Naughty

Sometimes my hands are naughty…(My grandmother taught me to recite this poem when I was 4 years old.  I think she was trying to warn me about myself. It’s been stuck in my brain for over 40 years now, but I don’t think it had the desired effect.)

…so it goes like this:

Sometimes my hands are naughty

And so my mother says,

“I shall have to scold them

and send them off to bed.”

Oh, little hands,

Be careful, please

Of everything

You do

For if you are naughty

And sent to bed,

I’ll have to go

There, too.

I love this poem because it speaks so perfectly of my lesbian life.  Yes, my hands are naughty—downright greedy, in fact.  From the first time I talked my Mormon best friend into letting me stroke her clit, find her wet, reach inside her and explore the contours of her 18 year-old, virginal cunt, my naughty hands have had a mind of their own. 

So, let’s look at the warning, “I shall have to scold them, and send them off to bed.”   Not much of a deterrent for a young lesbian now, is it?  Come to think of it, though, the bedroom’s not the place where I’ve had my most naughty adventures.  There’ve been the dark country roads and parking lots, when I somehow always managed to conclude my forays right before the tap on the window from a concerned farmer or disapproving cop. 

Imagine the surprise of the 20-something cop that night when he rapped on the window with his flashlight, no doubt expecting to surprise a couple of teenagers.  Instead, as my grinning, disheveled gray-haired lover rolled down the window, all he could ask was, “Is everything alright?”  When she replied that everything was, indeed, all right, he managed to stammer, “Okay, ma’am, you have a good night now”, and retreat in shocked haste.

Then there was the Masonic Temple ladies’ lounge, where my girlfriend insisted I fuck her right there on the little settee designed to give rest to delicate matrons of the Eastern Star. (My grandmother would be truly mortified at this one!)  A good girl at heart, I was nervous.  There was no door on the lounge to warn us of advancing blue-haired observers, and I was certain I’d die of embarrassment if I were caught with my hand in the…cookie jar.  My girlfriend knew my hands, though—knew their greedy habits and their inability to resist her slick, her warm, her pulling me deep inside.  She knew I’d do her.  She was right, and the danger of getting caught added to the intensity as my hands relied upon their knowledge of her favorite strokes in order to make her come as quickly as I could. 

These hands of mine are suckers for danger… unable to resist the temptation of not-so-straight women with burly husbands, or the warm moist crotch of blue jeans pushing into me at moonlit picnic tables in public parks.  The lust in my hands always overrides common sense when warm pussy is pressed against them.  Is that what my grandmother was afraid of when she taught me this poem? 

I traveled across country with another girlfriend. This one loved to take her pants off for me while I was driving.  How could I turn that down, really?  I can imagine my grandmother turning over in her grave as I passed that semi doing 90 mph, taking off my seatbelt and steering with, what…my hip as I leaned over and into her?  It had to be done.  I had to be all the way into that sweetness.  I fucked that woman while driving through every state from Ohio to California and back.  Not sure how we survived that trip, but I’m glad we did.  My hands are, too.

Next line; ”Oh little hands, be careful, please, of everything you do”.  Well this one goes without saying, doesn’t it?  I like to think of it as good advice.  If these hands of mine want more of all that deliciousness; soft woman curves, the perfect weight of a breast as I bring it’s nipple to my mouth, the warmth of belly pulled tight next to me, they need to be careful.  They must learn to sense the unspoken cues of their beloveds; they must know when to press forward, and when to pull back.  They must be strong and assertive at times, slow and gentle at others.  They’ve devoted themselves to learning these things, to being able to read a woman’s desire from the inside out.  My hands must also learn that it’s not always appropriate to demonstrate their exuberance for fucking when talking sex at dinner.  It’s not nice to make unprepared friends blush like that. 

And now we come to the conclusion of the gem that’s embedded in my psyche, “for if you are naughty and sent to bed, I’ll have to go there, too.”    Well, yes.  I’ll gladly follow my naughty hands to bed, or to a dimly lit entryway, or the front seat of that brand-new rental car, and under the stairs in your friend’s backyard.   When the payoff is oh, so sweet, I can’t deny the demands of my greedy, naughty hands.