Once again I’m playing the game where I mess around with Molly Moore’s sex blogging memes, because I feel if I don’t write this post now then I might never. The current kink that we’re all dissecting is hands, because hands are ridiculously hot. And I am going to talk about hands, but more precisely why I want to hold your hand. (Though probably not specifically your hand.)
I like hands. I like hands pinning my wrists to the bed, or around my throat, or working their way into my knickers. Hands are incredibly sexy, with their calloused fingers on my clit and palms that get sore through spanking my arse or my cunt.
I like holding hands during, or after, fucking. I like reaching out and twisting my fingers around my partner’s, creating a moment of connection and intimacy that makes me smile. Lying naked with someone – or with more than one person – I like to entwine myself with them a little. Being allowed to touch still feels like a privilege, if I’m honest, like something magical that should be treasured.
I also like to hold hands outside of sex too – touch and trust and intimacy is always magical – but I have far fewer chances to do that. I have play partners and fuck buddies and friends-with-sex-and-flirting, but I don’t have someone who will hold my hand as we walk down the street. It’s not that people with whom I have more casual sex don’t want to hold my hand, but we’re not always in a position where I can.
I threesome with kinky couples and fuck folks who are non-monogamous. Not everyone is out about every aspect of their lifestyle, be that polyamory or BDSM, and we live in a heteronormative society that punishes us when we deviate from the perceived ‘normal’ so I understand that.
But I have something to tell my play partners, fuck buddies and friends-with-sex-and-flirting. I feel guilty about it, but every time I’m walking along next to one of them in public there’s something I want to say:
Dear cute human who I’ve kissed, I want to hold your hand. I want to hold your hand, even though I totally understand that you can’t hold mine right now and know it doesn’t mean you don’t want to.
I want your hand on my back to steady me when I’m tipsy. I want your arm around me when it’s cold and late and we’re walking home. I want to be able to reach out and tug on your arm or lean in and kiss you. And I want you to hold my hand.
I want the casual touch that you give me behind closed doors, and I know logically why you don’t can’t, and that it’s not that you don’t want to, I worry that sometimes I pout a little. I don’t like hiding who I am, and this maybe ties into that. Right now, not being 100% myself at any moment feels like a betrayal of who I am. I’d never want to put any of the people I fuck in a compromising position, but I do want to acknowledge that I do wish I could hold hands with them in public. It’s a guilty thought that eats away at me, as I wonder if I’m a bad person, if even thinking that means I’m too much.
At about 1am, on the first day of 2019, I stood in the middle of a fairly busy street – still filled with a healthy buzz of Hogmanay revellers – and kissed a pretty girl and then an equally pretty boy. It felt powerful to kiss them there, in full view of anyone who might be watching. It felt reckless and hedonistic and I couldn’t stop grinning as I waved goodbye and began my walk home.
That moment felt good – I felt like flaunting not only my queerness but my poly-ness and sex positivity in the faces of anyone who might look our way. I want to feel like that again: unashamed and accepted. I’m not asking for any of my play partners, fuck buddies, or friends-with-sex-and-flirting to do it, but I want to be honest about how I feel when I blog.
And honestly? I want to hold your hand.
Kink of the Week is run by the wonderful Molly Moore. You should kiss the lips to see who else is getting their kink on…
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