Tag Archives: a length a width and a depth

Hands down my favorite

Hand with rainbow colors reflected onto its palm

One of the most cherished folders on my computer holds my collection of hand porn GIFs (saved frantically right >before Tumblr banned all visual porn). Hands touching genitals through underwear: clits and dicks of all shapes and sizes, cocks and cunts leaking through fabric in response to that touch. Fingers sneaking into panties, shifting under lace and mesh. Palms stroking cocks encased in soft, worn cotton. Smooth gloved fists sliding into wet cunts. Fingers rubbing hard clits in endless circles, thumbs brushing back and forth across a glans. Fucking. Fondling. Kneading. Tapping. Gliding. Squeezing. Countless variations of hands between legs in infinite loops.

Other GIFs in that folder show hands touching faces, throats, thighs. A gentle caress of a cheek, followed by a harsh slap; a finger trailing down a bent neck, a hand closing around an arching throat; fingers weaving into hair, grabbing, pulling. Spit-covered fingers sliding into mouths. Flat palms resting on chests, nipples held firmly between fingertips; hard hands smacking into large, soft butts. Fingers digging into flesh. And many, many hands moving up under skirts, sliding between legs, pushing thighs apart, invading intimate spaces that open up eagerly under their touch.

Sometimes, there’s a forearm to go with the hand, muscles moving under skin. Sometimes, swollen veins stand out on backs of hands. Finger joints bend, both delicate and strong. Maybe there’s a reaction face included, mouths open in silent gasps, heads thrown back, eyes closed in pleasure.

I could watch these GIFs for hours. And I probably have. Because I fucking love hand porn. In fact, if I had to choose between hands and cocks (whatever their material) for my visual porn supply, I would always and immediately choose hands. And if I had to choose between being fucked with either hands or cocks (whatever their material) for the rest of my life, I would always and immediately choose hands.

Sometimes, I think this focus on hands as intensely erotic body parts is what makes my sexuality so quintessentially queer: Because its main focus is not on genitals or on penetration (even though both can absolutely be a very desirable part of it, especially when hands are involved). People of all genders have hands, and while many of us use the appearance of our hands to express our gender (e.g. by the way we move and hold them, by nail length and shape, by the addition or avoidance of things like nail polish or jewelry or tattoos), the mere presence or absence of hands on a person is not considered an indicator of their gender. Sometimes, I think that the eroticism of hands is inherently queer. After all, hands are extremely versatile in the ways they can touch another person’s body, in the sensations they can create, more than any other body part. Hands defy the cisheteronormative assumption that objects used for penetration should be about the size of the average cis male dick, give or take a few millimeters — they can be as small as a single finger and as big as a fist (or even two, if you like).

Speaking of cisheteronormativity: I’m sure you’ve also heard at least once (and probably many, many times) that hand sex isn’t “real sex,” that fingering is “foreplay” at most, and hand jobs are what you do when you’re still too young to have “actual sex.” Or perhaps when you want to stay as emotionally detached and physically distant as you possibly can while touching another person’s genitals (or having them touch yours). Because according to cisheteronormativity, everything that doesn’t involve putting a dick into a vagina (or at least some other orifice like a mouth or anus) doesn’t “count” as sex, no matter how hard it makes you and/or your partner(s) come. Oh, and fisting is for freaks only because no one should want that much penetration, either.

And then there’s me, looking at these stories with profound queer incredulity. Like, what do you mean, you don’t think hand sex is sex?

Because if I have ever learned anything from dyke/queer culture, it’s that hand sex absolutely is sex, without any qualifiers. Grown-up, real, often intensely intimate, and damn fucking hot sex. I have learned that hands are erotic body parts of the highest order. And I’ve learned from ample experience that hands can become cocks, or clits and cunts (have you ever had someone slide their thumb along that tender place between two of your fingers over and over again with just the right amount of pressure? I have come from that alone), or they can just be their own amazingly sexy body parts. Sometimes they can be all of that on the same person. Sometimes even all in the same night. Or day.

So yeah, when you catch me looking at your hands while we flirt, I might be wondering how they would feel. All over me. But mostly between my legs.

P.S. Damn, I miss Tumblr.


