The first time I got a hand job, the television news was on in the background. My parents were out to a party and the weather was getting bad. Snow wisped across the slick roads; I had no fear that my parents would be coming home in this blizzard, especially if they had been drinking at the party. A friend of mine from school was hanging out with me in our living room, and we had started fooling around.

The feeling of her hand was great and all, but it didn't get me there. I knew no matter how much time passed it wouldn't get me there, despite how intent she was on making me happy. She continued to face me and didn't take her eyes off her hand, trying to focus. She was clumsy, of course, that's how first hand-jobs are. She kindly asked if her grip was too tight or too loose, how fast she should go, if showing her breasts would help.

I couldn't concentrate on her; my eyes were glued to the TV. The weatherman continued to speak about the week's forecast, but the green screen behind him wasn't showing weather maps or charts. Instead, it displayed the words, "Your parents will be in a car crash when she's done with you."

Worried about what this meant, I thought of baseball, my grandmother, anything to avoid blowing my load too soon. Eventually, though, it went too far, and I told her to stop. She tried to insist I let her keep trying until she got it right. Worried about my parents, I told her "I don't think this will work out."
She said, "Fine, I'm done with you." That's when the police called.