The Consolation Handjob

A handy way of saying 'no thanks'

You’ll have to bear with me here, because this post is as much of a question as it is a tale of sordid sexual escapades.

It arose originally out of a discussion with my flatmate wherein I casually mentioned feeling so starved of sexual company at the time that I’d even settle for dispensing a consolation handjob. It was a passing remark. A casual comment, offered as an off the cuff example of my state of sexual frustration, suffering as I was a drought for which only sub-Saharan Africa is usually familiar.

But my flatmate halted me almost immediately. “Alice. What in the name of fuck is a ’consolation handjob?”

And therein lay the rub. Pun very much indended intended.

I’ve lived a - I always used to say ‘short but colourful life’ in situations such as these, but now being sufficiently into my thirties that to say so would be a lie, I’ll stick with just saying ‘life’ - wilfully assuming that a consolation handjob was a common thing. Standard practice. Part of the broader sexual lexicography. However my friend informed me that I was a fucking lunatic and that no one else on earth either a) Uses the phrase or, once I’d explained what I meant by it; b) indulges in the practice.

So, by now you’re either nodding along with me and dismissing my flatmate as a fool for having never come across the experience (pun barely intended), *or* you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about.

If you’re the former; thank you. If you’re the latter, what follows is a brief tale of one which will hopefully illustrate precisely what I mean.

-

Dating can be a mixed bag. Sometimes dates go so extraordinarily well you know you’re not going to be able to keep your hands off each other, and end in glorious adrenaline fuelled fucking (Or occasionally abject disappointment). Sometimes dates go *quite* well; which is to say well enough to tantalise the appetite and encourage a second attempt, but not well enough to seal the deal first time around. And sometimes dates go horribly, where you know with absolute certainty that this is a pairing that will never work, and you’re both quietly looking for the most socially acceptable opportunity to make your escape.

But sometimes - just sometimes - a date can be none of these things. It can be a perfectly pleasant date with an individual who is perfectly pleasant to spend time with but who, for whatever reason, you just don’t have any - for want of a better word - ‘spark’ with.

Greg was one such individual. We’d agreed to go on a date mostly due to the peer pressure of our mutual friends - by which I mean we both reasoned that doing so would be the most effective method of shutting them up. Plus, who knows, maybe they were right and they could look insufferably smug whenever they saw us together and claim responsibility for our happiness for the rest of their lives.

But it wasn’t to be. Although we shared many interests and seemed remarkably like minded on all manner of topics, he had an infuriating habit of cutting off the punchline of my anecdotes principally because his own seemed to lack any sense of denouement. He was handsome enough but somehow entirely in ways that made him pleasing to the eye, but not pleasing *enough*. I don’t have a type as such, but somehow every aspect of him physically somehow just wasn’t quite *it*.

We had however still managed a very enjoyable evening together. We’d gone bowling because our unimaginative friends had organised it and because who doesn’t want to be invited to make innumerable ‘fingering the hole’ references all the while, followed by drinks in a semi-fancy bar.

The issue was that whilst I had realised early in the evening that this would ultimately not go anywhere, he hadn’t seemed to pick up on the vibe. As the evening drew to a close he wasn’t *quite* confident enough to straight up invite me back to his, but instead offered to walk to me home - the move of every gentleman optimist. I’d known it for a while but it was here when I realised with absolute certainty that the consolation handjob would need to be deployed.

As we reached my front door, we entered the tense moment of subconscious standoff, which I freely acknowledge must be much harder from the guy’s point of view. There’s that knowing pause where he’s judging how much of ‘a move’ to make - does he try for a kiss? Stand back as though to show he’s not expecting an invite inside? Loiter uncomfortably and hope *she* makes a decision instead? He seemed somewhere poised between going for a kiss and asking for a coffee, so I avoided the awkwardness by just pointing out the obvious cliche, but inviting him in for tea instead. He happily accepted.

His confidence waned somewhat when took a seat on the sofa and heard the actual kettle begin to boil. As I emerged brandishing two steaming mugs, I swear I saw his shoulders slump.

I sat beside him and did the thing which I know is thoroughly weird but I always do given the opportunity, and began to deconstruct the date we’d just had. I find it both useful and cathartic, though i’ve been told it sometimes makes me come across as something of a sociopath.

While we have this civilised discussion of what went well, what we enjoyed and even what didn’t really work- I reach over and unzip his jeans.

His face is a picture. Both shocked and aglow with a new sense of optimism.

“Just to say thank you”, I said as I pulled his cock out.

It’s funny how you sometimes subconsciously make assumptions about assumed size without ever knowingly thinking it. I only say this because Greg was a little bigger than I’d unconsciously assumed he’d be. We weren’t quite into ‘two hand’ territory, but there was more than enough to build up a good stroking rhythm.

I gave him a quick kiss - the sort which mostly designed to as a signifier that that’s all he’d be getting - and set to work, pausing only to invite him to fully pull his jeans down if he wanted to save unnecessary strain against boxer elastic.

By this stage most guys seem pretty clued in as to what is going on. That this is as far as they’re getting. It’s a thank you for a nice evening and then you’ll be shown to the door.

It seemed to take Greg longer than most to catch on.

As I stroked his cock in a firm but steady rhythm, he kept leaning forward to try to kiss me. And each and every time I had to take my left hand away from his balls to gently but firmly push him back. As I leaned over him to deposit some saliva for lubrication (my usual lube was in my bedroom and I didn’t want to risk pausing to seek it out in case he followed me, given he still hadn’t realised this was as much of my flat as he’d be seeing!) he’d try to coax my head down further to chance turning things into a blowjob. I joked he really ought to have bought me a few more cocktails and continued unrelenting with my hand, pausing only to run my thumb in slow circles around the head.

I thought by now he’d finally got the picture, when he asks if I’m going to get naked too. I inform him i wasn’t planning on it, while giving an encouraging squeeze of his balls to lessen the blow. He asks how he’s going to return the favour if I’m not planning on taking my dress off? I tell him again that this is just a thank you for a nice night, and kick the tempo up a gear.

My slow lengthy strokes turn into shorter more quickfire slides, focussing more on the head than the shaft. To ease his disappointment that he’s not getting quite as lucky as he hoped I also pull off my top and slide out of my bra. His eyes light up and I give an almost imperceptible nod that yes, he can give them a squeeze.

This is apparently all the encouragement he needed and, with his hands grasping at my tits, minutes later he declares he’s going to cum.

I’d brought some kitchen towel with me when I brought through the mugs of tea, but decided against using it. Often Consolation Handjobs are delivered in cars in which I’ll usually just let the guy make a mess over himself, knowing he’ll be able to head straight home to change. But given this was in my living room and I knew he had a walk home ahead of him, I leaned forward again and, as the critical moment hit, wrapped my mouth around the tip of his cock.

He wasn’t a big cummer. Three shots and it was over. I took a sip of still warm tea to wash it down.

He thanked me as he pulled up his jeans. I thanked him again for a pleasant evening, while swiftly showing him to the door. He half jokingly suggested we should do this again sometime. I told him probably not, but I’d happily thrash him at bowling whenever he wanted.

Scant consolation, I’m sure.