Month: June 2011

-Dust bookshelf.
-Run fingers through to recreate record scratching sfx.
-Self-scratch fluffy chest.
-Paint.
-Shampoo vigorously.
-Present to friend’s dog and cat gang for inspection.
-Sunblock.
-Allow inappropriate fondling, if asked nicely (or given incentive).
-Nuzzle into.
-Drench and shake.

Oh, and:

-Ride it.

-Dust bookshelf.
-Run fingers through to recreate record scratching sfx.
-Self-scratch fluffy chest.
-Paint.
-Shampoo vigorously.
-Present to friend’s dog and cat gang for inspection.
-Sunblock.
-Allow inappropriate fondling, if asked nicely (or given incentive).
-Nuzzle into.
-Drench and shake.

Oh, and:

-Ride it.

“I’ve got five girls on me since I got here, man. One for every night of the work week.”

“You told me.”

“We need to get you a few. Can’t be alone all the time, dude. Shit, the girl at the cafe was all over your beard.”

“It doesn’t concern me.”

“Can’t wait forever, man.”

“I’ll wait as long as I want, which is the point.”

“I’ve got five girls on me since I got here, man. One for every night of the work week.”

“You told me.”

“We need to get you a few. Can’t be alone all the time, dude. Shit, the girl at the cafe was all over your beard.”

“It doesn’t concern me.”

“Can’t wait forever, man.”

“I’ll wait as long as I want, which is the point.”

My fascinations with specific parts of the human body are many things. Curiosity, aesthetics, anthropological, certainly sexual, but as a layman in the field of the perception of the human body I’m left wondering: why?

My hands, for instance. I’ve had too many moments recently where I observe them and think: fuck, I have hands. I haven’t lost them and the feeling in them is as a sharp as ever. I appreciate this fact. I can play frontón using these hands. I can hold the racket, lob the rubber ball, guide them in any direction I wish. I have full control over these hands, the kind of control that I believe is taken for granted. I can play sports with them, breathe into them when I think, wield weapons if I must, gently graze the fingers across a partner’s skin, guide them between her lips, run my palm over open flame, build furniture. Fucking furniture! With these hands!

When I finish building a platform for my bed (measure twice, cut once—lesson learned) I might just keep a block of wood on the nightstand. If I am ever at a loss for words I might just look at that block of wood and imagine something my hands can do. I might just pray in gratitude.

My fascinations with specific parts of the human body are many things. Curiosity, aesthetics, anthropological, certainly sexual, but as a layman in the field of the perception of the human body I’m left wondering: why?

My hands, for instance. I’ve had too many moments recently where I observe them and think: fuck, I have hands. I haven’t lost them and the feeling in them is as a sharp as ever. I appreciate this fact. I can play frontón using these hands. I can hold the racket, lob the rubber ball, guide them in any direction I wish. I have full control over these hands, the kind of control that I believe is taken for granted. I can play sports with them, breathe into them when I think, wield weapons if I must, gently graze the fingers across a partner’s skin, guide them between her lips, run my palm over open flame, build furniture. Fucking furniture! With these hands!

When I finish building a platform for my bed (measure twice, cut once—lesson learned) I might just keep a block of wood on the nightstand. If I am ever at a loss for words I might just look at that block of wood and imagine something my hands can do. I might just pray in gratitude.