click, click... he caught a close-up of the stretch of her neck as she threw her head back with laughter, and wondered whether he should place an incision across her neck.

He checked his watch, it was time to leave. He packed the camera into its case, popped on his shades, and slipped out of the café. The staff turned to the sound of the door closing; cold air whipped around their legs.

Tara shuddered.

“Ooohh, someone just walked over my grave,” she giggled to the others, more lightheartedly than she felt. “Talking of school, how’s that brother of yours, Hel? Haven’t seen him in years, he still taking weird pictures of earthworm’s innards and sitting in dark corners watching people?”

“Oh, I guess he’s fine, you know us, never could stand each other, I bet he still has a crush on you though, such bad taste,” Helen shook her head, teasing, topping up wine glasses.

“Let’s toast to T’s next shag, to the end of her dry patch.”

They raised their glasses, giggling at the faces of the fellow diners who had turned to hear Helen’s (a little too loud) toast.


Excerpt from THE PENANCE LIST by S C Cunningham


Available on Amazon.