Oh, So Now I'm the Jerk!

I don’t know how long one has to be in a relationship before one becomes aware of the deal; or if living together for some length of time is a prerequisite, but there’s a long standing exchange between couples that you may or may not be aware of; a little trade off known as the blowjob for a backrub.

Not always in that order. In fact, I’d say usually not.

I fought this exchange for a long time in my own lengthy relationship, and have only recently accepted the terms as viable. I argued that no, it should be more of an ‘eye for an eye’ arrangement. I rub you back, you rub mine.

Now, not toot my own horn, but I give great back. Years of social neglect and video games have gifted me with stronger than average finger and hand strength. I’m pretty sure I could squeeze through your windpipe with my left hand. Oil, lotion or dry, my fingers weave the muscles of the back until they're as loose and rubbery as your girls fried chicken.

And, to further NOT toot my own horn, I can do a tongue push-up. If I leave you with shaking legs and you’re breathing like you just almost drowned and there are still bits of my hair from the back of my head clutched in your fists, and I have to bring you a drink because I’m scared you’ll injure yourself if you attempt an upright posture—really, I don't think you're thinking "Holy god as soon as I can walk I'm gonna rub the FUCK out of his back!"

It doesn’t matter; as I said I’ve surrendered to the exchange. And since there’s no real nice way to suggest your girl give a blowjob without her looking at you like you just asked if she were tighter than her sister, it does helps to be able to be all Ricco Suave and ask in a whisper thick with manly bass; “Ya want a nice looong back rub, baby?”

I can see why the exchange occurs, even if it takes time, and why the two events are sort of comparable if you look at the underlying involvement of other things that go on; relaxation, unwinding, accepting pleasure without worrying about anytihng but feeling good, but the comparison isn’t literal.

For instance, Mrs. Bastard gets all sorts of pissed when I loudly spit on her back and rub like crazy. And there is no appreciation when I slap my face all over her back and tell her, "I love your fucking back, baby!"

And, you know, sometimes my hands hurt—my family had a long, proud tradition of both arthritis and bursitis before things like keyboards came along to help things along.

If I neglect my girls back too long, she can go get a professional massage—or maybe that’s just what she’s in the mood for, professional treatment. But the gods protect me if I start checking out prices for the Ladies of Craigslist—suddenly I’m the jerk. Seems like if it’s a fair exhange of services I shouldn’t have to explain my internet history—to you or to my lawyer!

I guess double standards, like equality, are a bitch.