I'm Bringing Handjobs Back

In praise of 1 1/2 base.

Feb 10, 2012 at 1:00pm | Leave a comment

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You guys want to hear a joke?

A long haul trucker is driving along a remote stretch of highway. He's been on job after job, away from home so long that his wife got fed up and left long ago. He's been on the road, lonely, and he can't remember the last time he felt a woman's touch. After hundreds of miles of desolate road, he sees a neon sign in the distance. There's a tiny honky tonk by the side of the highway, just about a mile up. The trucker, who's scarcely had any human contact aside from the odd gas station attendant, pulls over and gets out. Inside, the place is deserted. There's a pool table, a bar, and a chalkboard sign. The trucker sidles up and reads it: Hamburgers, $2. Chicken Sandwiches, $2. The Greatest Handjob in the Entire World, $2. After a moment, a barmaid emerges. She's beautiful, buxom, a sight for sore trucker eyes. She takes out a pad, clicks her pen, and leans seductively on the bar. "What can I get for you?" she asks. The trucker pauses, and checks his wallet. "Are you the young lady who gives the hand jobs?" he asks. "Why yes," she coos. "Well, wash your hands," he says. "I want a chicken sandwich."

The point of the joke, of course, is that nobody likes hand jobs.

Despite being a lot of work and technique, the contemporary hand job is still considered the refuge of the inexperienced or the timid or the lame. See please, for further hand job mockery, the Onion News Network video about the invention of the hand job ("At first, we thought the woman could just hold on to it. Then, we tried having the man wiggle his body. Finally, we tried rubbing the shaft like the bluuuue blazes! So elegant and simple!"). Oh, poor maligned handy! Nobody understands you.

Before I get into the nitty chickeny chokey gritty, let me warn off the faint of heart. While stamina and sensitivity are certainly factors, handjobs are a marathon and not a sprint. They're not for the easily bored or uninvested. Ladies who have ever tried to make butter by shaking a jar of cream at one of those historical reenactor farm villages, you know what I'm talking about. Slouches, stoners and other sexual three toed sloths, please pack your knives and go.

The hand job, after all, has become something of a lost art, like letter-writing or encoding things into Navajo to keep them secure from the Nazis. It's been relegated from the main stage to a few minutes of foreplay or something to be done expediently or surreptitiously. Not so! The poor hand job is the ignored middle child of sex, like Geoffrey from "The Lion in Winter." At some point, the old Five Speed stopped being the stuff of erotic Roman art, and started being the stuff of $40 rub'n'tug joints for any-port-in-a-storm Transitions lens wearers.

As for the old chestnut that guys can do it better themselves -- well, sure, you probably have a standard practice that you're in to. But that's like saying, "Don't bother putting your hand up my skirt, I have a vibrator at home." It's like, really? Are you GOOD at MASTURBATING? Oh, never mind then, you gold medalist. It's like somebody saying their chili is better without even trying yours first. Uh, I make my chili with two hands. It's awesome.
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Think of it this way. You wash your own hair every day, too, but how much better is it when somebody does if for you at a salon sink? OK, you shouldn't really have an orgasm in front of the junior stylist. Also, you should really tip those people, if you don't. Sorry! Different post.

Besides, like good comedy or the Spanish Inquisition, your chief weapon is surprise. (You can leave out fear this time.) A dude jerking off in his most efficient, perfected method of jerkery can convince himself admirably that his hand is Elizabeth Hasselbeck, but he still knows what her next gambit is. This also applies to a lot of sex, but part of it is modulating repetition with total ambush. Yes, OK, a lot of masturbation is recreational, but making it into something you "do right" makes it more about expediency, which is not the name of the hand job game.

Ultimately, I think first-and-half base gets a bad rap because nobody does it well. You know, like how you'll sometimes just tell a dude to skip going down on you because you don't want to lie there singing "Manamanah" in your head, waiting until you can plausibly fake some shudders and wrap this thing up before "Game of Thrones." But it's not that difficult! You just need to be a little open minded and mentally prepared.

A lot of very kinky women only discover the secret power of the elaborate hando after basically blowing through (pun pun pun!) every conventional perversion with one particular partner. You know, one of those relationships where you're like, "Oh! A gazebo! We haven't done reverse cowgirl in one of those yet."

It is weird that fancy hand jobs may be the final frontier for a lot of women (you know, aside from those scary electrodes or punching each other in the face). Because, above all things, I am an academic, I actually did a lot of research on them once -- both of the scholarly, sex manual variety (you know, the ones that use the word "lover" a lot and bring to mind late night HBO specials where clowns sixty nine each other) and of the porno variety.  Thanks, Penny Flame!

The fact that we've come to see blow jobs and buttsex as the ne plus ultra of male sexual pleasure is limiting. First off, your hands can do things your face and butt can't. There's a thing I read in a creepy old sex manual a friend of mine had called a "basket weave" (which I've since seen reprinted under various, hilarious names in women's magazines, to terrifying effect). Look it up.

This is why I like them, because they really let you be as in control as you want to. Even with the most gentlemanly of guys and the most orthodontically implausible gag reflex, there's always the chance of essentially getting rammed in the tonsils with the blowie. A hand job can be as intimate or not intimate as you like, because, depending on your vantage point, somebody's not just staring the the top of your head. Or, you know, if you prefer, you can literally do them with your eyes closed while makin' out, like your garden variety fingerblast.
 
You really have to go for it, though, and you do need to be just the finest bit prepared. You're going to need lube. Not lotion (lotion is great for solo work, but if there's a chance that peen is going to end up someplace you don't want lavender oil), and not spit (spit dries way too easily, and while some guys find that first expectoration into your palm sexy in kind of a high school way, repeatedly trying to hock up homemade lubricant gets awkward in a hurry -- like hold on HHRGHHHHHHH. Sexy.).

And, OK, I may be going into Super Perverted waters here, but you can't be afraid to let things get a little sloppy. (Although sloppy tolerances vary -- I still refuse to believe that there are women out there who don't love to swallow, so please adjust your freakiness to mine accordingly.)

A good, complex, freaky-ass hand job is actually kind of an intimate thing to do to somebody, so I'd try attempting your Level 7 handy on a partner you're comfortable with, or one of those fly-across-the-country bangs that you know is going to be porny from the get-go.

Don't expect to love or be great at the handy the first time, and since what everybody likes is different, you're going to have to be intuitive about what's working and what isn't. Use actual massage etiquette and start off gentle before increasing pressure. Some guys like to have their dicks garroted like Victorian prostitutes, but never start out with anything greater than a nice moderate squeeze. Balls are like feral kittens -- they have to trust you before it's fun for everybody to play with them.

Like anything you learn to do well -- whether it's knitting or skateboarding calligraphy -- hand jobs can be fun. Get good enough, and they can be a main event, like how macaroni and cheese is technically a side dish but you can eat a whole pot of it for dinner. And indeed, my ex boyfriend used to ask for them like a fifties dad angling for breaded pork chops. "Oh, darling? Have you been to the grocery store yet? Do you think I could get some of your famous hand jobs? Grreeeeeeeat."

It's almost worth keeping a secret, but I think that as an alternative to intercourse or a skilled foreplay martial art, they're indispensable. Give the it the ol' middle school try, and I guarantee you, you'll like it so much your arms will look like they fell off the "Expendables" poster. But, you know, in a sexy way.