Death By Handjob

Kinda like that.

Kinda like that.

Ladies and gentlemen, the handjob is back. At least in my twisted universe.

See, for years, I shunned the handjob, thinking, “Hey, I can do this. What I can’t do is that other thing, so… can we move on to that straight away?”

But then I hooked up with Tracy G., who administered a handjob that nearly left me deaf, blind and dumb. A truly spectacular display of manual dexterity [the likes of which sweatshops the world over would kill to get on their assembly lines] that incorporated careful attention to the “goodfuckinggodalmighty” area just below the head and also to the balls.

Of course, once a hand slips anywhere near my balls, I get concerned. For that, I can thank Michelle B., who employed a devious tease and denial tactic through which she’d prolong the torment by physically grabbing my boys and pulling on them whenever I neared release. It should be noted that she did this with a motion eerily similar to that guy at the beginning of The Flinstones, who grabs the bird’s tail to signal the end of Fred’s workday. Only the bird’s tail was my sack. And there was nothing cool about that.

Here’s another tale of bodily injury: So last night the Latest Model Kenette and I are watching Ghostbusters II when, as you might expect after prolonged exposure to Dan Aykroyd’s mug, she gets a little hot and bothered. She starts with the snuggle, then that thing she does to my neck and ears, and before long, she’s working over the shillelagh like she ain’t never seen it.

And I don’t protest, because I’m a big fan of the handjob. But… she couldn’t close the deal.

Maybe it was the mood (working like a dog on a thankless project at work), the illness (I’ve been battling the mother of all sinus headaches for two days now), or the fact that I’ve never really gotten over how Ghostbusters II failed to live up to the first film’s potential, but she was unable to, ahem, close the deal.

Hey, it happens. God knows there have been many a night I’ve put in the hours on one Kenette or another, only to get the loving pat on the head and the “oh, it’s just me” explanation. I just blamed it on the amoxycillin and told her we should call it a night.

But she wasn’t having it. Absolutely determined for a money shot, she worked me furiously for over an hour. To the point that I more or less begged her to stop for fear of crippling friction burns. And after a while, she did, albeit reluctantly.

So this morning, I wake up and she’s on it again. The alarm clock still buzzing and she’s massaging him, cajoling him, trying to beat him into submission. But it’s morning. And, again, I’m medicated. And the packed-up sinuses make me feel like I’m wearing cinder-block earrings. So the attempted handjob, while certainly beating the fuck out of a peck on the cheek, remains just that — attempted.

Now she’s a woman on a mission. And as she heads off to work, she tells me that this shit ain’t over. That she’ll be back tonight to finish the job. And, I gotta say, such determination is rare in my experience — typically I’m the one making excuses and doing the song and dance. But I’m glad to see that there are ladies out there taking pride in their handjob skills.

1 Comment

  1. SexyLittleIdeas

    April 8, 2013 at 4:54 pm

    You might try watching something while she’s attempting…. like you might be doing if she wasn’t there at all..

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