|
 |
|
In all the time I've been sexually active with other people, I have achieved orgasm via the blowjob route only once. Some see this as my tragic flaw: here is a man who's obsessed with his penis, yet he's unable to benefit from one of its great corresponding joys. Although I'm grateful for every woman who has declared, with soulful conviction, that she will be the first to fellate me with such professionalism that my head will pop off, it's just really not my cup of tea. After thirty minutes of pointless head-bobbing, a woman usually looks up from my crotch with a sigh, conceding total failure (more like annoyance, actually).
That is when I take her hand and school her in the gentle art that so many women have forgotten: how to punch the bishop.
The first time I demonstrated this technique to a girl, we were in college. She was totally offended by my inability to come from the ministrations of her mouth. When I tried to clue her in on strange concepts such as "friction" and "velocity," she barked, "Why would you want me to jerk you off? Can't you do that yourself?"
I pointed out that some men can actually blow themselves, yet it apparently doesn't abate their desire to have others do it.
(I actually tried that once, after I saw it in a porn film: a guy, who was getting head from a girl, suddenly rolled onto his back and sucked himself off. This seemed like a novel idea, but I just wrenched my side and developed a keen respect for keeping semen out of a girl's eyes.) Nevertheless, I could not convince her that any guy capable of ambidextrous whacking can expound on the mystery of difference between his left and right hand. Nor could I persuade her that when that hand belongs to someone else, it's almost as if you've re-discovered jerking off for the first time. Having failed to persuade my partner to add a new arrow to her sexual quiver, I was left to rediscover myself once again.
In graduate school, another girlfriend, Bridget, declined my request for her to stroke the Maypole on the grounds that she found it "boring." I can't fathom how a handjob is any more or less boring than giving head at least when you're giving a handjob, you can carry on a conversation if the time is passing that tediously.
|
Why is the most benign sexual encounter so difficult to come by?
|
Bridget argued that giving a handjob yielded her zero pleasure (though she was raised Buddhist, that whole "selfless" thing hadn't really taken hold too well). We eventually compromised: she would use a strap-on while employing a technique she charmingly called "the reach-around." It was a one-time thing. I don't love being stroked off that much.
Why is the most benign sexual encounter also one of the most difficult to come by? Years ago, I was a guest lecturer in a high-school class taught by my friend Allison. At lunch, she and I went out to her car to smoke, and we ended up pawing one another. Since I got little action in high school, nothing was more appealing than a handjob from a teacher in the school parking lot. And of all the women I knew, Allison was the most likely to oblige, particularly because the two of us had a longstanding, unconsummated flirtation. (I was also fairly certain that Allison would oblige because she loves cock both word and entity dominate nearly all her conversations outside the classroom). Kissing her ear, I made my request in my most seductive tone. She recoiled from me in horror.
"That's ridiculous," she told me. "What am I? Some little dink from my class who's never seen a dick before? I'm not afraid to stare it in the face. I'm twenty-five, for God's sake." Allison, who is actually twenty-nine, seems to have gotten part of it right. It does seem sort of juvenile for a woman to perform an act that usually occurs under a blanket, while the threat of your parents' arrival looms.
Of course, not all my partners have been so averse to "trying their hand at the slots," as one called it. I've had several relationships with women who seemed not only to like giving a handjob, they adored it. My first serious girlfriend, Cathy, said it made her feel more in control. (Although she could take this too far. In one aborted role-playing incident she said, "I'll be the vet pretend to be a sheep that I have to collect sperm from.") Carol, whom I dated my last year in graduate school, would lie on her back and use a two-handed grip as I straddled her. She said she liked to "see it shoot." Carol, in particular, was a trooper, perhaps because she was also a virgin. If I was having trouble coming, she would stroke me until I thought a small blaze might begin in my pubic hair, only stopping to declare, "Keck, I can't take it any more my arms are going to fall off."
That's the one truly great hurdle of the handjob: if you're not used to that activity, it can get really old, awfully fast. If my male friends have ever agreed on one thing, it's that many women beg off handjobs with the excuse that they feel more like a workout than a good time.
|
I'm not the only man who hankers for a handshake.
|
When I stop to consider how much time I've spent laboring over my dick, doing that stupid, international motion that everyone understands, it is a wonder that I don't have the forearms of a gorilla. Or at least one forearm like a gorilla. But it doesn't take a decathlete to properly execute and appreciate one of the most underrated sexual acts in the whole erotic oeuvre. On the surface, the handjob can appear trite and prudish the type of thing a "nice girl" might do in 1951 when you've finally given her your fraternity pin after going steady for eight months. And yet the coyness associated with it is part of the appeal. (A lesson might be learned from the Victorians, who knew a thing or two about heightening sexual pleasure by restraining themselves.) The handjob also lacks the inherent power trip that's built into the blowjob (if you're one of those people who tends to really think a lot about the rhetorical implications of what's happening to your penis).
Judging by the popularity of "facial" websites, I'm not the only man who hankers for a handshake. Women of the world take note: in spite of all your miraculous assets, men will never lose their fascination with having a hand preferably someone else's, because we're lazy — on Mr. Dangly.When my partner takes me in hand, gripping me like a debutante holding a squash racquet, pumping her hands furiously while she looks into my face and kisses me and talks to me little delicious sacks of joy explode in my head like Pop-Rocks in a mouthful of soda. That thrill of an unknown hand, the fact the she really is doing it all for me, carries me back to a more innocent time.
When was the last time you and your partner just made out? Where did those teenage tongues go? Don't you remember that pleasure of little muscles in moist mouths straining against one another, the days and weeks of fooling around, of getting past the embarrassment that no matter how much you practice, the bra is an elusive and clever adversary. Breasts are groped like fruit being tested for ripeness, and finally a hand strays below the waist, then retreats, the strays again . . . testing . . . testing . . . And when the zipper is finally drawn, your stamina seems to collapse under those hundreds of hours of foreplay and before you know it, your partner presses her body against yours and squeezes your cock tightly and you feel her breath and the hotness of it against your neck and ear and the hair stands up on your skin and you're waiting for her sweet words of urging and pleading, the way she'll cheer you on just like the girls in the porn movies do . . .
And then she says, "My arm is tired." n°
©2003 Kevin Keck and hooksexup.com
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
 |
Kevin Keck has worked as a minor league baseball announcer, pastry chef and forest ranger. In 1997 he boxed semi-professionally, losing all but one of his nineteen bouts within two rounds via knockout; the exception lasted three rounds. His writing appears frequently on hooksexup.com.
click here for more Kevin Keck articles |
|
|
|
|
