Blonde Hand Job

Blonde Hand Job

In which I tell embarrassing stories about first times.

My boyfriend (who agreed to feature in these essays on the condition he be called Sergio Danger) is fantastic, and I’m not just saying this because he’s right next to me. He has a lot of great qualities, but one of them (and this may be oversharing, but that’s kind of the point of this) is that it’s really easy to give him a hand-job. No details, but it’s definitely a plus, because I have a long and tortured history with this particular type of foreplay.
His name was Marco, and that’s his real name, because he’s an asshole and I don’t care about his privacy. When he first kissed me, he had a girlfriend, but this seemed okay to me, because I was fifteen and I wasn’t used to being wanted. I hadn’t even gotten to second base with any other guy, but things with Marco progressed quickly, and it wasn’t long before I realized what was expected of me.
He had picked me up, under the guise of going to the mall, but we both knew we were going to end up making out. He decided to park behind a Mormon church, and I still feel bad about that. I mean, I’m an Atheist, but I’ve met so many cool Mormons that every time I think about it, I feel shame. Sorry, guys.
Marco grabbed me in various places while we were kissing, which I was by then used to, but a few minutes in, he grabbed my hand and put it on his pants, and I quietly panicked. I should have anticipated this, but I guess I figured that it would come later. He gave me zero instruction, so I just kind of rubbed while trying to act completely nonchalant. I kept thinking that I didn’t even know where the important parts were, and worrying that he wouldn’t be impressed. (I know, I know, but I was fifteen, remember.)
I contrived some reason for him to take me home shortly after, and we didn’t talk about it again until a few days later, when I worked up the courage to ask him what I was supposed to do, once we got his member out in the open.
“Well, it’s kind of like a handle,” he said, “and you just move your hand up and down. It’s easy.”
This seemed to minimize what was, to me, a daunting task, so I asked my sister, who I’ll call L.
She lived elsewhere at this point (as she still does), and I didn’t have a cell phone, so I had to orchestrate a situation in which I could use the house phone without being overheard by my parents (no small task). L was obviously very surprised and kind of horrified, me being her baby sister and all, but she handled it remarkably well.
She basically repeated what Marco said, only with more detail, and tips on which spots to avoid touching.
“Is there anything else I should know?” I said.
“Well, there’s this ridge near the bottom, and if you use your other hand to rub that while rubbing the rest of it, he’ll really like it,” L said.
(I found out later that, directly after this phone call, L went to her boyfriend of the time wailing about how her little sister was a slut. I’m just grateful she never said it to me, because I would have taken it personally.)
So after feeling like I could handle the hand-job responsibility, I called Marco and asked him to hang out.
“Where do you want to go?” he said.
“Oh, anywhere,” I replied, and he got what I meant.
So we ended up in his car in the Capitol High School parking lot, and I have no idea what we were doing there, because neither of us went there, so it wasn’t any decent fuck-off to administrators. I wish I could at least say that about this event.
The actual hand-job was, if I remember clearly, fairly routine, with the exception of what I’ve come to call in my mind “the ridge search.” I kept searching, with my free hand, for the ridge at the base that L talked about, but was met with nothing for my efforts. Marco and I never talked about it, not for the three years we were together after this, but I’m sure he was pretty confused as to what the hell I was trying to do. After a while, I got another reason to be alarmed: he showed no sign of finishing, which L had described to me, and I had expected. I was starting to worry that I was doing something terribly wrong, so I found another silly reason to wrap it up, and I went home, feeling like a changed woman. (The idea of my fifteen-year-old self being a woman is so laughably inaccurate that I can’t find anything to compare it to, but I did think it, and I’m trying to be honest here.)
I found out only a few months ago that the ridge is indeed a real thing, and L wasn’t just trying to confuse me. But it’s only present on circumcised men, see, and I guess it didn’t occur to L that Marco wasn’t circumcised, and I didn’t think to mention it because I didn’t know the difference. Until I read about the existence of the ridge and its qualifications, however, I spent a significant amount of time with every new man I slept with trying to see if he had a ridge. And to think if L and I had just gotten to that point, I would have saved a good bit of time.
Marco and I never talked about that first time, for which I am eternally glad. My ego was very sensitive at the time, and hearing that I was bad at hand-jobs, even though I had already assumed I was because I wasn’t stupid, might have given me a panic attack.
Next time, we’ll do the first time I felt pretty.

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