“A man is not paid for having a head and hands, but for using them” –E Hubbard
I talked last time about man candy photos and what attracts me to certain pictures. Cowboys always grab my eye. …the hat, boots, jeans, belt buckle, the chaps and spurs. But you know what else gets me? It’s their hands. Yes, dammit, I do notice their hands too! Stop snickering and work with me, people!
I love the look of hard working hands, the feel of them on my skin. If you have ever read one of my books, you know I usually make mention of my heroes hands and the contrast they present. Tough, but gentle with their lady, and always eager to please her and defend her. As a matter of fact, you could probably take a stab at which heroes are my favorites, based not on how often I mention the astounding size of their cocks, but by how many times I mention their hands. Their hands say a lot about them, most notably that they are not afraid of a hard day’s work in the hot sun.
I married a man like that and I respect that about him. The funny thing is that he’s always worried that he’s going to hurt me or mar my skin with his callused hands. (I hear you snickering again, but yeah, I’m thinking the same thing you are, “Bring it on, baby!”)
Last summer, I had the opportunity to visit an authentic Mexican rodeo, a Charreada Exhibicion, with my family and another writer friend. This friend got me VIP passes and I was allowed backstage to actually meet the Mexican cowboys and cowgirls. The scene is NOT like you’d expect at a North American Rodeo in an erotic romance novel. NO buckle-bunnies hang around behind the scenes, waiting to hook up. They would get ripped to ribbons at one of these events. But, I digress.
After the rodeo, I was escorted backstage by one of the promoters and introduced around. It was so hot in the arena, I thought I would melt, but they were all dressed in their very formal, long-sleeved Charreada costumes and sombreros. I met several generations of charreras from age three years (think Michael Martinez from Heavenly Angel) all the way up to early sixties.
All of them had two things in common with each other. First, their manners: they were very, very respectful, polite and gentle. The other thing was that all the charrera’s hands were as tough and hard as worn leather from working with the ropes and dealing with livestock. The cowboy who had ridden a bull not an hour before, shook my hand as though it were the finest, most priceless porcelain. He was very careful because he probably could have hurt my hand if he’d shaken it too hard.
“But I love the way you smile at me. I love the way your hands reach out and hold me near…” –Sarah McLachlan, “Elsewhere”
Years ago, I held my fiancé’s hands as we struggled with the death of someone very dear to us. That day I was struck by the gentle strength of his grasp. I think that’s what fascinates me most about a decent, hard-working man’s hands. Power, tempered by gentleness. The same hands that can control a large, recalcitrant animal can cradle the tiniest infant in safety. They are just as valuable for expressing love or passion in a story as any other body part or spoken words. They stroke, grasp, heal, protect and tremble, saying so much without words.