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The unexpected pleasure of a lover’s hands
The unexpected pleasure of a lover’s hands
It’s not something we spend too much time pondering.
When we first take stock of a lover before us, it’s often other appendages that entice us first: their eyes or their smile, their breasts or their legs are usually the most erotic.
But for myself, I find a peculiar joy in the strangeness and familiarity of another person’s hands.
Strange because they’re not mine, but familiar because I have a set of my own.
Whether calloused by the labour of masculine tasks like fixing things or operating machinery, or framed by a leather watch strap, there’s something about the curves and proportion of a lover’s hands that demands my attention, and keeps it.
It’s often one of the first places I’ll touch – just on the back of the hand, I’ll gently tap or caress their metacarpals, those bones that protrude from the skin like an invitation.
It’s a sensitive spot to first introduce touch, but not so intimate that my gentle gesture is an intrusion.
No matter the size of a person’s hands, the sight of these thin bones reminds me that they too have a certain type of fragility.
These hands once belonged to a child, then a fumbling teenager, and now they’re before me with several decades of stories to tell.
I begin to wonder what those hands have done all day: what was it like when they first touched someone intimately?
How do they hold their cup of coffee in the morning?
Do they grip the handle of the mug with certainty, or do they cradle it between both palms gently?
When they finally find their way on to me, will they explore with conviction and confidence, or will they tremble slightly in anticipation?
Most people hate cold hands, but I love the initial shock of a frosty forefinger on my thigh contrasting with the heat of my own skin.
People usually apologise for the variance in temperature, and it’s at this point that I say I don’t mind, I don’t mind at all, and begin to warm them up between my own hands, using my breath as a sort of makeshift furnace.
I’m hoping they can smell my sweet breath on their hands, using heat to unite us.
I’m not entirely sure why I like hands really. Perhaps it’s because there’s a certain humbleness to them.
You cannot pretend to have stronger hands or younger hands, or smaller hands or more confident hands.
Hands, quite simply, do not lie about the person they’re attached to.
There’s little you can do to alter the hands you were born with, unlike your face or your breasts or the hair on your head. Your hands are an honest manifestation of who you are as a person, and you use them to feel your way through the world.
Your hands might just be the most sincere thing about you.
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