We all have those days when the last thing we want in and around our mouth is our boyfriend’s Little General. Let’s be honest, sometimes the art of fellatio can be quite a chore. But denying our man what he most wants doesn’t come without guilt. While flat out rejection seems like cruel and unusual punishment, there are some foolproof excuses that will lessen the blow of the job-not done.

“I think I’m allergic to your sperm.”
Yes, that is possible. And unless he want’s to explain to the nurse at the health center exactly why your mouth is swollen to the size of a grapefruit, he better let you off the hook this time.

“It’s not me! It’s the curse of the lockjaw!”
A stiff jaw does not a good BJ make. The attack of the lockjaw is just as painful for him as it is for you. Especially if you catch a little skin in the midst of the untimely episode. The thought of a bleeding dick may turn him off to the idea altogether, and if it doesn’t, the thought of calling EMS to remove you from his man-bits might do the trick.

“Sorry, but my gag reflex is super sensitive today.”
There is no such thing as erotic vomiting. You may have loved that romantic dinner you two just enjoyed, but no one will be smiling when you see it for a second time. On his stomach. End of story.

“I have a cold and can’t breathe through my nose. I could die!”
Unless asphyxiation turns him on, this is an undeniable excuse. No one wants the headline of their obituary to read “Girl Loses Life Going Down on Boyfriend.” Remind him that you’ll be the shame of your family and it will be all his fault. And your dad owns a big ol’ gun. That should do it.

“Okay, but I spit.”
That one will work. Trust.

Upon arriving, you say your hellos and shove your way through the crowd to the keg parked in the backyard. You fill your blue Solo cup (“What? They make these things in blue!?”) then meet back up with your friends. You sip, you chat, then you wave your hand violently in the air when the party host asks who’s up for a game of flip cup.

You take your spot at the table, strategically placing yourself next to the very cute boy who lives there. You do a few practice flips, wet the table in front of you a bit for more cup traction and get ready for the game to start.

Seven rounds later, your team is victorious, you and your boy-toy are hugging it out and you’re feeling less than steady. Ok, so you’re drunk, but it’s good drunk. Perfect drunk. The kind that will easily take you through the rest of the night but still leave you feeling a-OK in the morning.

As you begin to walk away from the table to find your friends, the cute boy grabs you.

“Wanna take a shot?” He asks.

“Obvi,” you answer, smitten.

You follow him up to his room where he’s got a bottle of Jameson sitting on top of his mini fridge. As you stand there swaying in your stilettos, your stomach starts churning. You know good and well that you don’t need another shot – especially when it’s brown poison – but you can’t back out now. You don’t want to look like some baby who can’t handle a stupid shot. And you want to make out with him.

The boy grabs two shot glasses from his desk (that undoubtedly haven’t been cleaned since the last time he used them) and starts pouring.

This is a bad idea.
A terrible idea.
This is gonna be ugly.
This night will not end well.

He turns to you. You smile nervously as he hands you your Senor Frogs shot glass.

“Cheers,” he says, raising his Spring Break 2008 double shot glass in the air.

“Cheers,” you reply, silently praying to God that you don’t puke on his carpet.

You throw it back quickly and instantly begin an internal battle with your gag reflex. “Stay down, stay down, stay down….” you tell yourself as you wipe the spillage off your chin. Your throat is burning and your stomach is not happy. But you don’t show it. You smile and joke around with the boy, all the time hoping and praying that Mr. Jameson doesn’t send you over the edge.

You’re doing fine, spitting some serious game, when the shot finally hits you. Suddenly, you’re seeing double and the room is spinning. You have no idea what the boy is saying. You can’t stand up.

“Oh God,” you think to yourself. “This isn’t good. Need water. Need air. I’m gonna be sick. Why did I take that shot? Please God, let me just get through this and I promise I’ll be better next time. Please.”

You excuse yourself to go find your friends, walking into the door on your way out. You grasp the wall on your way down the stairs. “This is bad, this is bad, this is bad,” you tell yourself. When you reach the bottom (safely, thank God), you attempt to find your friends, but it’s nearly impossible to stand let alone navigate through a room of sweaty people grinding. Instead, you take off your shoes, head out of the house and stumble home.

Yeah, we’ve all been there. Over the edge. No turning back. But who’s gonna turn down a free shot?
Not this guy.