Women Pay Me To Teach Them How To Give Great Head. (And Their Boyfriends Thank Me.)

"Over the past 20 years, I’ve taught women (and a few men) how to give world-class head while also becoming self-empowered and having a blast."
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“Good morning, class. Welcome to Blowjobs 101. Please get out your zucchinis, put on your knee pads and let’s get started.”

Today’s instructor (me) is the last person you’d look at on the street and think, “There’s a blow job champion!” Even I find my story hard to swallow (sorry).

Whatever I’ve called my classes over the past 20 years, I’ve taught women (and a few men) how to give world-class head while also becoming self-empowered and having a blast.

It started in 2002, when I was acting at a major regional theater.

One night in my dressing room, I spilled the tea to two girlfriends on the crew about my previous night’s hot sex. I casually mentioned how this guy gushed that my blow job was “the best I’ve ever had, I swear!” (It was his second gushing that night. But not his last.)

Truth: I’m really skeptical of claims like that. When a guy’s getting blown, he’ll say practically anything. He’ll speak in tongues as long as you keep using yours.

Still, the percentage of guys who have repeatedly sworn !oh!my!god!you’re!my!best!blow!job!ever! surprises even me. If there was a commercial for my blow jobs, it would sound like those old-time toothpaste commercials: “95 out of 100 men surveyed prefer Me!”

Reviews aside, my friends got really interested when I divulged my secret: The whole time I was boning up on going down, I faked liking it ― I only learned to like it later. They begged me to teach them what I know. I invited them to come over the next afternoon. And to bring some bananas.

Suddenly I realize: If I’m going to teach them what I know, I’ll have to reveal way TMI about my triple-X sex life.

I’m not an accidental sexpert. I’ve been a very intentional slut, starting in my 40s. It’s how I counterbalanced the totally screwed-up sexual wasteland of my first 30 years.

Growing up gay in 1960s rural Indiana, a survivor of conversion therapy, I was sex-phobic, inexperienced, self-armored with excess weight, extremely lonely and deeply unhappy. That part of normal growing up where you go through all the awkward stages of dating and sexual discovery? Never had it.

I realized I had a lot to learn to become the kind of confident, out, proud, sexual gay man I wanted to be.

I take an erotic bodywork class in Chicago precisely because it terrifies me. Twenty-five strangers trading genital massage and full-body orgasms? Cringe-worthy.

But the reality? Ineffable joy and involuntary tears, mourning the pleasure I’ve denied myself all these years. I’m reborn. It’s my first lesson in one of my life’s guiding mantras: My greatest growth almost always lies in the direction of my deepest fears.

If my first 30 years were like the five stages of grief ― denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance ― then I proclaim a sixth stage for the rest of my life: Celebration!

I can’t keep living in Indianapolis, where “promiscuous” means “You’re having the sex I wish I was having” or “You’re having the sex I won’t let myself have, so you shouldn’t have it either.” Not a safe place to spread my wings or my legs.

Friends thought I was moving to New York City to pursue performing (and I did), but the real reason? I needed a gay finishing school, a place to pursue my doctorate in me.

I live (appropriately) in Hell’s Kitchen, a block from Times Square. It’s the secret to my sex life: “Location, location, location.”

I practice erotic and tantric bodywork between acting and singing gigs. I confront my body shame. I shed some weight along with my inhibitions. I enjoy more amazing lovers than I can count, and I finally realize there’s no Sky Monster waiting to swoop down to punish me for my porn-worthy life. You can fight me on this, and I’ll win: Sexual intimacy is one of the most spiritually and emotionally rewarding gifts life offers us.

I learned how to give head that usually ends with my partner exclaiming, “What the $%!# did you just do to me? Where did you learn to do that?” Usually I have no idea what I did; I’m just surrendering to the moment (and making mental notes for later).

Now I need those notes for my lesson plan.

Back in 2002, my theater friends were my very first class of oral students. I welcomed them with a bottle of wine, lighted some candles (even though it was daylight), and we got comfy. I asked what they thought about oral sex: their beliefs, experiences, fears, questions, etc. Once the nervous giggling subsided, they had a lot to say.

They had lots of insecurity about their abilities. Seems nobody (especially men) talks about this stuff with most women. I reassured them this wasn’t about one more way for women to take care of men without getting their own needs met. Who needs a class in that?

I offered a basic male anatomy lesson (hello, bananas). Turns out most women know as little about men’s anatomy as most men know about women’s. We talked hygiene, gag reflex, deep-throating, swallowing (or not). And pillows! Pillows are your friends ― you can never have too many pillows. If you aren’t comfortable yourself, ain’t no way you can focus on someone else’s comfort.

I reminded them that the entire body is an erogenous zone, not just the obvious parts. I gave prostate massage a deep dive (see what I did there?) and discuss how to really create sexual fireworks.

I related what it is like to be on the receiving end — how intimate and vulnerable it is for a man, and the power that women possess in that scenario. I shared my favorite tips and tricks, both physical and mental.

We talked about power exchange and role-play. My Gestalt training, my lovers and my bodywork clients have taught me that sex is one of the richest playgrounds for self-discovery.

I was painfully frank about my own experience. I proudly claimed my own promiscuity, whoreishness, sexual power ― and I gave my students a safe space to claim theirs. I suspected they wanted permission, but it wasn’t mine to give. I urged them to give themselves any permission they needed. We shared sexual fantasies, and I cheer them on.

Most important, I listened. I gently encouraged my students to initiate this same kind of talk with their boyfriends. You can’t have truly great sex without great communication.

We finally reached a good place to stop ― after all, this was an entry-level course. We toasted to their future oral prowess, ate the bananas and parted ways.

The next day I felt like a deer in the headlights when each of their boyfriends tracked me down to thank me. Twice, on the same day, a straight man I didn’t know let me know he knows: (A) I’m an accomplished cocksucker, and (B) his girlfriend and I have discussed their sex life. And now I knew what they were up to last night.

I was speechless and … proud! I wracked my brain to imagine what Miss Manners would advise as the protocol for concluding this conversation.

Those encounters perfectly illustrate why I continue to teach these classes. Why I choose to walk into this awkward, vulnerable, edgy space, risking judgment to declare what I know: Everyone deserves this joy and freedom and deep communion.

Now I advertise my classes by — you guessed it — word of mouth, and usually offer them at least once a month (I keep a waitlist). Small groups, Zoom classes, private coaching or consulting—whatever works for each person and their budget.

Participants have ranged from small-town girls in their 20s who’ve never had someone to talk with to women in their 50s seeking out a temporary GBF (gay best friend) for counsel, etc. I even offer classes sometimes for gay men (sometimes I’m a present from their partners).

Some of the content has changed since 2002, and much of it has stayed the same. A gifted therapist and an expert lover share a common gift: They know how to meet, illuminate and inspire their partners where they are.

I’ve known from an early age that I was born outside “the box.” I stupidly tried to fit into that box, and thankfully I failed. Now, living outside that box is my superpower, and the box is my Kryptonite. If I can use my powers for good, sharing my truth, empowering sexual intimacy and willing the best for everyone’s relationships, well …

As long as my superhero Lycra is black, my cape has vertical stripes (slimming), my breastplate is embossed with a Swarovski banana and I have matching knee pads, I’m ready to be of service!

Bill McKinley is a queer entertainer, certified Gestalt therapist, bodyworker, sex educator and Pleasure Activist.

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