Warning: this post is rather more explicit than previous ones. (Probably the warning is unnecessary really, but I just thought I’d say in case you’re expecting something else.)

This post is a bit of an experiment: I’m writing about reality (my situation while I write, or not long before writing) as well as the fantasy of you, the reader, joining in with me. Just a sharing of an intimate moment.

I’ve made a special effort to be in bed “early”. Which for me means that it’s just after midnight . . . I’m sleepy, but don’t feel ready to sleep. This happens a lot. And I’m naked, because that’s how I usually am when I sleep. I’m propped up in bed, typing this on my netbook.

I’m quite warm. I didn’t judge the heater setting quite right, so it’s a little warmer in my bedroom than I usually aim for. Another good reason to be naked.

The warmth means my scrotum is very relaxed. My balls hanging low and free. Very comfortable. A moment ago I had to get out of bed to turn the heater down another notch; they swung pleasantly as I moved. I enjoy that feeling. It can feel sexy, or just comforting. At the moment it’s a bit of both. In fact I often wear the pouch in this photo (it’s made of knitted silk, which is amazingly comfortable) precisely because it allows that free feeling while cradling them just a little bit. It’s the closest thing to being naked under my clothes.

Knitted silk pouch supporting my bits

Comfort of silk

But I’m digressing. No pouch at the moment. Just my naked, comfortable body in bed. (There will now be a little writer’s licence in terms of tenses, since some of the following happened before I got into bed.)

The relaxed feeling is good. The feeling of my balls hanging low is good. It’s hard to resist the temptation to let my hand move down and feel them. Not that I think of it as a temptation; more a part of enjoying my sleepy, relaxed state. I stroke the skin of my scrotum with my fingers. My nakedness means the air is free to circulate and there’s no feeling of sweatiness; the skin is surprisingly smooth to my touch. It’s about a week since I last shaved them, so the hair has grown past the stubble stage to something more like a layer of down. The hairs tingle as my fingers move over them. It feels good.

My hand moves lower, supporting them with my fingers for a moment then letting them roll free. Curling my fingers under them again, and letting the same happen . . . and then cupping them in my hand. Letting the fingers of my other hand stroke the soft hairs.

At some point in this, my mind wanders and it’s no longer my fingers which are touching me like this. You are next to me, also naked. I imagine your hand cradling my balls, gently massaging them, rolling them around, feeling their weight, stroking and exploring. (Yes I do mean you, the reader.) A soft female hand, warm and comforting. The feeling hints at how it might feel later if your warm lips were to close around them, drawing them into your mouth and making me melt into the sensuousness and the blood rush to my hardening shaft . . . How you would tease me until I could hold back no more . . . Or maybe first you would let your tongue trail over and around them, teasing me with its tip. And my hand would be buried in your hair, stroking and massaging the back of your neck as the soft wet warmth of your mouth engulfed me . . .

And so as I type, I imagine you here in bed with me, your body warm against mine as you roll my balls in the palm of your hand and trace your fingers through the thin layer of hairs. Maybe your eyes are on the screen, watching what I type as you tease me. Or maybe you’re watching my face, or focused on what’s happening between your fingers . . . But either way it’s clear from the way my cock is hardening and my concentration diminishing that I’ll have to stop typing any moment. Until then, I do my best to continue my description. Losing myself in the erotic haze . . . Closing my eyes and letting the sensations take over as your other hand closes around my shaft . . . We both know that my arousal is unstoppable now, and that I have no real choice in the matter: my arousal is in your hands, and even though things are just beginning, it’s clear that you will lead me on inexorably on to a hard, straining erection and then to an explosive orgasm.

I’m sleepy now. It took longer to write this than I expected. So rather than more words, here is a photo. I took it a few weeks ago, just after shaving.

My balls, held in my hand, in black and white

Just after shaving. Ready for your fingers, or your lips and tongue . . .

Today I happened to stumble on Black Satin, a blog of erotic poetry by Jacque Zyon. I’m reluctant to post an entire poem, but here to give you an idea of what to expect are the first few lines of Breathless, which won third prize at the 2009 Seattle Erotic Art Festival:


upon my bed
her rose in bloom

and what do you do with a


marvel at its
many folds…

gently brush your lips against it

. . .

and so it continues: delicately expressed, all in metaphor, and at the same time quite explicit without ever using an explicit word. What I like about the poem is the way that even though it’s powerfully sexual, it’s dominated by a sense of tenderness and wonder.

The blog has only been going a short while, but I hope it continues. And that you’ll pay a visit. (Note: some of the poems do use explicit language. If that bothers you, you have been warned.)

You can read the rest of the poem here, and I hope you will.

Update: Two of the above links weren’t working. I’ve now corrected them. Nov 15, 2010

If you visit a certain sort of website—the sort of dating site where nude photos are the norm—you’ll discover that a large proportion of the men there think the picture which will be most attractive to the women there is one of their erect penis. The women, however, will mostly tell you that they’ve seen enough penises to last them a lifetime (so to speak!). If asked which part of the body they particularly like, they’ll almost all mention the eyes and hands before anything else.

(And for the record, if you ask me what part of a woman’s body I find sexiest, I’ll probably include her back, neck and nipples in my list. If you insist that I choose.)

I’d never really thought about hands being sexy until one day a close friend told me that she liked my hands. (Actually she put it a lot more positively than that, and I was stunned by the compliment. And because of the way she kept looking at them, I believed her too.)

My hand resting on my bare lower abdomen, just outside partially unzipped jeans

My left hand.
© tnbits.wordpress.com 2010

What is it about hands?

I would have loved to begin this post with a photo I found in a book recently. But I would have been infringing some photographer’s copyright. The picture was amazing: it showed the wall of a cave, painted with various shades of reddish-brown pigment. And all over it were lighter-coloured silhouettes of hands. Negative hand-prints, if you will.

Every hand was different. Some were those of adults. Some of children. Some looked feminine. Some masculine. All were beautiful. And all were from people who lived in about 8,000 BC: ten thousand years ago. Each had its own character. Each was an individual. It was moving to see; one particuarly elegant hand made me want to meet  its owner. These were real people in a real community. I felt a basic human connection with them, even though all I knew was what shape their handprints were. Hands can have personality.

My hand resting on my bare abdomen, filling the picture

Skin against skin.
© tnbits.wordpress.com 2010

Do my hands have personality? That’s not for me to say really, but in these photos I wanted to communicate a gentle sensuousness along with any erotic suggestiveness there might be. If I’m honest—assuming you’re female—I like the thought of you imagining what my hand would feel like against your skin. And I like the thought of the intimacy of that. And how controlled and gentle the touch could be . . .

The photos are of my left hand, simply because I was holding the camera in my right. It’s the hand which I use to play the notes on my violin. I’ve spent years training its fingers to know where to go. Though at the moment, they’re moving around my computer keyboard as I type.

We live a lot of our life with our hands. We use them to hold things. To manipulate  things. To accomplish things. They can push someone away, or hold and comfort them. They can touch, stroke, squeeze, massage, caress. They can stay still, or explore . . .

Fingers sliding into unzipped jeans

And then . . . ?
© tnbits.wordpress.com 2010

Maybe hands do have personality. But I’ll shut up now and let you enjoy (I hope) the photos.