Another photo I’m quite pleased with. I hope you’ll enjoy the sight of my hand, and that you’ll think of all the places it might go, on my body or yours. All the ways it might touch and stroke and caress.

When I touch myself like this it feels relaxed and sensuous, and I imagine how it would feel if it were someone else’s hand slipping inside my shirt to enjoy the touch. Skin against skin . . . A slender female hand, and a bare arm which needs to be kissed right the way up to the shoulder . . . And I’m touching you too, my hand inside your clothes, savouring your soft skin as the relaxed sensuousness gradually becomes growing arousal which itself becomes burning need as our now naked bodies entwine to satisfy that need.

. . . Or it may go quite differently: maybe the sensousness becomes a pleasantly sexy haze which we simply enjoy for its own sake for a while. Or it leads to a deep relaxation followed by a contented sleep.

At the moment, I’m enjoying the idea that it would lead to  the two-entwined-bodies-satisfying-their-burning-need option.

Of course, the thoughts the photo gives you may be entirely different from mine . . . Please feel free to share them.

Black and white photo of my hand slipping inside my shirt

Touch me like this. Then touch me some more . . .

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.

I don’t really think of myself as a poet, but I enjoy trying to write haiku—maybe because they’re nice and short so I have a fighting chance of finishing one.

Proper Japanese ones have a traditional structure involving a seasonal reference, a “cutting word” and a contrast of ideas, but it’s popular now simply to take a pattern of seventeen syllables—five then seven then five—and use that to create a short poem in English.

These three are intensely personal. The first expresses my basic belief in respect and in the amazing preciousness of friendship; the other two talk about the times when friendship isn’t quite enough, but is all I have. The heart is not the only part of a person which can feel loneliness.

They all began in the 5-7-5 pattern, but I’ve done some editing since. Interestingly, even seventeen syllables is sometimes too many. It’s best not to be legalistic.

Holiness

The most sacred place
is another human heart:
treat with reverence.

Dreaming

Skin against bare skin
tenderly exploring you
—I wake, alone.

The truth

Hearts need their friendships
but bodies too want love:
mine is alone.

Note

I’ve changed the last line of the second one since I first posted it. I originally didn’t like the repetition of “alone” between the second and third poems. But they’re meant as indivdual poems, so I’ve changed it to the version I most like even though it’s now a bit odd when they’re read together.

And now I’ve amended the first one slightly too . . . And the third. OK, they’re now ALL different . . . !