Whenever I’m asked if I'm into men or women, I always say I like sharks.

That's right, the people who will order you a drink without asking, push you up against the wall outside the bar, and had decided you were their prey before you even made eye contact. They don't care what you think, they just want you. They may never call you back, but there's something magical about being pulled up from your bar stool while they whisper in your ear, “Hey, let's get out of here.” I'm no pushover, but cocky and confident folks flip my switch, no matter the gender.

I met my first shark when I worked at a summer stock play in upstate New York during my last year of high school. Back then I was a complete nerd. All I wanted was to work on a play where I could kiss somebody and convince them to “improvise” with me, but I kept getting cast as the fat older nurse. So, I gave up my pursuit of dry humping and focused on trying to crack up the room by flailing around my fat bingo arms.

The other actors that summer were college students, and I was in love with the lead actress in our show. She was tall, confident, hilarious and crazy talented. I wanted to get close to her, hoping some of her charisma would rub off on me. Unfortunately, talent doesn't work like HPV; it's not something you can catch from skin-to-skin contact. Also, she was involved with a beautiful ingenue who placed way above me on the sex appeal meter. Since my crush was unrequited, I settled for seducing a stage manager named Mike who had an addiction to Adderall and The National Enquirer. Years later, I received a 12-step apology phone call from him. What he had to be sorry about I'm still not sure.

I tried to give him a blow job in the bathroom of the scene shop. Twenty minutes passed with no reaction; no groaning, no hair pulling. Nothing stiff at all except my neck. I mumbled something about having to memorize my lines, got off my knees and walked straight home to the house all the actors were given to share. I was underwhelmed and undersexed.

As soon as I walked in I confessed to everyone in the living room I'd just given my first blowie. The “romantic lead” halted his ukelele playing. He went to Hampshire College and had “apparently” slept with 32 women. He asked if I'd spit or swallowed. I admitted Mike hadn't cum. They all broke out laughing. That particular brand of cackling haunts me to this day. But, the woman of my dreams stopped the noise with a sharp wave of her hand, “Fuck off people, I've got an idea.”

She disappeared into her room, and came back with a huge, purple dildo. “We'll teach Lacy to give great head. No one doesn't cum on my watch.” She practically shoved the dildo in my mouth. All my cast-mates watched in shock as she started giving me instructions on how to suck dick. Her girlfriend loudly stomped out of the room. No one took much notice of her tantrum though. I was about to put on a show.

“Number one thing,” she said. “Smile. It opens the back of your throat. Use your hands, a blow job is really a hand job, just including your mouth.”

At first there was a lot teasing and snickering, but it wasn't long until a silence hovered over the room. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who needed instruction in the art of cum drinking. She told me to lie on the couch with my head dangling over the armrest. She explained that if I did this on a bed, then I could deep throat pretty easily. “It's like giving a bj without any work. But you really have to trust the dude, cause you got absolutely no control. Your basically getting skull fucked. It's best to figure out some kind of gesture beforehand, to let him know you've had enough. Like grab his ass real hard.”

When the lesson came to an end I was both grateful and sad. I started to get up; all I wanted was to go back to my room and re-live the whole experience while trying to rub one out. She stopped me midway out of the living by grabbing my arm. “Uh, uh,” she said, “You're not going anywhere. You have to prove to me you know what you’re doing.”

“How am I going do that?”

“By showing me in a way I can feel.”

She stuck out her two fingers and said, “Suck on my fingers like they're a cock.”

“No way.”

“I'm not letting you go until you do it.”

I took a deep breath and went down on her digits.

At first I couldn't look at her, but then I glanced up to see if it was working. I caught her eye and held it for what seemed like forever. I stared her down while at the same time going down on her fingers. Once, for a quick moment, she closed her eyes and I thought, “Yeah, I might be good at this.”

Suddenly she took her hand out of my mouth and wiped my spit off on her shirt. “Looks like you know what you're doing now. God speed.” With a wave of the very same hand I'd just massaged with my tongue, I was dismissed.

This woman was my first and truest shark. I understand the dangers of mythologizing players. I get that I love them because I have the deluded hope they will change for me. I know there's no actual merit to the fantasy that I'm so great they'll hang up their hat and settle down wanting no one else. But I still can't help loving the magnetism of someone in control. This girl introduced me to more than just sharks, she taught me the difference between a roll in the hay and a real erotic moment. She taught me there is an art to seduction, and that eye contact is just as important as finger play.

Mainly, though, she taught me how to give great head.