[musicman]

Dyke Hands
by SDiane Bogus

Because dyke hands are the sexual organs of lesbian love, they can be as shocking to view as the penis through an open fly, or as bold (delicious) to behold as the breast of a woman suddenly uncovered.

Those hands you see folding laundry at the local Laundromat, reaching, grasping, holding canned goods at the supermarket, may very well be the genitalia of some woman’s lover, exposed. They often belong to our lovers, and those very hands come to our beds outstretched to touch, to rub, to tickle, to smooth, to run ripples of pleasure over our bodies, and often we take those very hands, finger by precious finger, into our mouths, assuming their cleanliness, their sanctity, and perform fingerlingus. We suck with reverence the hands that bring us to knotted heat, the very hands that hours before were signing some asinine form or holding a steering wheel. How can we possibly go on day after day, year after year, letting our lovers show their stuff to the world? How can we in good moral consciousness let our lovers take their naked dyke hands into a bar, reach for a beer and clutch it in front of lusting lesbian eyes? We all know that we look at the hands. We look at their size; we look for strength; we look for experience; we look for dexterity; evidence of ability, technique. But maybe I’m assuming something. Maybe I am assuming that lesbians revere the hands of their lovers, choose lovers by their hands. Maybe they don’t. Never even thought of it. I mean, some go by the face, or legs, or ass. Me? I’m a hand woman. If she’s got dyke hands, she’s got my attention.

Recently, my lover and I went for a manicure, my first professional one. The beauty across the table grasped my lover's hand, placed it face-down on her upturned palm. She spread the fingers wide, and proceeded to lotion the hand, up to the arm. Massaging and drawing with a near-pornographic stroke, the manicurist pulled her own encircled hand down my lovers arm, smoothly, pressing with sensual surety every molecule of lotion into the pores of her arm and hand. She did this to both hands, and I sat there allowing her the privilege to have her way with my woman, wondering what she’d think if she knew she was performing a six-dollar jack-off for the lesbian community. I was tickled by my vulgarity. But when she repeated the process, I realized that she was getting into it, and I became jealous, hating her flirtatious rape of my woman. I sat seething, and giving my lover the eye. She knew. She knew, and she was tickled to death at being loved so well. A picture of ol’ Madge on the Palmolive commercial flashed before me, and it all became so clear why those straight women flock to Madge’s for soap-dish manicures. It was her dyke hand loving that they craved. Poor misguided Palmolive! At any rate, there was my lover’s ten virile fingers stretched out like a naked man before a geisha, and something in me was proud and pissed at the same time. How good these hands were to my flesh when their touch wrought magic fires in my feet, raised the hair on my arms, brought my clitoris to know and explosion! How dare this brazen money changer masturbate my beloved before me eyes! How dare she be so oblivious to the genitalia of lesbian love here naked before her. There she sat safe in her (I assumed) heterosexuality, unknowingly a whore to my woman’s pleasure. If only she knew!

When it was my time, as tight-jawed as I had become, I literally squealed with pleasure. This intimate fondling, paid for or not, was delightful, one of the few good pleasures in life that is not yet overinflated. I sat back, with the joke on me, and let the manicurist, who became a human being, a woman making love to me, without the slightest notion, and I enjoyed.

The hands that stroke my hair, caress my flesh, that grip my thighs, press my love button, that slide between the redness of my labia, ought not be seen by the daily populace. They belong in gloves, or mittens, and perhaps as a nation of women identified lesbians, white, black, or brown leather gloves can be made the symbol of our private sexuality, and between us at least the idea that we are lovers of women can be acknowledged by us all.

My holiest orgasms come from the probing phalanges of my lover’s dyke hands. I’d not like to have them generally touching every Tom, Dick, and Harriet, not my dyke’s hands.