Two weeks until I turn 30: Day One – “Wank you as a thank you!” (29f) [FM]

In two weeks I officially lose the right to refer to myself as a ‘twenty-something’ as entropy takes its inevitable toll and I tick over into my thirtieth rotation around the sun.

But rather than spend my final fortnight mourning the dying days of what everyone seems to insist I’ll look back on as the best of my life, I’ve decided to celebrate them. How, you ask? By spending two weeks trying to cram in as much ludicrous incident that I’ll all too soon be considered ‘too old for that kind of thing’. (Note: I don’t actually believe this any more than I believe turning thirty will somehow unlock the secrets of ‘adulthood’ – it’s mostly an excuse for some fun. …Mostly!)

I’ll endeavour to chronicle my daily escapades (and inevitable failures) as a guide for how to *not* reach your third decade with dignity!

DAY ONE: “Wank you as a thank you!”

As something of an early birthday present to myself I’d made arrangements to have our dishwasher fixed. Not exactly rock and roll, I know. But after being without it for four months I figured turning thirty was a reasonable excuse to no longer have to dirty my own dainty hands.

How little I knew at the time. (Foreshadowing is a powerful tool)

This would have immediately turned into something of a non-anecdote but for two key facts:

Firstly, whilst killing time in the morning waiting for the repairman to arrive I came up with the notion of this two week countdown plan to grow old disgracefully. And, no sooner had I concocted it, I began to convince myself to perhaps postpone it until the weekend. I’m a fiercely competitive person and, once I’ve set myself a task, anything but absolute victory is nothing short of a total failure. To announce I was embarking on two weeks of adventure only to realise that I wasn’t even due a night out until the weekend rather felt as though I’d set myself an insurmountable challenge, and one that perhaps would be best to ignore until it could quite literally kick off with a bang…

I was mid telling the friend I’d thrashed out the concept of the challenge with that it was to be held back, when she delivered the withering sarcastic reply that I so dearly love her for;

“Oh no. However will you manage? If only you’d literally ordered a man to do your door later today…”

She was joking. Mostly. However it’s always tricky to tell with Charlie. For clarity, I told her that there was no way I was going to do something so horrendously cliched as make an inappropriate move on the man coming to fix my kitchen appliance.

Secondly: The repairman that arrived, far from being the fifty-plus obese mustachioed Super-Mario like individual I’d anticipated, was a ruggedly handsome man in his mid thirties.

Maybe I’d spoken too soon.

Finn – not his real name, but short for my favourite brand of dishwasher tablet since the guy’s name is so remarkably unique that I’m sure he’d appear top of any google search – was a man of remarkably few words. Which suited me down to the ground as I’ve always had something of a middle class anxiety when dealing with folk working in the house. I explained the problem, he nodded and said he figured it was probably the [incomprehensible series of words] valve. I nodded sagely, and distracted myself from watching him bend into my dishwasher by making him a cup of tea.

To fulfil the cliche, he took three sugars. Almost enough to eliminate someone as a sexual prospect immediately.

Almost.

Finn got to work and, tea made, I set about engaging in the traditional small talk which, for anyone outside of the UK, is absolutely obligatory.

“Been a busy day?”

“Not really. Had a big job this morning but it got done.”

“Much on after this?”

“Just one more. Sounded a nightmare on the phone.”

And that’s where I should have left it. I’d fulfilled the bare minimum conversational gambit, I could have now politely left him alone.

But Charlie had put an idea in my head. And I was only in my twenties for two more weeks. And the silence was awkward. And, bent over my dishwasher, I couldn’t help but admire his arse.

“So,” I said, before I’d allowed myself time to think it through. “Have you ever had the delightful cliche of being propositioned while working in someone’s house?”

I immediately hated myself. Not for asking, but for using the phrase ‘delightful cliche’ and feeling like the worst type of middle class wanker talking to the handyman.

He didn’t emerge from the dishwasher so I couldn’t see his face and gauge how he’d taken the light hearted but potentially awkward question. He didn’t even pause whatever he was doing. But he did reply.

“Yeah. Once or twice.”

A silence ensued. His tone was unreadable. I had no sense of whether he was joking, joshing, teasing, winding me up or even being coy.

He continued working. I stood awkwardly. Several days may have passed during this silence. Eventually it became clear he wasn’t going to be the one to break it.

“Would it be rude to ask what kind of thing you’ve been propositioned?”

“No.” was the immediate, if uninformative reply. This time I didn’t hesitate;

“So are we talking full porn cliche bent over a kitchen counter or more…” I hesitated for a moment, genuinely not sure how the sentence was going to end. “…or more ‘I’ll wank you as a thank you’?”

That broke him. Still inside the dishwasher he burst into laughter causing him to have to come up for air. He looked me right in the eye.

“It’s never been called that,” he said. “But I’ve definitely had a wank you as a thank you.”

He was still laughing. I smiled right back.

I think from that moment on it was inevitable.

It wasn’t immediate, of course. He fixed the dishwasher first, replacing the [something incomprehensible] valve and what appeared to be several thousand meters of pipe. He also pulled some truly unseemly gunk out of the bottom which i felt sure had the capacity to kill off anyone’s libido.

But he was a professional. And apparently he’d seen far worse.

Job done and tea finished, I asked him if he wanted a wanking as a thanking. He told me the ladies offering were usually older than me. I told him I was turning thirty in two weeks. He nodded as though that made sense.

His wasn’t the first cock I’ve ever unveiled in my kitchen, but it was perhaps the most underwhelming. The width of my palm was easily able to encompass its length, though its relative girth was to be commended. He also brandished the most pubic hair I’ve seen on a male specimen this decade. Clearly the ‘older ladies’ were usually a little less discerning in their tastes.

Unperturbed, I took firm hold and set to work. He looked genuinely surprised.

He looked even more surprised barely two minutes later when he shot a dishwasher overflow pipe’s worth of cum over my kitchen floor. And I’m not exaggerating. Neither the time *nor* the volume. I swore out loud. So did he. Throughout.

He told me that had never happened before. And that it wouldn’t knock anything off the charge.

I just laughed. I had a working dishwasher and an anecdote. Plus he’d proven the slogan true.

Finish. It gets the job done.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/ue83u9/two_weeks_until_i_turn_30_day_one_wank_you_as_a