Page 1 of All I Wank for Christmas

Chapter 1

Holly

Igiveamazinghandjobs. It’s a gift.

Not everyone can do it well. Most hand job givers are either unenthusiastic or too eager to please. It’s a fine line to walk and get it right. It’s a blessing and a curse to be good at it, but I’ve been thankful for my handy gift every single day since Grant McHammond taught me how to slide all the way up the shaft and follow through up the head during orientation week at Illinois State. He was also the first to teach me that ball play is fair play. Cupping. Massaging. Even a clockwise nuzzle over the ole taint spot with my index finger is all part of the hand job experience. I quickly became known as Holly Happy Hands Hepperdine around my college campus.

I’m especially thankful for my ability now that it’s my family’s livelihood.

Sure, I have a degree in accounting. Imaybe a certified public accountant. Fat lot of fucking good it’s done me in this small town in the hills of Pennsylvania where nothing happens and corporate jobs are scarce. I had to come back home when Mom fell sick with an autoimmune disorder. Dad did the typical “going out for milk” runner about ten years ago. It’s been hard, but I’ll be God damned if my younger sister, Helena, has to quit community college because of lack of tuition.

Someone has to pay the bills, pay Helena’s tuition, and take care of Mom until the social security office wants to process that disability claim. That same someone also can’t find a remote accounting job to save her life. I guess companies don’t want to gamble on remote workers that just graduated. Maybe they want people to show up to the office the first few years as an accountant to prove themselves. I blame generation bias.

Whatever the reason, I’m back in my childhood town working at the Happy Stroke Club. The club was the only place hiring. My town is too small for a Target or a Walmart. My only other choices were the Chinese restaurant that only hires family members and the rest area by the interstate.

Something tells me I made the safe choice of not working at the rest area. I’d rather give hand jobs in a climate-controlled facility than work a glory hole.

I work in a small massage parlor that you practically need special directions to find. It’s a small brick building with a faded sign and a gravel parking lot. Most clients park around back because the back of the building backs up to the woods. We picked a rural area so clients’ wives wouldn’t drive by on their way to the grocery store and see their husbands’ cars in the lot. It’s sad as fuck, but it’s worked well for the owner, Linda One.

Don’t feel sorry for me, though. Tips are good. I never have to use a calculator. I don’t have to stock shelves. Or mop.

Well, I do have to mop. Sometimes things get…messy. That’s the only drawback of this job, though. I get the job satisfaction of hearing a man who hasn’t been laid in a year moan like an animal as I cup my gloved hand over his dick and catch his load in my hand, often cooing over such a beautiful orgasm. They like it when you compliment the release arc as it moves through the air. After all, if you want good tips at a hand job joint you have to make the men feel like they are the brightest star of your day and their orgasm is exciting and original.

Then again, I think that’s all men.

“Holly!” Linda One yells from the front of the shop, causing me to jump. “Client here to see you.”

I don’t think her name is really Linda. If you go into a massage parlor and every woman in the joint is named Linda, that’s your first sign it’s one ofthosemassage places. At a rub and tug, we’reallLindas. I’m not sure why I use my real name with most clients. Probably because I grew up here, and the town won’t buy the Linda bullshit with me. It’s awkward to give a fake name to your old high school math teacher when you’re massaging his balls.

Most men know this Linda tip, and I feel sorry for legitimate masseuses named Linda.

Other signs you’re in one ofthosemassage parlors? A fake flower, usually a rose, is on the table in the massage room, the place only accepts cash, and they’re open late into the evening, sometimes twenty-four hours.

Legitimate massage places often deal with men asking to be finished, and it’s a good way to be banned from the premises. You never ask to be finished if you’re in a legitimate joint. If you’re unsure, the rule of thumb should always be to wait for your massage personnel to ask if you want a “full release.”

If you’re wanting your gherkin jerked, you’re in the right place at The Happy Stroke Club. Full release is on the menu board above the desk. Sometimes, I’m not sure how we’ve flown under the law enforcement radar.

Actually, I do know. Sheriff DeWitt, the head poohbah of the county police, and his department come in every Thursday afternoon for “team building.” I guess team building includes separate jerk-off sessions with the ladies here and not trust falls or beer over happy hour. We’re their “happy” hour plan. They keep the feds and the state troopers away for selfish reasons.

I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders, walking to the front of the shop where Linda One smiles at an older man from behind the counter. His hair is white and combed to the side like Donald Trump’s hairstylist did his hair this morning, and he wears glasses with gold frames.

Another man, a younger one, flips through a magazine on the chair in the corner of the waiting room. I do a double take when I come into the room. I’m used to the older guys. I’m not used to a drop-dead gorgeous guy with dark tousled hair, beard stubble, and shoulders like a brick shit house that could get any woman he wants.

He’s not from around here, and he smiles as he puts down the magazine he’s holding, blinks twice, and tilts his head to the side as he runs his eyes over me.

Fuck me.

“Holly!” Linda snaps, causing me to startle again. “This client has a gift card he got a few days early.” She points to the older man and then gestures to the Christmas special display where clients can buy gift cards for their friends. “This man says he needs extra help.”

They all say that.

“Of course,” I say, tearing my eyes away from the hot piece of ass in the corner and extending my hand to the older man. I try not to slouch in disappointment with the knowledge I’ll spend too much time with the older guy, and my coworker, Linda Two, will get to yank the stud. “I’m Holly. I’ll be your service provider today. Come on back.”

I glance one last time at the younger man, and his eyes follow me as I leave the room. He squints and frowns, and it’s obvious he’s sad I won’t be his jerker today. If I didn’t know better, I’d say his face is lined with concern. I half expect him to follow me to make sure I’m safe.

I lead the older man into my room, and he grunts as he climbs on the table without even looking around. Most men want to look at every single thing when they get back here for the first time. I guess they think there will be toys, whips, chains, or something scandalous.

I run my eyes over the walls, bare except for a few pictures Linda One got from a garage sale. I have a white counter that holds clean sheets for the table, gloves, and cleaner. It looks like the standard doctor’s office counter with a small sink attached in case I need water for an especially messy client. Otherwise, the sheet-covered massage table in the room is the only clue of what goes on here.

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