TMI Thursday: Hand Stuff? Mouth Stuff? Are You in Junior High??

Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join me and the fast-growing harem of TMI-participators in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. If you want, leave it here in the comments! If you’re chicken, share someone else’s! Ah, the anonymity of the blogosphere… it’s a good thing. Now get ready, my darlings, for the ever popular gravely feared TMI THURSDAYS…

Without further ado, this week’s tale of TMI…

(See the TMIT archives here.)

I was 15 years old, and as we’ve established, the extent of my sexual prowess at that point was having had my mosquito bites tweaked once or twice. It was only September and my tender young heart was still recovering from a few days earlier when that son-of-a-bitch Justin Johnson broke up with me in front of my the ENTIRE school at my locker, while classes were changing (!!!) and of course, everyone saw. Ouch.

So, imagine my surprise when a senior, we’ll call him Skeevy McSkeeverson, took an interest in lil’o'me. Did I mention he was A SENIOR!!! (A senior who was a blatant degenerate, never got a driving license, or bathed that much…) but still! A senior! (Suck on THAT, Justin Johnson!)

Since I was still naive enough to read “dirty and skeevy” as “edgy and dangerous”, (if you’re curious, I finally caught on to the difference about 7 months ago… hi B!) I agreed to start “going out” with him. Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that we could not simply be an item in name forever… eventually, I was going to have to show a little leg. Because that’s what the older boys expect, right? I’m 16. I don’t freaking know.

So one day, after weeks of making out at his even-skeevier friends’ house parties, I agree to “go to his house and ‘hang out’.” My father drove me (well, I drove there-hooray for learner’s permits!) to the veritable barn where he lived with his grandparents… (I can’t remember the story there, but I think we can all imagine that sad storyline, yes?) and DROPS ME OFF, none too happy about it, perhaps, but he still drove away… so I walked up to the house, heart pounding, and knocked.

“Hey, baby,” Skeevy McSkeeverson said. “Let me show you my CD collection.”

Okay, it might have been a LITTLE bit smoother than that… but not much. Honestly. I was petrified, but I followed him up to his room and we sat with legsalmosttouching for a few minutes while I was forced to listen to the “awesomeness’ of LFO’s “Summer Girls” and the like. This is how the skeevy woo, I guess?

Anyhoo, he quickly moves in for the kiss, and I think, “Okay, I can handle this… it’s not so bad, I guess.” (Ed. note: You have to remember here, I’m wasn’t even sure I actually LIKED this guy. But did I mention he was a Senior??)

But then the Heavy Petting starts. I am suddenly much more uncomfortable. The next thing I know, he’s sort of stroking my… area… and I quickly shift around to make it more difficult, because, um, I’M the only one who gets to touch my special-no-no-place. That’s why they call it that, right?

This guy looks me straight in the eye, whips it out, and says, “Will you give me a hand job?”

Now, let me be clear. I had never SEEN one of these before, other than a high-school textbook, or on one of those little clear plastic overhead-thingies they used to use to show a drawing to the whole class in health class. That was IT.

And a hand job?? I mean, I assumed that meant that it would require… doing something… to his… thing… with my hand… but again, that was the total extent of my knowledge. I was the older sister, people, and my mother is a lady. We had books strategically left around the house that told us where babies came from, but that was the extent of “The Talk.” (And in hindsight, thank GOD.)

“Ummm… sure…” I tried to seem all cool, and nonchalant. I was about as cool as hammer pants in 2001. (You know, too early to be considered ironic, too late to still be considered rad.)

So, I grabbed. And, um, I tried to move my hands… around it. You know Indian burns? Yeah, kinda like that.

I DIDN’T KNOW. NO ONE TOLD ME “UP AND DOWN”!

So, after he stopped laughing at me, he tried to teach me the rudimentary points of the infamous HJ. I don’t think it went very well, because he didn’t even try to get my shirt off. I guess Indian burn on your cock kills the moment, or something. Wuss.

Sigh. A couple weeks later I dumped him for a way-cooler junior. And let’s just say that when it came time for the first BJ? Me and the innerwebs had become very good friends, and I had nothing to be ashamed of.

Internet porn research! Making sex better since whenever Al Gore invented it.

Other awesomely bad TMI Thursdays this week:

LBluca77′s TMI Thursday: Now I Know How a Monkey Feels When They Slip On a Banana

LA Cochran’s TMI Thursday: “I’ll Be Loving You… Always…” -Leonard Cohen

Cyndy’s The FISH PEDICURE Comes to Aspen Hill

Miss Scorpio’s Was It Good?

FrancoBeans (AKA f.B)’s Body Blows

Charlotte Harris’ TMI Thursday: My Sharona

Brookem’s TMI Thursday: Wipeout

Liebchen’s TMI Thursday: Look Ma! No Hands!

VeryBadCat’s Of Bookshelves and Boobs

SaratogaJean’s TMI Thursday

FoggyDew’s TMI Thursday: Bet You Can’t Eat That

Maxie’s TMI Thursday: The One I’ve Told 1000 Times

Malnurtured Snay’s Sadly, Eating General Tso’s Chicken in DC Made My Ass Start Screaming For a Toilet Seat

Shannon’s This Is Why I Live Alone

-jd’s My First TMI Thursday Entry! The Di

ary of a Midnight Stealther

NotYourPlainJane’s TMI Thursday: What Not to Wear… Down There