“So…what? Do you like, like hands or something?”
I stared into my lap at my own hands and felt my pulse beat in my ears.
“Well, no. I mean yes. But like, not sexually or anything.” I was instantly regretting confessing my secret to the boy who sat across from me, mouth open and eyes ablaze with curiosity. I gulped back my embarrassed nerves and whispered to the floor, “I don’t like, get off by them or anything.”
And it was true. Ever since I can remember, I’ve enjoyed looking at people’s hands. I realize how weird that sounds. I’m over here trying to defend the fact that I *don’t* have a hand fetish, and the first thing I say is that I like hands? Seems suspicious, right?
But the truth is, ever since I was little, I would be mesmerized by hands. If someone was braiding someone’s hair, I couldn’t look away. Someone writing something on the board? I was hooked. Anytime anyone was holding or caressing something with their hands, I was hypnotized. It had such a calming effect on me, and I never wanted it to end. Weird, right? But for the longest time, I thought nothing of it. Sure I’d get caught staring every now and again, but I was looking at hands not balls or boobs so who cares? Well, I did, when I was about twenty-one years old.
“No, no, no don’t feel bad,” he said sensing my distress and scooting towards me. “I think it’s cool!”
I slowly glanced up at him, a look of disbelief on my face. He smiled at me in the way a teacher smiles encouragingly at a train wreck of a student and reached for my hand.
“But, how do you know it’s not like, a fetish?” He asked tentatively, taking a swig of his beer and purposefully avoiding eye contact.
How did I know? Because. Because…well shit. I uh, I guess I didn’t. As I sat there contemplating his question, I tried to think of a defense. I never got *aroused* by looking at hands, and I didn’t look at hand pictures in my spare time. But was it sexual? Did I know? What if I was actually attracted to hands? Shit.
I felt the heat rise up my neck. Why did I have to open my damn mouth? I looked around the flag-adorned room and tried to think of something, anything, to say. Here was this cute guy who I had almost conned into being my boyfriend, and I was about to lose it all thanks to my alcohol-loosened lips and desire for attention. There’s no getting out of this, the rational part of my brain that had been missing for the last hour whispered in my ear. Just see what happens. With a sigh, I put down my own beer and gazed into his eyes.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
Instead of laughing or escorting me out of the door, he scrambled to his feet and glanced around his room. With an “aha!” he snatched his laptop off of the trash-riddled desk and plopped back down beside me.
“Alright,” he said. He turned the power button off his Mac on and flexed his fingers. “We’re going to figure this out.”
“Figure what out?” I asked blankly, glancing at his desktop background (Margot Robbie, go figure) as he clicked on Chrome.
“We’re going to figure out if you have a hand fetish.”
I sat there quietly fidgeting while he pulled up various sites and videos. A few hours ago we were laying on the bed, making out and talking about how much we liked each other. He had pushed my hair behind my ear. My ear for God’s sake. If that wasn’t a boyfriend move, I don’t know what is. And now? Now he’s looking up hand porn in an attempt to “find my fetish.” Fuck. Internally screaming, I tried to look calm as he turned the laptop towards me.
“Okay, I don’t know exactly what I should be looking for, but this one says it’s a hand fetish thing so I guess it’s a good place to start.”
I nodded back at him mutely. Hand fetish? Hand fetish? Come on. If I have a hand fetish that’s it. I’m done. I willed myself to look at the screen just as he clicked play.
Unfortunately, I can not find the original video that I watched. Buuuut. I can assure you that it was something very much like this:
Now, in the original video, the woman wasn’t making faces that made me want to slap her. But the general formation of the hands? Spot on. As I watched these fingers twist and move, explore and get all lotiony, I felt a little nudge of the familiar sense of calm. Sure, it was nice, I guess? Relaxing even. But I didn’t feel that pull from down under like I did when I saw a Hemsworth or an extra gooey slice of pizza. I felt myself calm down as I realized that no, I was not *attracted* to hands. But did I like looking at them? Sure. YOLO, amiright?
“So…” he prompted, staring at my face and snapping me back into reality. “Do you want to, like, touch yourself or something?”
“What? No. God, no!” I sputtered back, slamming the laptop and feeling my face go red. “It was like, calming I guess, but it didn’t turn me on or anything,” I exhaled, willing my heartbeat to slow down.
“Oh,” he said, looking dejected. “That’s too bad, it would have been cool.”
“Cool?” I shot back, feeling my eyes bug in disbelief.
“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “But it’s fine, I think you’re pretty cool, even if you don’t have a hand fetish,” he teased.
And with a smile, another beer, and some not-so-PG13 affection, the case of the hand fetish was closed. Sure, I still find hands calming in a way — which is one of the more psycho things I’ve ever typed — but don’t be concerned that I’m getting off to your fingers. And while there’s nothing wrong with having a hand fetish or a foot fetish or a whatever fetish (unless you’re hurting someone or doing something illegal — looking at you, Jared from Subway) then do whatever it is that gets you off. As for me, I found out that looking at hands just don’t get me there. I guess you could say I like them, but only as a friend. Which is a shame in a way, because that would have saved a lot of money on Zac Efron movies — but whatever, you can’t win ’em all..
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