Let’s Bring Back The Handjob

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Nice Move

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Last night I might have become the oldest person to ever ejaculate in my school’s freshman dorms. This story is not about my taste in 18/19-year-old women, though. Instead, it’s about the profoundly bizarre, eye-opening sexual experience that took place in the those friendly confines.

I met this girl at the local watering hole and we go through the standard hand explorations during my half-hearted attempt at “dancing” before she asks if I want to “go to her place.” Not realizing the ID policy at the bar was about as stringent as drug tests on welfare recipients, I had no idea this woman meant a recent graduate would be making a return appearance to a primarily freshman hall, but in fairness, I can’t say I was too disappointed.

She was, however, not only of age, but an RA. That means rather than being right in my wheelhouse, she may have actually exceeded my 21-year-old age limit. Whatever. Anyway, we’re getting down to business on her futon when she positions herself on her knees as I sit with legs open and frock at full attention for what I assumed was the customary pre-sex blowie.

Instead, she’s rummaging around under her bed with increasing frustration, as my now somewhat lopped over dick quivers in both fear and anticipation of what the fuck is going on. Finally, she finds what she’s looking for: a fresh bottle of KY. I’m nearly shooting ropes, thinking she’s down to be Cara’d (a reoccurring saying in my college friend group relating to my pledge brother’s first anal encounter with a girl named Cara).

I fumble through some sort of horrifically distasteful line relating to her ass, to which she recoils, as if the thought was so abhorrent she was about to leave me with blue balls and a $5 Uber fare back to my hotel. Instead, for literally the first time since high school, she goes to work with her hands like a skilled laborer, pumping my dick in ways I never could have discovered in my 23 years of repeated experience.

She’s switching hands, two at a time. A simultaneous titty fucking and testicular shiatsu massage had me clenching back a premature ending. While I was assuming the real thing would be forthcoming, she remained dedicated to her increasingly otherworldly “job” until it got to a point where I couldn’t resist.

“Do you want me to?”

Before I even finished the sentence she pushed her tits together and prepared for rain. This was her plan all along. Not the result of my historically pathetic sexual duration, but a premeditated hand-based assault of pleasure.

And that was it. Leaving the hall, I knew recounting this story to my friends, and degenerate readers, would prompt the same reaction: “What the fuck? Handjobs fucking suck, man. What are you, a virgin?”

But do they really? When done correctly, with this RA chick possibly having a resume consisting of Asian massage parlors exclusively, they’re not only incredibly satisfying, new, and optically incredible, but totally unlike anything even the double jointed jacker could ever give themselves.

The handjob can’t reasonably transmit your assorted viruses, won’t result in pregnancy (unless you run into a turkey basting psychopath) and is far less of an emotional mind fuck/assumed commitment than the introduction of yourself to her insides. It’s a win-win for everybody.

I realize the dry, red rocket-inducing monstrosities of high school misadventures are engrained in our memories like the first time we took a swift kick to the nuts, but things can change. We get better at sex (at least in theory), and so do they.

Risk-free and immensely easier to get. Enjoyable if done right, and providing the perfect canvas for the post-job fireworks?

Sign me up.

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