Geez, Deb. That's white-hot fuckyou, Dr. Kildare, isn't it?

Like I said, autobiographical. He was astonished by it - it took about 45 seconds to do it, too.

Man, I was a musician. Don't tell me you can't fix this shit.

Man, I'm an angsty teenager if ever there was one. And I'm not even a teenager. Anyway, first submission:

I wonder what it would feel like to take her hand in mine. To take her hand, to feel her touch, to connect physically, intimately, for the first time.

And holding would lead to squeezing, and squeezing to caressing, and then, suddenly, the future...

I'll be playing with her fingers. One by one I'll count them and rub them, as I tickle her palms. Our hands, our bodies, our lives - connected. A kiss, a smile, and I'll lie down next to my love, my only love, and be happy.

If only...

If only I could take her hand.

That's ultrasappy, dude. But it's sweet.

Our hands, our bodies, our lives - connected.

This is a nice bit, and I think one that could be expanded. As it stands, it's still a bit over the top, but I like the concept.

Of course it's sappy. I'm a sappy guy.

Also, I kinda meant it to be over the top.

Don't you ever get super-sappy-gross when you first have a real crush on somebody? Most of the poem is meant to be imagination, the overactive, impossible imagination of somebody (me) when in the earliest, flirtatious, not-even-a-relationship stages of a relationship. A silly dream of the perfection that might be, but probably won't.

Also, I kinda meant it to be over the top.

Oh, good. Then you succeeded!

Wonderful drabbles, everyone. I have a couple of ideas, but I need to think about it a bit more.

The skin of his knuckle is split. He does too many things, presenting his body with myriad opportunities to hurt itself. It will heal, though, and quickly. Speed is one of his talents, always fast to develop, fast to learn, and fast to move.

I look at his calluses; press his work-earned roughness between my softer palms every chance I get. I wonder what they're like when he is unhurried; imagine the slow friction of his fingertips dragging lightly against tender skin. Can they still be sensitive, or would I have to make up for that elsewhere on his body?

Whuh. (fanning self) Hot in here?

Hmmm....

An attempt at a teen girl voice. I don't think I like the voice. Or, at least, don't like the character. But, hey, practice.

His hands? Gross. Especially his nails. Dirty and ragged and obviously unsanitary. Disgusting.

I mean, girls, we work at our hands. Regular scrubbings and twice-daily lotionings. And for nails there's the strengthener, the cuticle softener, and, of course, the weekly-plus ritual of the Nail Polish Change. With Finish. We spend hours turning our hands into perfect objects of desire.

And then they expect to take these beautiful, soft works of art and defile them with their disgustingly dirty fingers?

I don't think so.

Clean your nails, boys. And trim them straight. Only princely guys can hope to touch a princess.