Handball

This is the romantic story of how I accidentally gave a homosexual man a hand-job.

When I finished school, I had to choose between going to university or doing conscription, which is one year's service in the South African national defence force (army).

Because I'm quite a clever chap, I knew that conscription was soon to come to an end, so if I went to university, by the time I finished, conscription would be over and I therefore wouldn't have to shot at by enemies of the state for a whole year.

I was seventeen years old when I joined first South African Infantry Battalion (1SAI) and was soon to learn that I was easy pickings for the gay community in the army. It was our first week and we had to get our teenage hair cut. The army employed two male "hairdressers" to shave use like sheep with their trimmers in a factory style assembly line.

I don't want to start throwing around the stereotype that all hairdressers are gay, but the one that ended up grooming me, could be described as a gay version of Elton John. As I sat down in the chair, he flung the batman-style cloak over me, which is used to stop the hair falling onto my clothes. The cloak also covered by hands, which were resting on the armrests.

He started by trimming the back of my head and I didn't feel awkward with a gay man standing behind me with a handheld electrical device. Then he moved to the front and stood just to the side of my legs and moved in closer to the chair, where his man-package all of a sudden pressed up against my curvaceous, virginal hand which was beneath the batman cloak, resting on the armrest.

My first thought was that I should pull my sweet innocent hand away, but by doing that I would effectively be rubbing my hand against his junk and for all I knew, he might be thinking that his hand is just pushed up against the arm rest and not my handgina. So I waited for him to shift away from the armrest so that I could then tuck my hand away.

Of course he didn't move away. If anything, he pushed harder against my hand, as though he was trying to get to a tricky bit at the top of my head. There could be no doubt that he could mistake my muscly hand for an armrest. By now I obviously couldn't pull my hand away as it would be even more obvious that his junk was pressed against my hand-shandy maker, and if he by some small marginal chance, still wasn't aware that I was being dry-humped, any movement would alert him to the fact that I had been playing handball for the last thirty seconds.

The tricky hair bit was still giving problems to my rapist and he seemed to shift up onto his toes to get a better view, which created a sliding effect over my hand. Not quite happy with that view, he then lowered his heels to the ground again. No, that wasn't the right angle, he'd have to go onto his heels again. So we went, back and forth, across my once sweet glory-hand, until he was satisfied that his work was done.

He whipped off the batman cloak, gave a cursory glance and my hand and told me that I was done. No thank you. No "see you later". No flowers or chocolates.

But to my rapist's credit, my hair looked fab!