The cunnilingus chair

By on Feb 8th

The Cunnilingus Chair

Me and my favorite arm chair, back in the day

In 2005, I celebrated the 10 year anniversary of my relationship with my favorite armchair. That chair and I had an amazing relationship.

Back in 1995, I was dating an over-caffeinated stylish fellow who had the nicest furniture I'd ever seen. At my then-house (Tha Muthaship), our couch was a dilapidated hand-me-down that came from my high school boyfriend's older brother's college house. It was shredded from several cats, saturated with years' worth of collegiate beer and bongwater, and hidden under a patchwork of Indian bed spreads and blankets.

The then-boyfriend's furniture, however, was all his. Granted, it was a little faded across the tops, but he had a three-piece living room set (…a set! Something I still don't own!) which included a deep couch, a deep armchair, and a matching ottoman. From my 20-year-old perspective, this was the height of classy.

One night, early-on in our ill-fated three month relationship, the then-boyfriend and I went out on a fancy date. I went for my version of sexy, which include a retro-feel cocktail dress and thigh-high stockings and a garter belt. When I was young, thigh-high stockings with a garter belt were my oh-so-subtle ways of announcing what I wanted. It was clumsy, but there's no arguing with the results. We had a nice enough date, which ended with me still mostly dressed in the arm chair and my then-boyfriend, uh, kneeling in front of it.

That was when I first fell in love with the chair.

Things didn't work out for the then-boyfriend and me. We hit that three-month compromise-or-die point, and I wasn't into compromising. We still had a class together though, so we stayed in touch. I moved on quickly, going to a lot of raves and generally enjoying my single self.

But I missed the chair. There were a couple occasions when, after a night of chemically-enhanced all-night dancing, I would call my ex-boyfriend to see if I could come over and nap in the chair. You see, it was made for me. The width between the chair's low arms is exactly the length of my spine. I could rest my head on one arm rest, using it as a pillow, and my butt perfectly tucked lengthwise against the other arm. With the ottoman, the chair was a napping destination.

Probably tired of both his faded furniture and his faded, cracked-out ex-girlfriend, my ex decided to upgrade to a new leather furniture set, and offered me his cast-offs.

That was when the chair moved in with me. No more nap outsourcing. The chair was my beloved roommate and we slept together often. It followed me from Seattle to San Francisco, where it proved able to accommodate three insomniac ravers simultaneously. It followed me back up to Seattle, then down to Olympia. It didn't come to New York with me, but it did make the trek down to Los Angeles with me in 2002.

On the night of my 10 year anniversary with the chair, I sat down for three hours and finished a book. I sat in it cross legged, then sideways, then with my head on an armrest and my legs resting up the wall. The chair is always accommodating. The chair has seen me through four cities, many books, that one dirty encounter, and lots of snuggling. It's welcomed the butts of hundreds of friends over the years. The chair was my constant.

The cunnilingus chair went its way in 2007 when we downsized into a smaller home, getting passed on to a friend's teenaged daughter who laughed her ass off at the backstory. It's been replaced with a fancy pink rocking armchair that cost more than I'd like to discuss, even at half off.

I miss the chair.