I have a midlife client we'll call Mercedes L'Estrange. She's been working my Married Sex Resuscitation Program and was kind enough to allow me to share her most recent story.
She has given me creative license in terms of narration.
Hold on to your socks. This is what happened when Mercedes embarked upon my Art of the Perfect Handjob adventure:
I stared my husband's penis right in the eye. We'd met before. Roughly twice a week over the course of seventeen years. But I had something new in mind.
Earlier in the day my life coach tasked me with giving my husband 'manual pleasure' since my Womanhood has been on strike.
She's been going through 'The Change' 'Red Sea at Low Tide' 'The Peri-Menapocalypse.' Which means she's moody and difficult to impress.
I figured, despite a mild case of carpel tunnel and harbingers of arthritis in the third knuckle of my ring finger, that my hands could pinch-hit for my euphemistically titled Downtown Dining and Entertainment District.
I was ready to try Shannon's recommended methods, aggregated from sites with names like GURL and BroBible and BarstoolSports.
All places I'm fairly sure a bouncer wouldn't let me get past the red velvet rope.
"OK," I said to my husband. "Prepare yourself for Milking the Cow!"
"Wait, what?" my husband queried, his neck ratcheting his face into frame wearing an expression that can only be described as Matthew McConaughey in Interstellar realizing he's on a planet made up entirely of tsunamis and one's a comin' in.
But before he could utter another word I commenced, treating his penis like a cow's udder, both hands yanking and pulling one after another in a fashion that was supposed to replicate a 'never-ending vagina' capable of eighty pounds of kegel pressure.
I heard sharp intakes of breath I mistook for shock and awe. Apparently they were just shock.
"Watch. Your. Grip." He managed to say, his larynx emitting a death rattle.
I stopped instantly and regrouped.
"That's OK. Let's try the Twist and Shout."
"That sounds alarming," he complained.
The Twist and Shout requires that one hand maintain a firm grip on the base of the penis while the other hand bends and pulls it from side to side.
"No, no. For the love of God, no!" were the only sounds I heard this time. Maybe you shouldn't bend a penis after the age of 50?
Finally I tried The Pepper Grinder.
This is where both hands grip the penis, one atop the other, and twist in opposing directions, in the waiter-patented 'Would you like some pepper on your salad?' technique.
And voila! Silence. Sighs. Groans. Then suddenly my man has grabbed my foot and begun licking my toes.
This is new!
In all our years of coupledom my foot has never been near his mouth, let alone in it!
Briefly I'm grateful I've just bathed and even went so far as to buff all my calluses. Because he's using the mouth he kisses me with to pleasure my feet.
But even as I'm wondering exactly how sanitary all of this is I find myself getting unexpectedly excited and what follows is some pretty mind-blowing sex.
My takeaway from this task?
Effort, more than aptitude, is what keeps married sex afloat and even smoking hot.
Thank you Sensei. I await further instructions!