April 27, 2016

SEX ON THURSDAY | In Defense of Handjobs

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It’s Thursday night. You took a prelim earlier that day, so there’s no way in hell you’re making it to your sections tomorrow. You got out of your exam just in time to make it to the pregame with your girls before the mixer. So naturally, you start the night off with some saccharine mixture of vodka and whatever flat, top-missing mixer y’all were able to find in the apartment’s kitchen. You throw in a few ice cubes for good measure because nobody remembered to put the off brand 2-liter in the fridge. And the only thing worse than pregaming with flat vodka syrup is pregaming with tepid, flat vodka syrup.

Your buzz is on by the time the boys send one of the oh-so-cute-and-adorable pledges to pick you up in someone’s beaten to shit 4-runner. You and your squad of girls dressed in whatever those idiot boys thought was a good idea for a mixer theme pile into the car with no regard for the occupancy limit. You’re on your best friend’s lap and three others are in the trunk.

You arrive at the cleared out first floor of the fraternity house where the smell of already spilled beer does just enough to cover up the putrid smell of even more disgusting stale, spilled liquids. You go along with the whole act: you dance, play pong and intermittently go upstairs to take shots of horrifically flavored Svedka in some guy’s room. Whatever, it’s a mixer. It’s neither a great time nor a terrible time. But eventually, it is time to head to C-town.

A different but equally adorable pledge comes to pick y’all up in a different but equally trashed mid-size SUV. This time though, you’ve split from your original troupe, and there’s a mix of guys and girls in the car. This time you’re sitting on the lap of one of those boys you played pong and took shots with. He’s no rockstar, but he’s adequately attractive and his overtly gimmicky attempts to make you laugh have started to grow on you. What a clown. On the ride to C-Town you notice him grasping the side of the door and staring intently out the window, concentrating as hard as he can to not to pop a boner every time a slight bump in the road causes you to bounce on his lap.

You get to Rulloff’s, Level B or whatever fucking bar is even left in this town, and he whips out his parents’ credit card to buy you and your friend a round of shots. It’s almost cute how he thinks you’re going to be impressed by spending 14 dollars of his mom’s money. Still, you appreciate the gesture, and oblige him by performing the well-practiced salt, tequila and lime production. The thought of hooking up with him has crossed your mind, and while at first the idea was detestable, the notion is becoming more palatable.

As you spend more of time at the bar with him, you realize you actually kind of like him. You find yourself even entertaining the thought of taking him home with you tonight. Your place for sure, because you’re not sleeping at a fucking frat house. Those days have passed.

You’re not going to make any extra effort to leave with him, but you’ll see how things go. There’s one thing for sure though, you’re definitely not fucking this kid on the first night. First of all you’re not that into him, and second of all — just no. He’s not getting lucky tonight, but if he plays his cards right, he might just get the chance in the future. For now he’s going to have to settle for the offer on the table.

The bar is closing, and neither of you want CTP, the Taco Truck and especially not a fucking taquito from 7-11. You’re not particularly hungry; and while he says the same, you know he really just doesn’t want to spend the entire night, unable to sleep, holding in farts in the wishful scenario he gets laid. With the bars closed and no food pit stop, you present the invitation to follow you home back to your place.

You get in, and being the polite hostess you are, you offer a rinsed glass of the same abhorrent concoction you used to pregame. The both of you repair to the bedroom after barely sipping the vile liquid, and the hook up commences.

You’re enjoying making out with him. He’s not a terrible kisser; and eventually, you’re more than happy to allow him to slide his hand up your skirt, shift your thong to the side and insert his fingers inside of you. He’s not terrible at this either. In fact, he’s pretty good. He even knows what and where a clitoris is.

You reciprocate by sliding your hand down his pants to feel around for what he’s got going for him. Again, not bad. Trimmed and of adequate size. He’s full chub so you play around, but with his belt on, you can’t get a great grip. He keeps working his magic fingers on you; and holy shit, you might actually cum. Yep, he keeps going. He’s working all the right spots in all the right ways. You pull your hand out of his pants to grip onto his back with both hands to hold on for dear life as you begin to climax. You’re cumming, and you have to bite into his shoulder to muffle the scream so you’re roommates don’t hear. Fuck, he knew what he was doing.

But now you’re faced with a dilemma. You want to reciprocate, you really do. But you’re absolutely not giving into sex on the first night. You’re also not particularly inclined to ram his cock into your mouth and swallow his cum. You don’t know where that penis has been, other than sweating it out all night. And even though he’s well kempt, you’re really not trying to put in all the oral effort that goes into an adequate blowjob.

You kind of want him to stay over though. So you’re left with two options: turn over like you’re falling asleep and have to deal with his erection poking you in the back as he attempts to spoon all night, or give him a handjob.

You’ve heard the rumors. You’ve outright heard it from us boys — the infamous perils of the handjob. Well I’m here to tell you, do not shun the handjob. Do not fear the handjob. It has its place. It’s owed its due respect.

While you may have heard complaints about handjobs, they can still be very much appreciated in scenarios like these. Of course there’s the chance that even with such a gracious gesture, this boy may return to his fraternity bros to lament having only received a handjob when you courteously drop him off at the frat house in the morning. But please don’t let the prospect of such churlish thankfulness dissuade your noble efforts.

We boys secretly do like a good handjob. The operative word here is good though. You see, we’ve been giving ourselves handjobs “since like the 5th grade.” So our standards are unfairly high. That being said, there’s an assumed handicap when it’s coming from the fairer sex, so do not fret over experience. It’s also nice to have someone else do it, particularly a girl we’re in to bringing us to ejaculation instead of our depressing dominant hand.

Here are a few tips I’d like to share though, to help you make a handjob a pleasant experience rather than a horror story. First (if you’re comfortable doing so), take his pants off. You need full reign of motion here. He’s probably not going to cum if his belt is still on.

Second, and most importantly, err on the side of gentleness. It’s better for us if you have too loose a hold than for us to experience the grip of death that leaves our dicks charred for days. Dicks are not motorcycle throttles, don’t squeeze and twist.

Third, lubrication helps. A lot. If you feel okay doing so, spit on your hand (or even better, directly on) to assist in the process. Keep in mind, this is meant to replicate intercourse, and sex is not a dry event. Reapply as needed to keep the same type of consistent wetness that would occur during the potential sex he might be graced with the opportunity to have with you.

Finally, mix it up. Go faster; go slower. Try different angles; try different motions. This is where you can use your creativity, because for the last decade, he’s been pretty much sticking to one boring motion. This is where you can blow his mind without blowing him. Knowing what works and what doesn’t takes time though. Practice makes perfect.

However, there is one significant problem presented by the procedure — clean up. For better or for worse, male splooge is a disastrously messy, explosive occurrence that requires either containment or detailed disinfection. We’re not crazy about drenching our own underpants, but that can come as a last resort. Whether you’ll allow your sheets to be the victim, or you’ve preemptively put the provision of tissue paper on your bedside table, this part is tricky. So it’s best left up to your personal preference.

Handjobs, if done correctly, can be a wonderful thing. We may have created the common misconception that they’re to be avoided like the plague. But I assure you, when faced with blue balled cuddling and a decent dick tugging, we will always prefer the latter. And I promise, that somewhat cute boy will come back for more no matter how you make him cum.

Slightly Above Average is a student at Cornell. Comments can be sent to associate-editor@cornellsun.com. Guest Room appears periodically this semester.

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