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The Handy Man

In every man’s life, there are moments when he realizes certain things about himself. Some guys have an epiphany and realize they are supposed to devote their lives to serving their community. Some guys realize they are staunch capitalists, and will exploit the free market for what it is. Other guys find that their purpose really isn’t special or unique in any way, and for the majority of their lives, they will be just that— part of the majority, part of the masses, the so-called status quo. Men will often question these roles in life. They will question why their brain works the way it does, and why they feel the need and drive to do what they do. I just had a realization about myself, and I also question why I have become this person I am today. No, I am not driven to help others at any cost. I am not driven to the business world. I’m certainly not part of the brainless majority. Simply put, I am a handjob guy.

My first handjob was in the eighth grade. There I was, sitting in a movie theater, next to a not-so-attractive semi-white trash girl I had met at the same theater the week before. We sat in the back row, naturally, and a pretty hardcore make out session commenced. All the while, George Clooney and his crew of men were trying to steer the Andrea Gail away from the Perfect Storm. I think this movie and its title sort of served as an ominous beginning to my handjob days. Because, just as Capt. Billy Tyne and his crew of seamen hit the glorious eye of the storm, it happened. This girl had her hand down my pants, and I finally knew what it was like to have someone other than myself caress my 14-year-old manhood.

That was a great day in my life, and I had no idea it would become such a prominent part of my future.

About a month or so later, I was involved with another girl. We started with some intense instant messaging on AOL. She had told me that I could go to second base— you know, boobs and shit— if we weren’t dating; however, if we were boyfriend and girlfriend, we could do everything but sex. That is when I grabbed my phone faster than Chris Farley railing lines at a cocaine buffet, called her up, and made it official. We had hung out a few times, but our first big event was a multi-school dance party for eighth graders in the area. We were dancing a little bit (our song was I’ll Be by Edwin McCain), and then the massive amounts of Jolt Cola I had been drinking hit me. I needed to use the pisser and she told me she would like to go with me so she didn’t have to be alone. I thought she would stand outside, twiddle her thumbs during my 160-second piss, and we would hit the dance floor again— most likely to the tune of Baby Got Back if it was a fast song, or if we wanted to get romantic, Don’t Want to Miss a Thing by Steven Tyler and the boys. But she didn’t just stand outside. She followed me in, where she directed me to the stall. We immediately started making out, and BAM it happened again. She sat on the toilet, I stood up, and through the zipper of stonewashed Wranglers, she proceeded to give me the best heej of my life.

Right about now, you might be wondering why you should care about the first two hand jobs of my life. I’m not saying you should. I tell these two stories because they accurately foreshadowed at least the next 9 years of my life. I am in no way trying to sit here and say that I have hooked up with the most girls. Of my friends, I’d say I’m somewhere in the middle. However, the anomaly, and reason for writing this article, is the fact that I have had an inordinate amount of handjobs compared to anyone I’ve ever met. And hand jobs, like farting and midgets, are just naturally pretty funny.

I went through four years of high school, and got laid a few times. Eventually I got into a serious relationship with a girl (we’ll call her Susan). I took Susan’s virginity. However, there was a long, long road on the way to pussy town, filled with numerous tug jobs. The first blowjob Susan ever gave was to me, and I don’t know if it’s me (I’m beginning to really think it is), but she just didn’t really seem to enjoy it. Yeah, if it was my birthday, or she bought a cool purse that day— you know, special occasions— she would slob the knob, but other than that, it wasn’t for her. That being said, she loved my dick, and she loved giving me the finest tuggers a guy could ever get (except from himself). This even lasted after we started having sex. Sometimes, she just simply wanted to jerk me off. No thrills, no frills, just a good old-fashioned. I never understood it, but whatever.

We dated a little bit into college, but nothing ever got too serious past that. I slept with probably a half dozen or so girls in college, a modest number by most people’s standards. I’m not especially ashamed or proud of the numbers. They are what they are.

Throughout college, like many of you out there, the morning after with the boys was usually filled with bong rips, fried chicken, and the detailed exploits of our conquests from the night before. Many of my friends would tell stories, and say things like, “She wouldn’t let me fuck her, but at least she sucked it” or, “she was on the rag but she was more than willing to blow me.”My stories, on the other hand, would usually say something like, “this girl wasn’t really into banging on the first hook up, but there was definitely some heavy petting. Oh yeah, and I got jerked off.”I would laugh, my friends would laugh, and we would go on about our days. However, this started to become an uncanny theme in my life. My friends having sex or getting a good BJ, while I was getting beat off like I was still in eighth grade. So what is it about this man that makes me the “hand job guy?”

I assume there has to be one in every group. I assume there are more guys out there like me. I assume I am not alone. But am I? And what are the reasons for this classification of guy? Do I have a sensory appealing dick, but it just doesn’t look right? Do girls like looking me in the face? Do they know I’m a compulsive masturbator so they think this is what I want?

The simple answer is no, this is not what I want. But, there is a more complicated answer. Most guys say they would rather not get any kind of action from a lady friend than get a hand job, but I would have to completely disagree. If the only thing I have to worry about is not making weird faces while she is tugging away, then I’m completely satisfied. Not overwhelmed or anything, but sufficient. And isn’t sufficiency all we need? Isn’t asking for much else just getting greedy?

So what does all of this mean? Does this mean a breakthrough for all of the hand job advocates out there? Is the hand job lobby on Capitol Hill celebrating this glorious day that finally, someone, somewhere, used their voice and made a stand for the HJ? Perhaps, but not likely. What is likely, however, is that someone out there, in some town in the world, will read this and realize there are others like him. There are people who happen to have a very jerkable dick, and those same people embrace their disposition instead of lamenting it. So this is dedicated to you, “hand job guys,” so that next time you’re sitting at breakfast with the guys, you can proudly stand up over your Moons Over My Hammy and say, “she beat me off like an eighth grader in a bathroom stall.”

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