If Hands Could Have Sex We Were Making Porn

Happy Valentine’s Day. Hope you weren’t expecting a Valentine’s Day post.  Nope, it’s time for another Guy’s Story. Every Sunday I have posts from male guest authors. This week’s Guy’s Story is from Mike Masters. Mike writes a humorous dating advice blog for women over at Mikethemasterdater.com.

If Hands Could Have Sex We Were Making Porn

You know when something slightly traumatic happens, how it tends to be burned into your memory?  Kinda like last weekend when I smashed my face on the icy concrete (I’m sure it had nothing to do with the Jagermister I was drinking). I didn’t remember much of that night but that little accident certainly cut through my Jager-haze and was burned like a hot poker into my memory.

College for me was very much a like this Jager-haze. I remember snippets of my poor behavior, for example: trying to dive into our apartment pool from the 4^th floor, or charging other students a 100 bucks a crack to sit next to me durning a microbiology final. I remember these things fondly but I am a little bit embarrassed that I had to push the boundaries of stupidity so aggressively.

It was a Friday night when I smashed through that boundary, I was out with my closest friend, bar hopping in beautiful balmy Santa Barbara. We hit a few of our favorite haunts, eventually ending up at a place displaying two large scarlet Macaws screaming at pedestrians. Brushing aside plastic palm fronds, Casey walked up to the bar as I hung back to talk to the parrots. Two cute girls in their early 20′s tracked Casey’s backside and muscular back all the way to the bar. I felt a flash of jealousy and swallowed it down as I approached them. They were still staring at Casey when I said, “He’s got a nice ass doesn’t he?” They both turned to me as red as I was after walking into a girls locker room in Hong Kong.

We talked, eventually separated into couples, and after a few beers decided to go to the beach. I grew up in Santa Barbara and I knew a secluded spot where we could have a bonfire. It was nestled in a small cove, backed by the house-size rocks of tar, I have only seen in Southern California. I built a huge fire and in the shadow of its warmth we shamelessly… sucked face. It started to get a bit chilly as the fire waned and the cool air coming off the waves set in. All four of us cuddled under a large blanket  looking like a package of bratwurst, as we fell in and out of sleep.

Then it happened.

The girl Casey was with touched my hand… It took a second to comprehend and another second to process if this was okay. My hand halted, hovering, not really knowing what to do and a series of questions shot through my mind. Was this okay? Was this f-ed up to do to my buddy? Was I violating the trust of a girl I had only met hours before? Would this make me a bad person?? But I did what most of us do in this situation, I ignored my conscience.

Maybe it was the inappropriate nature of the situation that made her caress so much more intense or possibly she really was this passionate with her hands. Regardless, we continued with our sensual hand dance for a good ten minutes and too this day I have never been so aroused this way. (Oh, except when I got really stoned with my Japanese teacher)

I ran my finger up and into the soft hair of her wrist… then lightly over her knuckles, something was wrong. My brow furrowed a bit not knowing why. My hand froze again as my brain processed something slightly eluding me. I ran my fingers over her knuckle again, this time not so passionately.

“Oh fuck!” I said, stressing the O and grabbing the hand, “Casey!!!???” His hand gripped me back. “Mike!!!??” We both leaped up, actually physically brushing off sand and any vestiges of latent homosexuality. One of the girls looked at me while I stood holding the offending hand away from me as if it stank, “What’s wrong??” We both responded nearly in unison and a bit too loud, “Nothing!! Nothing!!”

It took years before we could laugh about it.