Strong, muscular hands, calloused by the boyish undertakings of sports and guitar playing. Hands with long fingers, capable of anything. They are so skilled yet so dangerous.

My mom dropped me off, and, as soon as she exited, those hands were upon me, drawing me in. Soon, we are kissing, and soon those hands are leading me into the bedroom. His fingers are long and perpetually reaching, reaching for more. His hands give way to arms that are both skinny and muscular—a solid indication of the rest of his physique.

In retrospect, I think I mistook his abundance of confidence as the complement to my lack of the same quality. Within weeks of talking to him, I was hooked, and he had me wrapped around his long bony finger. And, he knew it. I had known that day that his hands would be upon me. We were 16 and had to plan these things out, after all.

I didn’t know how I should be feeling. I didn’t know why within seconds his hands were upon my breasts, and why he so angrily reacted when I asked him to slow down. I didn’t know if this was normal pace, I didn’t know what I was doing when he intertwined his fingers around mine and pushed them down to his pants. I didn’t know why he became so upset when I hesitated. And then, in shocking clarity, his hands were caressing my head with astonishing force behind the touch. A motive. A goal. He begins to push my head down toward his crotch, expecting me to comply. I yearn for my mind to go absent, but I can still fully comprehend what is happening. I ball my own hands into fists and, compelled by this subconscious act of strength, writhe my way out of his grasp. He is angry, he is yelling.

To this day, the first thing I notice whenever I see him is the placement of his hands. They are still strong. His fingers are still long and perhaps even more skilled, as I’ve understood from the idle handshakes we offer each other as our sole form of interaction.



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