Oh the beejer. My rock and my redeemer. The vaunted validator of my feigned admission of affection for Rachel Maddow earlier at dinner. If I forsake thee beejer, may my right hand lose its cunning.

I read with great interest, Elizabeth Richard’s sensible work about blowjob etiquette *always give a heads up* and was bowled over by its rationality. The blessed blowie and the hazards of sudden eruption—like an Icelandic magma chamber—sometimes so severe it stalls the planes of romance from reaching their future destinations. (And lawwwd, the baggage!)

What piquant irony it is that man’s greatest pleasure is, for women, undercut or sapped (if you will) by man’s greatest flaw: primal reticence and incommunicativeness. What salty comedy!

I’ve got to ask, at the risk of derision, do you really want me (effigy for mankind) in the heat of my climatic moment to interrupt you hard at work (’tis a job after all) and mumble some hastily thought out/wholly unsexy heeding about my impending seeding? Would that be the considerate thing for the modern man to do?

Well we’re not falling for that one! This isn’t my first rodeo and I know that if I’m ever asked to let-a-sista-know, it tends be a trap which often “finishes” badly for me. Don’t believe me? February 2005: As always, I’ve done my part first. Now I’m approaching weinerly nirvana and I let her know it’s time and she pulls an empty Dixie cup off of her nightstand and directs my member into it. I go from the warmth of an oral sauna into a cold plastic frat house accoutrement! From intimacy to after-dinner cordial!

This must be a fluke, right? Wrong. October 2007: Request from a self-proclaimed communications(!) major that I tap her on the shoulder when it’s time. What subterfuge! I tap and she cups her hands like the Land O’ Lakes lady as if she were going to catch all my butter. She doesn’t. A considerable mess ensues on sheets I hadn’t planned to wash for three more weeks! Her response: “I’m on a diet.” Serves me right for getting a hummer from a Murray Hill girl? Perhaps.

But I will now relate to you the most salient instance of when this courtesy has failed me. July 2008: Right before service she whispers a “just let me know when” request and promptly gives me one of the most munificent beejers of my sweet life. Her largesse is so stunning that I am already thinking of the combo meal I’m going to buy her tomorrow when my verbal acquiescence to her entreaty is suddenly followed by the lightening fast procurement of a nearby t-shirt (mine) with which she replaces her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles. “I totally flinched.” Funny story: everyone else flinched as well when I walked home through the summer night looking like some kind of Salvador Dali Dalmatian.

So while I know that there are some well-meaning, honey-tongued fellaters out there, with symbiosis on the brain and due regard in the aorta, there are also some sneaky Bs who ruin it for the collective load of us.

I submit that it’s not impossible to tell when a man is about to…you know…become really sleepy and/or apathetic about you. Being a man, he’ll likely begin to grunt a little bit. Be cognizant. Look for him to maybe squeeze your arm, shoulder, or bum, and then, supposing he can remember it, he’ll probably say your name or his Lord’s name or Hillary Clinton’s name or maybe Bill’s (you know…hypothetically) and by then, it should be obvious that he’s either about to finish or he’s watching the television behind you.

Regardless of the cues, it seems that the more direct notice a girl is given, the more opportunity there is for her to pull some late-game tomfoolery. To win the war but lose the piece. Or put it another way, a woman shouldn’t take a job that she merely wants to quit.