Hand Job Lament

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OK, I'm a geezer -- 61, as of last month.

And yet, for all of the sexual liberation in these accounts, I keep asking myself: 'Whatever happened to the good old-fashioned hand job?'

When I was in college (1959-63), the hand job was an art form. The hand job was the primary form of sexual expression. And girls got very good at adminstering hand jobs.

I recall the evening -- it was in December 1960 -- when my girlfriend Connie and I were necking passionately in my apartment. The only problem was that my roommate and his girlfriend were also necking passionately, in the same dark bedroom.

I'd had hand jobs in high school, and I guided Connie's hand toward my vastly erect penis. This was A First in our relationship. Yet, Connie's concern was not my boldness, but rather the presence of my roommate and his girlfriend.

She whispered, 'But your roommate is here.' And in a choked voice, I whispered back, 'I don't CARE.'

So I got the first of many hand jobs adminstered by Connie. They were sweet, as was she, and I treasure the memory. As time passed, we had the apartment to ourselves, and we settled into a ritual of hand jobs. God knows how many gallons of sperm were discharged.

Eventually, we broke up. But the girlfriends who followed maintained the hand-job tradition. They kept their virginity, and I enjoyed my orgasms, thanks to hand jobs.

(A girlfriend named Jane put a different twist on things. Instead of clasping my penis in the standard way -- bottom three fingers wrapped around the penis, backside of her forefinger rubbing my frenum -- she used the base of her thumb to put friction on my frenum.

(I don't know how she arrived at that technique. In those days, we didn't ask, although I suspect some high school boyfriend had instructed her.

(It was frightfully sexy. I have tried to duplicate it since in masturbating, but I can't match Jane's touch. In the end, I always revert to the standard way.

(We would always be kissing as Jane jacked me off. But as things came to a climax, I would pull back and ask, 'Do you want to watch me come?' She always did. In those days, I would spurt what seemed like a quart.)

Well, I went from college to the Army to a few years of bacherlorhood to marriage. Along the way, the '60s intervened, and suddenly, I was getting laid regulary.

In a way, this was great. When I was getting hand jobs, I wanted to get laid. But after a spell of getting laid, I missed hand jobs.

When my wife had heavy periods, we'd revert to hand jobs, which I loved. She'd sit up on the bed, and make eye contact, and gently stroke my penis. She'd finish things off with a handful of Vaseline Intensive Care lotion. Wow.

But then menopause happened. No more heavy periods, and no more hand jobs.

I miss them. A couple of years ago, I broke a rib, and I was temporarily out of sexual service, because I couldn't move without pain. My wife fixed things by bringing out the Intensive Care, and it was wonderful.

We have an odd sexual relationship; we have sex, but we don't talk about it. I'd love to get more hand jobs, but the topic is off limits to conversation.

Maybe I'll luck out and break another rib.

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