Hands are more than fingers.
Kevin’s hands are soft in mine. They’re dark, with long fingers. His fingers twist around mine like ivy.
His hands are different than mine; mine are older, wiser. His are young and uncalloused.
His hands feel warm against my skin.
They touch, squeeze, they admit his hunger; they wash his face; they reposition himself in bed; they move me.
There’s much to love about men; but hands direct you. Like traffic cops, to pleasure.
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 