Manual Labor

Here's my first actual post. A side-note about this concubine: my fetish for men's hands is immeasurable. I'm obsessive. Here's a brief explanation that I'd recently written for another blog:

Forgive my grammar. I'll use the excuse that English is only my second language.

I love men’s hands.

I enjoy a man’s lips as much as anyone; a soft kiss on the cheek, a sweet pure-lip peck, a ravenous melting of two mouths that are responsible for initially manifesting the hunger one feels to unite entirely with another person. I especially enjoy a surprise kiss, being caught off guard with little option but to respond with my own lips. I crave eye contact, too, whether innocently sharing an unspoken joke or communicating a mutual desire.

I think that the ability of the hands to seduce is vastly underrated. No one thinks about the brush of a thumb over parted lips, the warmth of a palm on one’s cheek during the sweetest of kisses. A hand on the back of the neck is something more heated. There is a certain eroticism in the feeling of two hands clutching one’s waist, pulling the body closer during the most raw moments of a relationship.

Think of everything hands do:

Hands parts legs, pin hips to the ground when they buck, claw at the sensitive skin of the back, sensually link fingers, enflame and then sate the embers of sexual desire. Hands have the ability to comfort one who is distressed or punish one who has done wrong.

The first hint of attraction I feel for a man comes from watching the ways in which he uses his hands. I watch the degree of expression, I watch how each knuckle bends and to what angle. I watch how long his hands remain on certain objects and how they hold things.

I love the rough, calloused skin of a working-class man’s hand. I love the smoothness of a librarian or teacher with short, practical nails and smooth palms. I love long, piano-playing fingers and short, thick phalanges.

There are few things sexier than a man who knows how to use his hands.