Why I love Butch hands
Okay so here's what I've been trying to say.
Hands speak for us. They announce our intentions. Try to lie—your hands will give you away; they'll flutter nervously or do the palms-up, "don't-kill-me" thing.
And when you love someone, and you're afraid for them to know, your hands will pave the way. They'll reach out, pat that person's arm, pick some lint off her shirt.
Tenderness is in the hands, and that's hot. For me, anyway.
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