“It’s not always about sex. Sometimes the best type of intimacy is where you just lay back, laugh together at the stupidest things, hold each other and enjoy each other’s company.”
We went to the park near the airport to see the planes take off and land.
He was a friend, not really more than that. The grandson of a friend. I am not even sure if there was potential for anything else, but he made me laugh. That has always been a qualification for any friendship of mine.
We were sitting in the car, in the days before 9/11, smoking cigarettes, when he posed the question “what was the most sensitive part of my body”? I must admit, the question took me back, it seemingly came out of nowhere, or maybe it was the mood, and the conversation led in that direction. In any case, it caused me to have to think about it. If he had asked me what did I consider the sexiest part of my body, that answer was easy and obvious….my brain. (I know some of you were thinking my larger assets, but that is not the most sensitive part of my body…) At the time, I really did not have much experience of a sexual nature, I mean I faked like I knew, but I thought my experiences, in comparison to my friend was, well lacking.
I continued to think about the question, what was the most sensitive part of my body? There were the obvious and usual suspects, you know the, breasts, genital area, neck, thighs, you know, those spots that people go to immediately when they smell sex is in the game. Yet, those did not seem quite to ring true for me. I never have and still don’t have much pleasure from crazy unorganized groping and wrestling to move from one uncomfortable position to another. That has never been for me.
So I pondered, and as I sat in the car, it came to me, and so I answered…my hands. That answer surprised him, and it surprised me as well, but let me go on to explain.
I use my hands to do so much than to pick up things and put them down. I talk with my hands. They wave in excitement. They point out directions, show locations, and draw attention things I think are important. They can be wrung in sadness and despair. I can throw them up in frustration or when I am overwhelmed, and there are times when I sit on them to keep those around me safe from strangulation and other acts of violence. My hands have a sign language all of their own, and it is not ASL.
My hands can be gentle like when I hold a small baby speaking love, security and tenderness. They can wipe the nose of a toddler to get the snot out of the way and let the playing begin. My hands are conduits of creative foods and drinks, they open cans beans and bottles of wine. My hands can feed you things you have never tasted, or your favorite pizza. My hands can tickle you and make you laugh so hard that you make that sound that sounds so girly your boys would tease you but only I know about it, I hear it all the time. My hands write of love, joy, hate and pain…and yet they are so much more.
My hands can be possessive. They can grab and hold on to you for dear life out of fear, to keep you from harm or danger. They can hold your dearest possessions and treasures, they can even hold your heart. They can also be possessive in a public place when they can pick off the invisible lint from your jacket so that the rest of the heifers in the room know that you are mine and to back the “f” off.
My hands can be protective. My hands can be held in times of safety and in times of danger. They can pull you close so that you can feel me hold you in my arms. They are ready to pick you up when you fall, and clean your wounds to begin the healing process. They can hold your face so that you can focus on my eyes to really see what I am saying. My hands can wipe away your tears or trace them with my fingers as they fall down your cheek, because sometime the tears must fall, When I put my palms together, I can pray for you, the ultimate form of protection.
My hands can tell you my desire for you. I can grab your head with my both of hands to let you know the passion that I have for you in when it is just you and I in our private place. We can be at the opera or museum, and you can feel them in and on places that only you and I know what is going on and what is about to happen. My hands can touch the small of your back, the nape of your neck, the palm of your hand, and you know instantly what message has been delivered and that it needs to have an immediate response. My hands can make you lose control, and keep you in control all at the same time…yep I am that bad.
My hands can teach you how I want you to love me. They can lead you away from the wrong place and lead you the place that will make us both happy and content. They can imitate the way I want you to touch me. They can show you see me and for me to see you. You can take my hands and teach me too, so that I can know how to love you the way you want to be loved. Our hands together can create even more than what we can even begin to imagine.
I don’t remember what my friend said, but afterwards, we both lit a cigarette, smoked and sat silently for a bit. Sometimes it is not about sex, it is about just being…..