Hands

I recently saw a photograph of a man holding a woman, and I was struck by the sight of his hands. He had beautiful hands, hands that I would call, for lack of a better word; masculine. They were hands that I wanted to hold, even though I probably never will. And I would go away from the picture, work on school work, check into various things, but I would always find myself being drawn back to the photo with the mans hands. I know men with similar hands, gorgeous, strong, masculine hands, and I can't help but feel lucky.

Hands are important. They are one of our primary senses, way to feel and explore the tangible world around us. They are how we do, well, everything; we cook and clean with them, we write and build and study with them, we use them when we eat, when we use the bathroom, when we bath, while we are doing just about anything productive (or unproductive) we use our hands. So I have taught myself use hands as a way to measure people. I gaze at their hands, quietly weighing them, making notes of callouses and scars, discolorations and other marks. I take in the strength that hands have; strong hands are very sexy to me; I find large palms and long thick fingers are very attractive on men. Although I don't think I've ever come across a pair of hands I didn't like.

In high school I loved looking at my chemistry teacher's hands, long tapered fingers with pale white nails beautiful broad palms. I love playing with Jefferson's hands, they are gorgeous to me; I love studying the soft underside of his fingers, tracing the lines on his palms, brushing my fingertips against his nails, feeling his strong bones flex in his hands. I find it strangely soothing and comforting to do this. There is also a man who attends Jefferson's orgies, I'm not sure if he has a blog name, but one night he picked me up and carried me back to the bedroom, and I swooned; I almost never get picked up or carried anywhere. Hands are important; they are also used to hold various forms of cargo, be it human or otherwise, even if you don't go anywhere.

A little over a year ago I went over to Boymeat's place help him clean his apartment, and one thing lead to another, and he asked me if I trusted him. I looked at him quietly for a long moment, and I looked at his hands, turning them over to gaze at the backs of his hands and his palms, he said it was the strangest thing, almost clinical, that no one had ever done that before, but he let me satisfy my odd curiousity and in return I gave him my trust. I went home that night with bruised-black thighs and a cane mark on my leg so bad that my eyes teared and my mind blanked momentarily every time something brushed against it; it was awesome.

Or a few weeks ago when Jefferson beat me up and I got scared and grabbed his hand, and would not let go until I managed to pull him down on top of me. That's another really really good thing hands are good for; holding other people's hands.

I'm sure I'm rambling at this point, and you're sick of reading this, or maybe you're wondering what I think of women's hands, honestly, I look at other things when I'm attracted to a woman, like her build, I find big girls sexy, and smaller hands are important to me on women because every so often I get it into my head that I can handle being fisted. But I digress.

I find hands, and arms for that matter, incredibly sexy. They hold us at night when we sleep, they give hugs and hold our children, they cook meals and write books and help people evolve and grow. They carry out the work that we formulate in our minds. And that's important, and as I struggle to find the words to draw this entry to a conclusion, I look down at my hands, typing my words on the keyboard, attempting to convey a message that I don't quite have words for. And think on the honesty of the work that they've done over the years; tending horses, working with children, feeding and changing and playing with my nephew, taking care of my baby cousins, quilting and embroidering, cooking and cleaning. And I can't help but smile.