God, I had forgotten about hands, his hands.
They were ungodly perfect in the way they touched, kneaded, teased, heat moving wherever they moved.
In one touch, I found myself not caring about anything else but that they didn’t stop, and I don’t beg.
These hands made me beg.
I was not in control of them, but somehow they commanded me, a deep pleasing vibration came from them, and I loved them, salivated for them, my mind never leaving them, watching them, asking them not to stop, to never go away.
They were sweet, impossibly sweet, in their attention, a mindful impossible tender attention to detail, to me.
How could hands be so sweet?
The forgetting was as unbelievable as the touch themselves, and so my mind churned as they touched,
pressed in the wanting and asking of me.
How could hands be this way? I wondered what they wanted from me.
I thought of other hands, the way they moved with simple suggestion.
I thought of awkward hands, the way I moved them for them, just in case they did not know.
I thought of my father’s hands on my mother’s neck.
This thought made me begin to sweat. She trusted those hands too.
What if I were like her, trusting hands that seemed made for her?
My heart pounded now, and I felt sick, wondered if I just weren’t ready for hands, not sweet ones, because what if hands that felt this good were the ones you don’t trust?
Hmm. This made sense.
I thought of asking him to stop, but how? What do you say? He wouldn’t understand.
The hands were moving sweetly and elegantly, to music and candles, but now what felt wonderful started to
claw, scratch, burn.
Maybe I just needed some water, or a pill, an anxiety pill, of course.
No. Maybe, well, no.
No, these hands were wonderful and kind. No. NO. I was fine. These hands were fine.
Or were they?
How would I know? My heart now started beating rapidly, but not in the good way,
the pain and burn of them circled with the churn of my thoughts, racing, racing, running away, or at least trying.
Where could I run? I was trapped with these hands, hands so beautiful they made me want to cry.
“You okay?” It came from a sweet voice, its question made me feel like a complete fool.
The room got dark, because I turned off the light.
The hands paused and I wanted to rock and scream and yell to stop, that they hurt, that I was burning,
that they hurt. But, this couldn’t be true. They were sweet hands. Nice hands.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
I don’t know how to love hands yet.
I don’t know how to trust them.
These are the words I wished I said, but what would have happened?
What if the hands went away?
They most certainly would go away, wouldn’t they?
This made me certain. I had to have done the right thing.
And so I lie. I lie and I lie and I lie…..
- Post Break Up Realities (buddhathepig.wordpress.com)