HOME | DD

Description
I’m a huge fan of hands. I think that they are as much a reflection of somebody as their eyes, just in a less direct way. You can’t really be dazzled by someone’s hands, like you might someone’s eyes. (Although there are a few rare sets of hands out there that are amazing… I find hands attractive. All of my girlfriends have had amazing hands. It’s important to me that my partner in life has great hands, but don’t get me wrong, I’m not necessarily after a hand model. The best thing about hands is that they can be attractive for less physical reasons. Like, there are hands that have long, clever fingers, and are good at crafty things or whatever. Or hands that are robust and good at building. All hands have a story, that’s what I like best about them.

Since I don’t have a special someone who’s hands I can talk about, I’ll use my own.

I like my hands. I’m proud of them. They are malformed, calloused, mistreated, scarred, bitten, burned, dried and worn… But I think that that kind of makes them like a couple of art works. They tell a story. They’ve copped the brunt of my life, but they’ve loyally done whatever I’ve asked of them. Scars and worse tell of how I learn most of my most important lessons the hard way. If you look at my chipped and chewed nails, you see my addictive and excessive personality. The calluses on my palms from weights show my futile battle to become strong and muscular, perhaps hinting at some inner weaknesses. In a way, my hands are as complicated as me, or they represent all my contradictions. I would be stuffed without them, worse than most, because they are what I use to create, and creating is my livelihood, yet I kind of mistreat them. But now they are tough and hard and resilient, like some sort of old gumtree, knarled and ruined. But I think they’re great. I suppose they’re not that badly ruined. There’s still a youthful energy about them.

Description
I’m a huge fan of hands. I think that they are as much a reflection of somebody as their eyes, just in a less direct way. You can’t really be dazzled by someone’s hands, like you might someone’s eyes. (Although there are a few rare sets of hands out there that are amazing… I find hands attractive. All of my girlfriends have had amazing hands. It’s important to me that my partner in life has great hands, but don’t get me wrong, I’m not necessarily after a hand model. The best thing about hands is that they can be attractive for less physical reasons. Like, there are hands that have long, clever fingers, and are good at crafty things or whatever. Or hands that are robust and good at building. All hands have a story, that’s what I like best about them.

Since I don’t have a special someone who’s hands I can talk about, I’ll use my own.

I like my hands. I’m proud of them. They are malformed, calloused, mistreated, scarred, bitten, burned, dried and worn… But I think that that kind of makes them like a couple of art works. They tell a story. They’ve copped the brunt of my life, but they’ve loyally done whatever I’ve asked of them. Scars and worse tell of how I learn most of my most important lessons the hard way. If you look at my chipped and chewed nails, you see my addictive and excessive personality. The calluses on my palms from weights show my futile battle to become strong and muscular, perhaps hinting at some inner weaknesses. In a way, my hands are as complicated as me, or they represent all my contradictions. I would be stuffed without them, worse than most, because they are what I use to create, and creating is my livelihood, yet I kind of mistreat them. But now they are tough and hard and resilient, like some sort of old gumtree, knarled and ruined. But I think they’re great. I suppose they’re not that badly ruined. There’s still a youthful energy about them.