I was watching this porn last night on my phone as I was in bed, falling asleep, jerking off. It was of a guy fucking a girl from behind. He grabbed her back as he was fucking her. For a couple frames, there was a clear shot of his hands on her back. They were beautiful things and turned me on so much.
I paused the video and played the brief second again and again, imaginging those hands and what it meant for a person to be in possession of such things, about what their hands said about them. There are guys that I have liked based soley on their hands. There are other guys, attractive and nice, that I have not had any interest in because their hands were quite far from some ideal I have of hands.
On the train, early this morning, sometime before 7am, everyone groggy and wanting to still be in bed, there was a man standing in front of me. He looked like a Southern college baseball player, vaguely like Channing Tatum. He was a beautiful hunk of man, not normally what I am used to seeing on my early morning commutes to work. But what really drew me to him were his hands. I couldn't quit staring at them and was getting so turned on by thoughts of what he did with those hands, places they have been. They were big, muscular hands. I wanted them on me.
The seat opened up next to me and, because sometimes dreams come true, or at least some watered down version of them does, he sat down next to me in the small seat opening, his shoulder pressed against mine.
I kept glancing at his hands in his lap, at his fingers, the mass of his arms pressing in against mine. I never wanted the train ride to end, but train rides, much like dreams, evenutally do.