Your Hand is one of the articles I write about sacred sexuality. For me, the intimate and the divine are intertwined.
Tonight, I read two of my stories to my friends.
As I read, I did what I always do: I imagined myself as the main character.
But tonight, as I read, I thought of you.
It was your hand pulling on me.
Your hand snaking across my body.
Your hand making my boobs all perky and stiff.
Even though it has been a few months, I still remember your hand on the planes and hills of me.
A hand very capable.
A hand which at the time seemed to enjoy the journey, the exploration.
Tonight, I remembered.
My body remembered as well.
In the memory was awareness of enjoyment.
And an awareness of missing your hand.
And your smile.
And all your parts.
I’m amazed and a bit mystified.
Your hand wasn’t part of my life all that long – especially relative to other hands.
But it was yours which snuck up on me.
It was yours which entered the fantasy of my words and the warmth of moments remembered.
Moments which weren’t of you until your hand entered the picture and dressed you as the one creating the sizzle and the bang.
Honestly, I’m a bit disturbed with the image which remains.
Not because you aren’t capable of this rising feeling in me.
The dissonance comes in your continued absence in my life.
An absence which was promised to be temporary, momentary.
But an absence which in this moment remains.
I don’t feel myself pining.
And as I think it through, I find relief.
It’s simple really.
Your hand was the last.
There hasn’t been another in between.
I guess in my reverie, I reached for the closest — which is your hand.
The one which my body last remembered.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Except … perhaps … a quiet wish for your hand to end its absence.
To move from my fantasy to my reality.
My life seeks a hand.
Yours would be quite nice.