Your hands.

I guess a lot of ladies go crazy for a guy’s physique. I had a friend in middle school who was obsessed with boy’s backs. “Look at his back!” she’d swoon, as some high school boy got out of the pool. I did not understand sexuality hardly at all. I guessed, since she swooned over backs, that backs were what was meant to be attractive in boys.

At the time, I thought boys were cute if they had nice faces. But I understood that that was not something meant to make me swoon.

There were girls who went crazy for butts, for chests. There was a sort of part-for-part objectification competition.

Me? It was always hands that would make me go swoony when I thought about them. But not until I’d seen those hands in action and I could swoon at the thought of your hands on my skin, or moving across strings or over keys, circled around sticks, trailing along my arm, wrapped around a paintbrush. For me, it was always what you did with them.

I used to write songs about that. 

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