All of us have body parts that we are physically attracted to. Some like boobs, some like eyes, some like butts, some like lips. For me, it is hands. I love hands. You know those veins on the back of one's hands? Yeah, the ones that pulse when a hand is flexed...I love those. Those drive me crazy! Know what else I like? Forearms. I love a man's forearm, and the stronger it is, the more I like them.
Those two things have always been something I notice immediately when I see a man. I can remember the hands of the guys I have been with. So much so, that there is a specific commercial that reminds me of an ex's hands.
But, you should see his hands...white boy's hands. Grrr... When we sit next to each other I can't help but touch them. They are hands that have built and worked and struggled to make a life for himself. And he has succeeded.
Sometimes, I wonder if I like hands in general, or I like what I know is behind their story. I tend to be less attracted to hands that are delicate. I tend to be less attracted to hands that do nothing more than push papers around a desk. I tend to be less attracted to hands that fork out cash to repair things instead of doing it themselves. I guess I like working hands. They remind me of my dad's.
And dad's hands are good hands. And this one's hands are safe hands. They are hands that could rip apart but wouldn't tousle a hair on my head. They remind me of my dad's. They make me feel safe. I like that. In a cruel world, they are a constant. I am sure he gets tired of me telling him how much I like them, but he will have to get over it. Because when he catches me staring at his arms and tracing the vein lines on the back of his hands he must know by now that his hands are a direct reflection of how I see him: strong, hardworking, genuine, and kind. These hands...are so far my absolute favorite.
Those two things have always been something I notice immediately when I see a man. I can remember the hands of the guys I have been with. So much so, that there is a specific commercial that reminds me of an ex's hands.
But, you should see his hands...white boy's hands. Grrr... When we sit next to each other I can't help but touch them. They are hands that have built and worked and struggled to make a life for himself. And he has succeeded.
Sometimes, I wonder if I like hands in general, or I like what I know is behind their story. I tend to be less attracted to hands that are delicate. I tend to be less attracted to hands that do nothing more than push papers around a desk. I tend to be less attracted to hands that fork out cash to repair things instead of doing it themselves. I guess I like working hands. They remind me of my dad's.
And dad's hands are good hands. And this one's hands are safe hands. They are hands that could rip apart but wouldn't tousle a hair on my head. They remind me of my dad's. They make me feel safe. I like that. In a cruel world, they are a constant. I am sure he gets tired of me telling him how much I like them, but he will have to get over it. Because when he catches me staring at his arms and tracing the vein lines on the back of his hands he must know by now that his hands are a direct reflection of how I see him: strong, hardworking, genuine, and kind. These hands...are so far my absolute favorite.
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