handjob

That Time I Went to a Handjob Workshop

Kate Sloan

After I grew to like penises, I quickly grew to love handjobs. The closeness, the intimacy, the ability to completely control my boyfriend with a flick of my wrist or a quick adjustment of finger positioning. I love everything about giving pleasure with my hands.

By a stroke (ha!) of luck, I happened to win a free ticket to a handjob workshop, around the same time that I was just getting into them. I felt very much like the universe was taking care of me; like it knew what I wanted.

The workshop was held in the upstairs room of my favorite feminist sex shop. I signed in, climbed the stairs, and chose an empty seat directly facing the instructor. I got out a pen and my little notebook, ready to record anything important.

The instructor began by telling us about herself – her sexual and professional history, and why she felt qualified to be giving this workshop. She came across as very smart and savvy, and I felt I was in good hands, so to speak.

Then we went around the circle and each told the group our name, our reason for attending the workshop, and our favorite part of the male physique. Some people had very little experience dealing with penises (like me) and wanted to learn from the ground up; others had been giving handjobs for literally decades and just wanted to pick up a few tricks. As for our favorite feature of the male body, many people said they like men’s warmth, arms, and butt; I professed my passion for the foreskin. (This proved to be a great idea because it meant that the instructor addressed me all evening with tips specifically for uncut guys.)

It was around this time that I began to feel really comfortable. These things are always awkward at first, but you quickly realize that you’re in good company. Everyone around me was non-judgmental and passionate about penises – the perfect crowd for such an event.

The workshop progressed into a lesson on male anatomy. Most of the stuff, I already knew – the head of the penis, the shaft, balls, frenulum, perineum, prostate – but the instructor mentioned that the entire underside of the penis is sensitive, compared to the top side, which I’d never really pondered before. I’d spend most of my time focusing on my boyfriend’s frenulum, never knowing that the rest of that side was very receptive too.

The instructor passed out a two-page handout for us to take notes on, and began to walk us through what she considers the three most important elements of a handjob: variety, lube, and pressure. We discussed “mixing it up,” and which lubes are best for giving HJs (silicone-based, or an oil if you’re not going to use condoms afterward). Some people had questions, which the instructor answered thoughtfully and insightfully.

Then we had a 15-minute break. I wandered downstairs and bought a little bottle of Pjur, convinced of the wonders of silicone-based lube, and a few flavored condoms just for fun.

When we started up again, we dove straight into techniques. A basket of realistic silicone dildos was passed around, and we each took one. Then the lube circulated; we rubbed it onto our dildos, and only the occasional participant seemed at all embarrassed. We referred to the list of technique names on our handout, and the instructor demonstrated each of them, moving slowly and purposefully from move to move. Sometimes she’d show us a video of a particular technique in action, to help us understand. She walked around the room and watched people’s hands, adjusting us when we got something wrong.

We went through each technique twice, to make sure they were truly drilled into our muscle memory. After taking a few questions, the instructor had us go around the room and each say one technique that we were most looking forward to trying out. I honestly don’t remember what I said, because I ended up going home and trying out all of them on my very lucky boyfriend.

I’d definitely recommend sex workshops to anyone who feels brave enough to go, provided that they’re held in a reputable venue (don’t go to your local skeezy adult video shop to be taught proper sexual technique!). They can be very empowering and may enliven your sex life with some much-needed confidence. Maybe I’ll even drag my boyfriend to a couples’ workshop someday.

Tittyfucking for Small-Breasted Ladies: A Primer

Kate Sloan

I have small tits. No pity, please – I’m okay with it. I used to resent the way they failed to match up with my wide hips, rendering my figure imbalanced and pear-shaped – but I’ve grown to love my itty bitties.

There are, however, a few drawbacks to having smaller bazungas. You get fewer honks in the street (arguably not such a huge loss). You can never dress up as Joan Holloway for Hallowe’en. And, perhaps most importantly, you can’t be properly tittyfucked.

Or can you?

Having just wrapped up a tittyfucking session with my man, it struck me that I should write out a few tips for any minuscule-busted women who still want some penis-to-chest action.

1. Warm him up first. As any even remotely sexually experimental person knows, more arousal = more sensitivity. Try getting him riled up without touching his penis at all – make out with him, kiss his neck, play with his nipples, nibble his thighs… Whatever gets your man going, do it until he’s writhing and moaning for more.