This entry is part of the Kink of the Week project (and my very first contribution to it). The prompt this time was “hands.”


Image source: Pexels

And so I suck your cock

Detail of a curled up hand with an outstretched index finger (taken from Michelangelo's painting

Today, it begins when your hand cups my cheek, gently, firmly, an offering of steady warmth. I’m on my knees; you stand in front of me. I close my eyes as I lean into your palm, like a cat saying hello, a moment of tenderness and gratitude, a sigh, and that little push that says, Yes.

Another quiet breath or two, and your thumb shifts slightly and grazes my lips, rests lightly across them. Pauses. My lips part, just a bit, just enough for both of us to notice. I never quite know whether you dragged my lips apart or whether I let them fall open, but I know both of us were a part of this. It’s the same opening that happens to my thighs when they are simultaneously pushed apart and falling open because you want an entrance and I want to create one for you.

Something between us shifts along with this opening. This is a different kind of yes now, a dash more demanding on your part, a drop more yielding on mine.

I breathe out, warm, damp air onto your skin, and my tongue starts rising inside my mouth, thick, slow, like a languid snake drawn towards the evening sun.

Your thumb stays across my lips, you add an ounce of weight, the slightest hint of pinning me down, and my next breath comes with a clenching of my stomach, as if my body wants to jerk towards you. Just for an instant, though, because right now, the distance between us is still delicious, filled to the brim with maybe. My mind flashes to the line, “I see you shiver with antici…pation,” and the way this movie scene’s reaction shot perfectly captures this eager, full-body wanting, waiting, straining, and the shuddering release once the maybe has finally turned into a yes.

But we’re not there, not in that moment. We’re here, still within maybe. It’s a good place to be. For now.

I swallow the tide that has swelled in my mouth.

My tongue is still rising and curling inside my mouth, bumping against my front teeth, trying to find the way towards your skin, until I open my jaw just a little bit wider and the wet tip of my tongue connects with your thumb. It could almost be accidental.

How will you respond? I never know. I never know whether I’ll end up feeling embarrassed for licking your finger like that. I never know if you’ll end up feeling awkward, holding your hand up to my face like that, as if your finger is some kind of treat that you’re not sure I’ll want. Even though we have done this before, I’m never sure where this will go. I don’t think you are.

I just know that I’m suddenly thinking that you might be thinking— …because I know that I am thinking— …and wouldn’t it be great if we were indeed thinking the same thing? Wanting the same thing?

Today, your response to it, another small shift, tells me that my tongue is indeed welcome on your skin, that this is not embarrassing. So I become bolder and lick that skin again, a little more of it, revealing once and for all that this is not an accident.

It is a question, a challenge, an offer. Are we thinking the same thing? Do you trust me? Do you want this?

I look up into your eyes to let you see the possibility in my gaze, let you see my willingness, my desire, my own vulnerability. And because I don’t want to miss any nuance of your response, whatever it may be today.

We are in a liminal space now, the space between here and there, between this and that, between yes and no, not quite sure yet where we’ll go. This is a fragile, tricky place. This could still fall flat. This could still become embarrassing and awkward and a fundamental misunderstanding.

Sometimes at this point, I wish for the security of words (as illusory as it is), to make this all less ambiguous, more defined. However, I strongly believe that this is a time where words would extinguish the magic that could arise. And sustained ambiguity is pretty much what this particular magic is all about. This is the risk we take. To misread, mismatch, miss. Or to ignite this into a profound source of heat and mutual recognition.

So I don’t say anything at this point and hope you won’t, either. Not now. Not yet. Talk is for other times (and we do talk, then).

This time is for the way we reach an understanding of what is happening here without spelling it out.

Your thumb presses into my lips a bit harder in response to the touch of my tongue. Or your eyes unlock another level of their depth for me to see into. Or you growl a little, all the way back in your throat. Or your other hand grabs me tighter wherever it is holding me. Or your thighs become firmer against my shoulder. You don’t say anything, though. Your first reaction is never in words.

Along with it, yet another shift happens. It is tangible in the air between us, like a sudden change of weather, like a spell that has been cast, but I never know what ultimately caused it. It doesn’t feel like there was a conscious decision by either of us, just a realization of something that has already happened in both of us, simultaneously.

