Behind Enemy Lines

So last Friday, it's someone's birthday in the office. Against my better judgment, I head out after work with a couple folks for a quick celebratory beverage. When I get there, I notice that I'm the only guy. In the dark recesses of my mind, this is the sort of scenario I dream about. No cock-blocking. No flexing and pluming. Just me and a buncha hotties throwing back booze. One drink in, and I'm already envisioning the bit where one of them slips me a roofie and I wake up in some Charlestown apartment, tied to the floor while the women take turns straddling my mouth.

But in real time, one of them starts talking up her love life. And, before long, they're all on to the subject of blow jobs. And what should be an exercise in unstoppable awesomeness actually turns rather uncomfortable. Once or twice, they ask for my opinion... [mostly stuff like, "Where do you guys get that idea? From porno?"] I spend the next half hour blushing, nodding or shaking my head like a trained seal, shifting nervously in my seat, and wondering if the couple one booth over can hear any of this.

You ladies do this sorta stuff on purpose, don't you?