2. Use lube. I would still use lube for this activity even if I had huge tits, because, well, chests don’t self-lubricate. As a general rule, lube improves any sexual activity – so if you have trouble with a particular act, throw some lube into the mix and see if it doesn’t help.

3. Hold your boobs together. Again, I’m sure this is something big-breasted women have to do as well, but it’s especially important if you’re less well-endowed. Gather ‘em up in your hands and use the heels of your palms to push them together around his cock.

4. Use your hands, too. If you’re using your palms to handle your breasts, as I just recommended, then your fingers are free to settle on top of his dick and do some stimulatin’. For example, my man likes pressure right at the base of his cock, so I can administer that with some of my fingers while using the rest to rub and stroke while he pumps away. It provides a little something extra that he loves.

5. Use your verbal and visual talents. Give him something to look at (a sexy gaze, a genuine smile) and something to listen to (dirty talk, moans, what have you). A very basic, but highly effective piece of pillow talk might be something like, “I can’t wait for you to come all over me.”

6. Have a backup plan. Let’s be real here: in our world of circumcised cocks and death grip syndrome, not every guy is going to be sensitive enough to reach orgasm from fucking a pair of teensy tits. It’s no biggie (pun intended!) – just make sure you know what to do next if your plan isn’t working out. You could jerk him off into your mouth, suck him off, or even push him back on the bed and climb on top for some cowgirl action. Whatever it is, don’t feel bad – just because something doesn’t induce an orgasm doesn’t mean it didn’t feel amazing.

Getting Over Penis Terror: A Triumphant Tale

Kate Sloan

Once upon a time, I was a little queer girl who had never touched a penis.

Admittedly, I had never touched anyone else’s pussy either. But I’d previously been in a sexual relationship with another girl for a year and a half, and I’d been skilfully managing my own pussy for almost two decades, so there was no intimidation there.

Single but desperately ready to mingle, it dawned on me that a huge part of my issue was my fear of penises. It dominated the shadowy back room of my brain, threatening to burst through and cause major anxiety. I’d think about a cute guy, fantasize about kissing him, maybe contemplate his tongue on my clit, but as soon as his dick became part of my visualization, I felt sick and confused.

Not to get all hippie-dippy on you, but I am certain that the universe sensed my penile apprehension, and that that’s why my romantic life was such a disaster during that time. I longed for my (safe, reliable, non-terrifying) female ex, and wrote her pathetic love songs, which freaked her the fuck out. I dated a guy who was entirely wrong for me and ended up dumping me so he could fuck four other girls at a party. I spent all my time wishing for a boyfriend while unconvincingly sidestepping what I knew was the real issue.

Men wrote to me on OkCupid, men of two different varieties: those who propositioned me for casual sex, and those who seemed genuinely sweet and interested in dating me. The former, I ignored, or occasionally wrote rude replies to; the latter category of men, however, were more difficult. I strung them along, convincing both them and myself that we would eventually meet, even just for coffee, but as soon as that possibility became real, I panicked and ended all contact. All because of that looming, impending penis that gnawed at my composure.

That didn’t change when I first started going out with Jeremy*, but I did like him more than I’d liked anyone in a long while. We went on cute dates to tea shops and bookstores, and while I giggled and gallivanted with him, I secretly dreaded the moment his pants would inevitably come off.

I let him touch me – over the shirt, under the bra, over the skirt, under the panties. I let him do all sorts of nice things to me, all of which he (thank god) loved doing. Sometimes I would be overcome with guilt that I hadn’t reciprocated his sensual touch yet, and I would burst into tears while lying with my head on his chest. He’d hold me and tell me it was okay, I could go as slow as I wanted, and he’d be willing to wait forever for me. But I didn’t want him to have to wait forever.

It was a combination of attraction, mild cajoling, and plain courage that finally got me to touch his penis for the first time. He said, “You don’t even have to do anything to it. You can just put your hand on it.” So I did.

It wasn’t so bad. Soft and sensitive, just like my girly bits. Lightning didn’t strike me dead; I didn’t faint from terror. It was just… fine.

After a couple minutes of gentle, idle touching, I withdrew my hand and he let me watch him jerk off. I snuggled up to him and cast my gaze on the way his hand worked his foreskin up and over the head of his cock, again and again, alternately concealing and revealing that moist, pink surface. That night, I wrote in my journal, It was actually kind of gorgeous.

*Name changed to protect the cocks and egos of the innocent.