I recently participated in a drunken hook-up with one of my many summer crushes. Even though the night proved rather forgettable, I woke up with that womanly urge to divulge all details to my closest friends. Whipping out my mobile phone as I guiltlessly exited his home, I rang my pseudo-sisters to insist that we gather for a Sunday fry so that I could unload the many minute details that had accumulated over the last forty-eight hours.
As Co. Cork Fiona buttered soda bread and San Francisco Michelle fretted over all the artificial E52s and E54s packed in her granola, I delved into my epic re-hash. A boiled down version – blow-by-blow – goes something like this: Colm and I drink and flirt. We retreat to his place and make obnoxious running commentary to heaps of music videos. I black out for a spell until I find myself snogging in the boy’s bed. He keeps trying to take my jeans off, which wouldn’t have been an issue had I shaved more recently, but he just thinks I’m a prude.
He oddly flicks the lights on and off in periodic intervals while running his tongue down my bare chest. He keeps trying to fuck me and go down on me even after I assure him ‘I’m not going to fuck you’ (I’m always shocked by the failure rate of this direct remark). We begin touching ‘down there’, as my baby cousin would put it. Discovering that my saliva glands have dried-up, I ignorantly put my fingers into the mouth of a hardcore stoner in hopes of acquiring some moisture. He ejaculates in his bed while fingering me – though I usually climax long before a male even gets revved up, my vagina is not having any of this. Colm’s clearly making a concerted effort to get me off, so I try verbal hints until I resort to grabbing his hand and guiding it – OK, no headway but this man is on a mission (I’m appreciative but at this point I just wish he’d pass out so we can all get some shut eye) – remind myself of the infamous When Harry Met Sally orgasm scene and I’m now taking acting lessons from Meg Ryan, and Mandy comes up a winner. We’ve got a sucker (male ego remains intact) but fuck, my acting skills were so convincing that he got aroused again – another ten minutes of handiwork until I can clock out.
Michelle, my new-wave feminist friend who took women’s studies courses at U.C. Berkeley, jumped right into the flames, criticising me for faking an orgasm. She felt obliged to inform me that I’m not pulling my weight on women’s long haul towards sexual empowerment.
“You’re sending him back into society in an even sadder shape, and now some innocent girl will eat shit because you made him feel like a stud,” Michelle snapped.
While Michelle simmered down in the windowsill, Fiona let out nervous, giddy laughter every time I said the word hand-job. Living a far from sexually-sheltered existence that includes a couple of handfuls of boyfriends, Fiona explained that while Irish people are no strangers to a good hand-job, her Irish girlfriends rarely introduce this topic into typical sexual conversations. Well why the heck not? Hand-jobs are gas!
Though oral sex, vaginal sex, and even anal sex all occupy privileged positions in society’s vernacular, why do I still feel like the humble hand-job is getting the short end of the stick? Handy for a multitude of scenarios, I use hand-jobs to sample my sexual chemistry with a potential lover and to abolish risks of pregnancy, STDs, and being sucked into dead-end relationships that are only sustained by carnal lust. And for the dying breed of virgins out there still ‘waiting for marriage’, hand-jobs let me cruise through my teenage years until I found that ‘special person’ (a.k.a. white trash wannabe rock star whose band never landed a gig beyond performing inside his father’s garage).
Forgot to buy condoms? No problem! The highly-efficient hand-job is the ideal back-up plan for any hesitant or ill-prepared lover, for it always gives you the opportunity to climax.