All there is to do is acknowledge that this shift has indeed happened.

So I slowly lick the whole length of your skin, upwards from the root, covering as much of its surface with my wet tongue as I can, and then I take your whole cock into my mouth.

I probably moan at this point. Because that first moment of enclosure is always significant. I never take for granted that any of this happens; it’s always remarkable to accept a part of you inside a part of me, to be touched on the inside of my body. A relief from being so separate so much of the time.

A small, distant part of me is aware that outside observers would likely still think that I’m sucking your thumb, but a bigger and more present part of me knows that this anatomical reality had ceased to be the relevant truth here. I know I’m sucking your cock. You know I’m sucking your cock. And I know that you know that I know, and you know that I know that you know. It sounds really complicated and philosophical and abstract when I think about it. But in this moment, it really is quite simple: your hard cock is in my soft, wet, hot mouth.

And so I suck your cock, let it slide in and out between my lips. I stroke its underside with a wide tongue, I swirl around its tip, exploring how we fit together today, paying attention to what you like now, and trying to know what you want next.

Maybe there’s a moment where a bit of the factual anatomy blurs into the truth of this cock-sucking when you grab my chin with the other fingers of the same hand, to pull me closer or to hold me in place as you fuck my mouth. But for me it all makes perfect sense, nothing is disturbed by these coexisting realities, all is smooth. And hot. It’s all simply a part of how bodies are awesome and how I like being with yours. And you see me, too, simple in my complex desire for you and at home in the permanently liminal lands of your embodied gender.

My own body exists only on the edge of my awareness. Maybe I’m straining to keep up a challenging position so the smoothness of my mouth on your cock isn’t disturbed. Maybe I’m all lips and tongue and teeth and open wetness; maybe there’s thick drool pouring forth from the depths of my throat when I let your cock slide in as far as it can go, touching me on the edge of gagging, just this side of too much, and then try for a bit more. Maybe I’m trembling, because fuck, this is intensely hot. Maybe there’s a faint awareness of a warm, wet mess between my legs, where specific body parts flow together into melting softness. Or maybe there’s a sharp sense of clit straining forward, yearning to be touched, not right now, but soon, soon. Please.

Most of my attention, however, is focused on sucking your cock, infinite repetitions of favorite rhythms by now, with only small variations here and there. All it really needs at this point are the simple basics. Suck, cock, wet, hot, fuck, yes. Maybe these are the words you say to me. Maybe they just run on a silent loop in the leftovers of my brain. Maybe distinct words have ceased to exist altogether and there are only moans and grunts and growls, hard breaths, and the slick sounds of my wetness sliding around your hard length. I can get lost in this, all sense of time falling away as everything that matters anymore is your cock, my mouth, and the dance between us. You push, I yield. You rest, I move. You set the speed, the rhythm, and I adapt my body to your signals, follow your lead.

And there are your sounds to listen to, small ones, but from deep within, that reverberate within me. There’s the way your whole body becomes ever more hard and still and then, eventually, erupts into this sequence of delicious shudders. Which always makes me feel honored and flushed and a little bit proud because I got to do this to you, for you, with you.

And maybe that is where it ends today. Or maybe it doesn’t. We’ll see.


The original #Kinktober prompt for today was “deep-throating,” but I wanted to share this instead.

Because there are many kinds of cocks in my queer reality. Some of them are fingers most of the time, some double as needles or whips, others are made from silicone and are never anything but a cock; some of them are rather small and pulse with blood between my partners’ legs, others are big and smooth and cool (at least at first) and grow from wherever they want; some are made from nothing but hot air, and those can be the ones I feel most deeply. And all of them are amazing and deserve a love letter like this.

I suppose I could say more, about they way gender works in shared queerness, about how we believe things into existence until they are a solid truth, about the specific vulnerabilities involved in this specific act for each of the participants, about the permanent liminality of it all. Not today, though. Not here. Because this is for feeling, not for analyzing. This is my queer gaze, untranslated.

(If you are the one person who has seen an earlier version of this text elsewhere, thank you for asking me to write about this. Please keep my identity to yourself, though. And perhaps let me know that you’ve found this blog?)


Image source: 1