Sex
I wanna hold your hand
I have gone to bed with men, in part, for the beauty or agility or originality of their hands.
Once, on LaVista Boulevard in Atlanta, a guy I’d never seen before slammed his car into mine. The accident happened only a few hundred yards from my house, so we pulled our cars into my driveway and went inside to call the police.
We were standing in the kitchen, the spiral phone cord stretched between us, when one of the spaghetti straps on my sundress snapped. He reached up, plucked the two broken ends of the strap delicately from my shoulders, and slowly tied them together in a bow. I was amazed by the gentle precision of his hands, following so quickly the clumsiness with which he had crashed into my car. I hung up the phone and we walked to a café, where we drank fresh-squeezed lemonade and considered the odds of finding each other like that. Later that night I found myself in a small rowboat on a lake in Macon, Ga. The guy who had crashed into my car was handling the oars, and I couldn’t help but wonder how he might handle me. We floated for most of the night, then spent three months together. My car never entirely recovered.
My confession, then: I have gone to bed with men, in part, for the beauty or agility or originality of their hands. Some women fall for the curve of a thigh, the slope of a shoulder, the broad welcoming plane of a chest. I fall, instead, for hands. There is an erotic expressiveness in hands that cannot be found in any other part of the body. A hand in slow motion, a hand lifted to push the hair from someone’s eyes, a hand doing something it does naturally and well — this is, for me, the apex of desire.
In a poorly lit apartment above a Mexican restaurant in a small Georgia town, a girl named Kate reached down and tied my shoelaces. We were sitting on her mattress, which lay on the floor and took up most of the room. She had convinced me to try on her Doc Martens, and I’d agreed, on the condition that she take a walk around the apartment in my strappy yellow sandals. As she tied the laces, her hands shook slightly, and I noticed that her fingernails were gnawed to the quick. At that moment, I thought I might pass out for love of her. I was 24 years old. It had never before occurred to me that I might feel such things for a woman.
Once, in Miami, a Cuban man I’d met on the beach invited me to his condo for lunch. In the kitchen he took plantains out of the fridge, rinsed them under running water. He arranged the plantains on a cutting board and began to slice. His hands were quick and powerful, and I had the feeling he’d been slicing plantains his whole life. I was transfixed by the stately length of his fingers against the wooden handle of the knife. I imagined those hands in the small of my back, on the curve of my neck, pressed hard between my thighs. “I have to go,” I said, and rushed out into the blinding sunlight before he’d even got the plantains into the pan. I had a boyfriend at the time, and I was trying hard to make it work, and I knew too well where a good pair of hands might lead me.
My romantic memory overflows with snapshots of hands frozen in some weighty moment. Case in point: I am 12, sitting on the balcony of a big church in Alabama. Next to me is Hobie, a blond boy one year older, whom I love. The pastor is miles away, at the front of the church, praying into the microphone. The lights in the church are low. The choir is singing “Have Thine Own Way,” and Hobie stretches out his hand, palm up. It hovers above my lap. It occurs to me that he would like for me to hold his hand, but I’ve never held hands with a boy before and don’t know how to go about it. We are supposed to be praying, but I am thinking of Hobie’s beautiful hand, tiny blond hairs just beginning to form at the base of the wrist. I am 12 years old in a church in Alabama, and I am thinking, quite plainly, about having sex with Hobie — despite the fact that this is something I have never done before, and wouldn’t know how to do. The shape of his hand hovering there is enough to plunge me into erotic bliss.
I fell in love with my husband’s hands long before I fell in love with him. The first time I saw him, he was sitting in a windowless college classroom in Arkansas. His hands were on top of the desk, one folded inside the other, as if he were readying himself for prayer. There was something disconcertingly feminine about his hands. A few weeks after that first meeting, he lay breathing heavily in my bed. He lay on his back, his hands resting on his stomach, and they seemed to be perfectly alert and precisely posed, while the rest of his body sighed and shifted in his masculine and ungraceful sleep. Even now, seven years and one marriage certificate later, I will catch a glimpse of his hands — which at times are so alive as to seem disembodied from him — and I will feel as undone by him as if we had just met, and we’d yet to share intimacies.
I don’t know exactly when my love affair with hands began. Perhaps it stems from belonging to a family whose hands are unusual. My older sister was born with no thumb on her left hand; the side of the hand where her thumb should be is smooth and straight as a ruler. My father’s second finger on his right hand ends just above the knuckle, tapering neatly as a sausage. I grew up believing that all sisters had no thumb, that all fathers had only half of a second finger.
When I think of my sister I think of her playing piano, the second finger expertly reaching, doing everything a thumb should do. When I think of my father, I imagine him pointing to some unnamable thing in the distance, pointing with his half-finger, that rounded thing without a nail. And when I conjure my mother it is her hands I see most clearly, the broad fingers wrapped around the lid of a Mason jar, the veins popping up like miniature mountain ranges, the biggest veins I’ve ever seen. My own hands are small and utilitarian, with crevices so deep and numerous you’d think I’d lived for a hundred years.
Perhaps in some other life I was a reader of palms, someone who could see the scope of a life within the intricate folds of a hand. In this life, though, what I see in the hands of strangers is more often than not rated R. Recently, while stopped at a red light, I looked over to the truck in the next lane and saw a boy a good 10 years my junior, his deeply tanned hand thumping the steering wheel, beating out the rhythm to some song that played too loudly on his radio. In that moment, waiting for the light to change, I was eaten up with longing. He looked over and caught me staring, gave me a slight and knowing smile, a nod. The light turned green, the truck sped on ahead, and all the way home I thought of him, of the things his hands could do.
Michelle Richmond is a writer in San Francisco. More Michelle Richmond.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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