Like any red blooded American, I learned the ABC’s of sex through our national pastime—baseball. More specifically the baseball diamond: 1st base, 2nd base, 3rd base and home. Each base represents a sex act, each successive base equals a benchmark of higher achievement or notch on the naughty pole.The bases allowed for some local interpretation, but not much. For example, currently, Altoona Midway High School in Kansas deems second base to have been successfully met through “boobs being lightly groped over clothing,” while Lynbrook High School in San Jose, CA, requires a misplaced bra and serious mouth-to-nipple action. Still, regardless of these minor cultural or geographical differences, one thing remains constant: The handjob is never a home run. In fact, in some more promiscuous communities it might be recorded as a mere double. Why should that be the case? Why not make intercourse a triple and a well-lubed handjob a home run? I ask you, America: Do we really want to live in a nation where the pleasures of a perfectly administered rub and tug can never earn home run status?
In truth, once we start assigning points and numbers to sex acts we lose sight of what sex is supposed to be, a fluid galaxy of sensation and experience. Can this be taken to the extreme? Of course I’m not suggesting that a kiss on the check and anal sex are equal — one requires mouthwash. But what I am saying is a vagina shouldn’t categorically be crowned King of Sensation. Ever meet an unwashed and dust-dry vagina? Ever been offered a handjob with hot tantric sex oils and your favorite Zeppelin album in the background? Exactly.
There are no absolutes. It’s a matter of style and tastes. And as for styles, the human hand has many. I’m not villainizing the vagina; I’m simply giving props to the hand. How many hands signed the Declaration of Independence? 56. How many vaginas? Zero. What’s more, how many vaginas do you know that could paint the Mona Lisa or even do a decent job spackling? I’m guessing fewer than four.
The handjob is crude, but versatile; there are twists, turns and rotation. There’s tight squeeze and release; there’s dry heat, viscous and wet. And when it comes to speed; don’t tell me the human vagina is winning. The vagina can be turned on and off, while the hand can operate on at least five speeds: slow, “here we go,” fast, “oh man,” and “let’s start a fire.” And sometimes, it’s the caveman simplicity of a handjob itself that is the attraction, so mechanical and rudimentary it can be endearing and downright sweet to look over and see your loved one laboriously plugging away at you.
The vagina is like a high-speed Japanese train. It’s so smooth and efficient you forget where you’re going, but the handjob is bumpy, it takes patience, commitment and a belief in oneself. Which, in turn, makes it all the more sexy and loving. On handjob night (may I suggest Thursdays?), it’s as if your partner will be saying, “You know what, honey, tonight were not gonna bring out the bells and whistles that is my vagina; tonight we’re gonna keep it simple and churn butter the old-fashioned way.”
Which brings me to the Benicio Del Toro portion of my argument. In a nutshell, a vagina is like Benicio Del Toro: complex, mysterious, and erratic; it’s an entity so naturally nuanced and unique it can be confusing, frankly. Alternately, a human hand is like Tom Hanks — no, scratch that, I’ll go further. The human hand is like Chris O’Donnell: straightforward, blatant, and easy to handle. Sometimes the human penis is psyched for the equivalent of a four-hour Spanish biopic starring Benicio as Ché Guevara, but other times, it feels sluggish or moody and wants nothing more than the equivalent of plopping on the couch and catching the tail end of “Kit Kittredge: An American Girl.” Can you blame him?
In closing, please know I’m no vagina hater; intercourse is great and certainly at times can be the cat’s meow. All I’m suggesting is it’s not the only cat in the litter. So let’s do away with the bases and usual suspects, let’s give it up for the hand, roll up our sleeves as a nation, and get crankin’.
