Tag Archives: hands-on

How I say yes

Large street art of a green octopus arm spelling 'yes' on a background of dark red waves

Content note: Vaguely described sex, with one explicit (and potentially gendered) term for genitals right at the end of this post.

I push the sugar bowl, the bag, the random thing between us to the side, opening a direct line. I turn more of my body towards you. I begin moving slower and more deliberately. Like other dances, this requires full-body focus, a sizzle of curiosity, an ounce of advance trust.

I play with my hair, my hem, my cutlery. I eat something and casually lick my fingers (are you paying attention?). I lean towards you, chin on hand, eyes sparking. Raise my eyebrow. I blush. I can’t stop grinning. My fingertips slide along my collarbone. I find some part of you that I can’t stop looking at — your mouth, your hands, your eyes, that little scar, the perfectly neat fade of your hair, that shadow where your skin disappears under carefully chosen cotton or leather. We haven’t touched each other, but this is indeed a dance.


After yet another accidental touch, I don’t draw back. Just wait and let the change ripple out underneath the surface. I release a few more square inches of arm or thigh into you, a little more weight (will you hold this?). I uncross my legs and recross them, weaving heels and calves between chairs and boots. I don’t pull down my skirt again. I lean closer; breath becomes audible. Pauses grow important as time disappears.

These are not accidents. I part my lips, a soft gasp in response to that particular touch of yours. I arch my neck, skin stretched over throat while my eyes close. A sigh, a shiver. I bend my head, bones bumpy beneath my hair. I find new surfaces on my body to offer to your gaze, your touch; to lean into you. I uncross my legs. I realize my hand is resting on your thigh but I don’t remember putting it there.

Getting up means untangling all of these layers and limbs and hoping the thread between us doesn’t break, survives the transition from here to there.


I let myself be slowly pushed into a wall, arch my back to allow your hand to pass behind me, tilt my head to give you access to my skin. My lips part, my tongue becomes impatient for yours, yet I stay where I am and wait for you to decide when (the most delicious anticipation). I shift my arm out of the way, unblocking the path of your hands on my body. I purr, moan, tremble in response to your touch.

I slowly sink back, onto the bed, the sofa, the nameless surface under us while we keep kissing. My legs drop open at the slightest nudge. My hands fall away, useless, forgotten. My hips roll towards your hand, your thigh, finding the angle that is just right, right now.

Head arched all the way back, eyes closed. Heels finding root, hands grabbing for a hold somewhere, anywhere. Cunt pushing into you. Fuck. Fuck.


I’ve recently read a few posts and articles that seemed to imply that ‘consent’ in the context of sex and kink means ‘asking for and granting permission for every single step in a specific formula of speech.’ I believe that is an utter misunderstanding of how consent and communication work in real life. I hope this piece proves that there are many other ways to say “yes” than just words. I have done all of these things, usually more than once, although probably not in this exact order and perhaps not every single one with the same person. And while this particular piece of writing doesn’t have a strong emphasis on pain or on an obvious power dynamic, the experiences it describes all happened in a BDSM context. 

(That said, despite my love for nonverbal communication — I am a dancer after all —, I’m still a huge fan of and strong advocate for verbal negotiations when it comes to BDSM and/or sex. Partly for safety reasons, especially when partners are new to each other or unfamiliar with a technique. But mostly because talking about kink/sex with people I’m attracted to and who are attracted to me is fucking hot.)

Image source: Flickr/Phil Roeder (CC BY 2.0), cropped and color edited by me

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

Watch how it’s done: Hair pulling

Screencap of Nina Hartley grabbing and pulling Kate McKinnon's hair an nibbling on her ear. Kate McKinnon's face says she really likes it.

You know that stereotype of women fighting by scratching, biting, and pulling each other’s hair? Yeah, that’s not what we’re talking about here today. Instead, we’re talking about the kind of hair-pulling that makes you want to melt into a puddle of blissful surrender. Or, if you’re looking at it as the one who does the grabbing and pulling, the kind of hair-pulling that unmistakably asserts that you’re the one running the show right now.

So, let’s see how the experts do it so we can all give and receive as much of the good hair-pulling as possible and avoid the clueless and awful-feeling kind. The best expert advice I could find in my vast collection of bookmarks is this absolutely wonderful video of Nina Hartley explaining good hair-pulling technique and demonstrating it on a very enthusiastically consenting Kate McKinnon while Julie Goldman sits next to them and watches. And the most clothes anyone takes off are the earrings Kate McKinnon removes at Nina Hartley’s command. Which just goes to prove once again that less nudity doesn’t mean less hotness.

The video is about two years old, but I promise it hasn’t lost any of its charm and heat since it was first published and is certainly worth a re-watch if you’ve seen it before. (In fact, I may have watched the relevant bit more than once just now, and not just for research purposes.)

The hair-pulling section starts at 8:47 and lasts until 10:27, but I also recommend watching the rest of the interview (despite the bad sound quality and bad automated-only subtitles) to see and hear Nina Hartley talk to Julie Goldman about how great women are and how amazing sex with women is, for a bit of a vulva anatomy lesson (because it can’t be said often enough that while the outer vulva lips may be called labia majora (“big lips”) in Latin, they actually are smaller than the inner lips on many vulva-havers), some cunnilingus technique (suck, not flick!) and general dyke/bi bonding hilarity. Also, Kate McKinnon has the absolute best off-stage reactions throughout and up to the very end.

You’re welcome.

Housekeeping note: I took a few days off the #Kinktober writing and decided to jump back in with today’s prompt, “hair pulling.” However, I have some ideas for posts inspired by the prompts I skipped, so I’m planning to write those later and extend my Kinktober until well into November (Pervember?).

Image source: YouTube (screenshot by me)