Why I Think Hand Jobs Have Been Woefully Underrated

This simple act made a surprising impact on my sex life

The first time I gave — or received — a hand job, I was 31. I know, I’m a bit of an anomaly. Most of my friends began their sexual explorations with hand jobs. The man to whom I gave my first hand job had experienced his first one in high school.

I guess I was late to the party.

When my partner and I started dating, we wanted to take things slowly. We’d spend hours making out, just like teenagers, and eventually, we’d end up with our hands down each other’s pants. One night, our promise to go slowly forgotten in the heat of the moment, he took his clothes off and asked me to make him come, placing my hand on his erection.

I was shocked by his response to the pressure of my fingers. He bit into my shoulder, groaning, and when he got close to climax, he rhythmically squeezed my breast, pulling along its length, eventually squeezing so hard it almost hurt — but deliciously so.

It was an incredible turn-on for me. I had assumed it would be more like giving a blow job, which I don’t always enjoy. Blow jobs require a lot of concentration, control of the gag reflex, and management of jaw pain. I find it hard to focus on my partner while going down on him because I’m so busy trying to control my own actions and experience.

But a hand job, I discovered, was infinitely simpler and just as effective. Further, it allowed me to experience something I had never experienced in the bedroom before: being able to put most of my attention toward watching my partner lose control from the pleasure I was giving him.

I loved the way he closed his eyes when I wrapped my fingers around him. I loved the immediate violent reaction he’d have, grabbing hard at my arm or breast, or biting into my neck or shoulder. I loved listening to the sounds he made, watching the way his stomach bowed, hearing the changes in his breathing, feeling his fingers digging into my skin.

Sometimes, he would whisper, “Yes,” or “Harder,” or “God,” things he’d say during penetrative intercourse, but that I would sometimes barely register in the heat of my own passion. But when I was giving him a hand job, I could pay exquisite attention to every word, every grimace, every groan. I could let his pleasure bring me into a thrumming, heated presence of mind and body.

Despite the fact that I performed this act solely for his pleasure, it turned me on in ways I can’t describe to watch him climax from my touch, to feel the pull of him between my fingers in that moment. That was a kind of satisfaction I couldn’t get from any other kind of sexual exchange.

I also found that I loved being on the receiving end of a hand job. I hadn’t expected to like it very much. It seemed like the equivalent of masturbating with someone else’s fingers.

That was a kind of satisfaction I couldn’t get from any other kind of sexual exchange.

To my surprise, though, I soon discovered I loved it far more than receiving oral sex. My partner at the time was a real sport, trying his best to make oral sex fun, but I didn’t always enjoy the heaviness and heat of his tongue against my clit.

I think he was just as shocked as I was to find that I would eventually come to ask him to use his hand instead of his mouth more often than not. It took us a long time to get it right — he didn’t believe me when I said I preferred barely a feather’s touch on my clit (so many men don’t realize just how incredibly sensitive that area is, especially when it comes to direct stimulation) and those first few times, I had to guide his finger to show him how much pressure to use and what kinds of strokes I liked.

Once he mastered that, he would nibble at my breasts and suck on my nipples, which he knew made me crazy aroused. Occasionally, he would kiss me, rub his nose against my cheek, bite at my earlobe. He loved to pull back for a moment and dip two fingers inside me so he could watch my eyes close, my head tilt back, my breath come out hard. He would wait until I opened my eyes again before returning his attention to my breasts, his fingers sliding back up to my clit.

And when I came, I would hold on to his shoulders as if I was afraid of falling. He would watch me so closely in that moment and having him witness my pleasure made me feel as thrilled and scared as if I had just jumped off a cliff side, hoping for the water below to safely catch me.

It was so incredibly, jarringly intimate, just like when I performed that act for him. In some ways, it was more intimate than when he was inside me during our typical sexual activity, both of us working so hard to achieve our own orgasms.

By using our hands to bring one another to climax, each of us was able to watch the other drop all pretenses, all masks. We were able to witness each other in such vulnerability — the need we had for one another, the primal desires of our bodies, the moment of orgasm when we became naked in every way possible.

I don’t think either of us realized what an incredible turn on it would be or how much fulfillment it would add to our sex lives.

What I learned with that partner has made me an ardent fan of hand jobs. I no longer think of this act as a low-quality option for getting off in a hurry or an immature expression of sexual hunger.

We were able to witness each other in such vulnerability — the need we had for one another, the primal desires of our bodies, the moment of orgasm when we became naked in every way possible.

I know now that hand jobs can create immense pleasure and satisfaction, and can build intense experiences of intimacy in the bedroom.

As it turns out, those frisky, clumsy teenagers who started their sexual explorations with hand jobs had it right all along.

© Yael Wolfe 2019