Handjob from Hell

Posted by: Author: Age: Late 40s now Posted on: 0 comments
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True, occurred in the 1980s, in NYC.

 

Sometimes, a handjob from a girl can be pure heaven; sometimes, it can be a living hell.



In the mid-1980's, before the rise of Rudy Giuliani and his iron-fist campaign to cleanse and gentrify the city, the mid-town Manhattan section near Eighth Avenue was dense with prostitutes, cat houses, and 25 cent peepshows. Like the story-teller in Simon and Garfunkel's 'The Boxer,' I must admit I sometimes 'took some comfort there.'



One warm summer's night, I was out trolling for a girl. As I turned a corner, a stick-thin figure suddenly stepped into my path. Our eyes met. She was in her mid-twenties, with long flowing dark hair, tight jeans, and a long-sleeved white blouse. Her face was pretty, but in a porcelain doll sort of way.



'Wanna date,' she asked softly.



I knew what she meant. 'How much,' I whispered.



'Twenty-five.'



'How about twenty?'



She thought for a moment. 'OK,' she said, nodding for me to follow.



Thirty feet down from where we started our 'date,' she stopped in front of a steel-reinforced doorway. It had no sign or decoration or house number, only a sooty callbox. She pressed a button twice. A second later, a buzzer sounded and the door unlatched automatically.



She led the way down a dirty hallway to a small room.



An older woman stood up from a desk, the only furnishing except for a bare light bulb and a radiator. There was not even a window.



The woman said, 'Five dollars for twenty minutes. Sign here.'



I passed a five-dollar bill and scribbled a fake name on a sign-in sheet labeled, 'HOTEL.' I noted with amusement the great number of hotel 'guests' named, 'John Smith.'



The woman led us to our accommodations a few feet down the hall. It was a small room with only a bed, a chair, and a trash can.



I paid the girl and took off my shoes, pants, and underwear. As I started to unbutton my shirt, the girl commanded, 'No. You can leave those on. Get on the bed.'



I laid on my back, my cock semi-hard in anticipation for some comfort. She sat down next to me and unwrapped a condom. She slid it down my shaft and started to stroke.



Her motions were hard, fast, and mechanical-not the slow teasing I craved that would culminated in a full rock-stiff erection. Her stroking was starting to become uncomfortable. It almost felt like a beating.



She was silent, staring at me with a face that was strangely emotionless, without a soul, lonely in a city of millions.



I asked, 'Can we start fucking?'



'Not for this price,' she replied.



Damn, I thought to myself. I'm at a disadvantage: if I bargain for something more, it'll be exorbitant.



I laid back, waiting for some pleasure to arrive from this mid-town handjob. My cock never got fully hard. The only erotic sensation was from the condom's lubricant as the girl's mechanical hand grasp slid up and down my shaft.



I stared back at the girl. Her expression was as cool and inert as ice.



I tensed my legs as I felt the orgasm approaching. Sensing this, she stroked harder, faster, as if she wanted all this to end right now. I moaned slightly and shot a few drops of white cum into the condom. It was not the usual load from a well-executed handjob, or any other sex act I've performed, for that matter. It didn't last as long as some of my best self-administered handjobs, aided by sex magazines, erection cream, and a shot of Jack Daniels.



Without saying another word, the girl wiped her hand on the sheets, stood up, walked out of the room, and closed the door.



After tossing the dirty condom into the trash can and putting my clothes back on, I followed a few minutes later.



I'm not proud of this episode. I suppose this girl isn't either. As I've grown older and hopefully wiser, I've realized what tough lives these girls must have. May she still be alive, may she find some piece of heaven in her life, may she have something about which she can smile.

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