Bottomless Sake and Hand Holding
Blame it on the bottomless sake.
Or, the fact that my vagina is about to bleed. (This is also commonly referred to as pre-menstruation). If the past two sentences have not lead folks onto another site, kudos for me. If so, then this is telling of how much patriarchy is reigning and is also indicative that any mention of menstruation is still considered taboo at most, and at the least, a reason to turn the other cheek and stick a maxi-pad on it.
For whatever logic nature has prescribed me, I am sensitive at the moment. Raw like the sushi my stomach is now nestling. It could be the premenstrual situation I’ve mentioned, or the side effect of prescriptive antibiotics for my most recent wisdom tooth extraction. Why am I even attempting to rationalize my sensitivity as though its mere existence isn’t evident of its reality?
A few months ago, we were walking down the street. Conversation as casual as the changing of a stoplight. I was myself. Then, he grabbed my hand. I continued to be myself, yet aware of another slick brown palm touching mine. I expressed my discomfort and he asked, “why?”.
For months, I have been searching for ways to write about my disdain for hand-holding without pathologizing (spell check says pathologizing isn’t a word) myself; casting me as a Black girl from such and said experiences, who has undergone such and said struggles and therefore feels an innate urge to puke when a man holds her hand. I exhausted myself by compulsively question marking my preferences and am at a point to where I’ve lazily accepted it is as me not wanting to hold hands with someone whose mom I have yet to meet.
For me, holding hands is like kissing. Which makes the me-not-knowing-your-mom statement irrelevant, because I have swapped plenty of spit with tongues whose preceding mammary glands I have yet to acknowledge. So, I guess I should start over.
Holding hands is gross. Period.
It is like trapping air betwixt two fungi breeding palms that could be better off contributing to the livelihood of a lavender plant.
It reminds me of the most predictable scenes in movies when you know what is going to happen next. Cliche.
I feel like holding hands is a default. Why can’t we stretch our ability to innovate the art of affection and skip alongside one another in unison? Or walk down the street touching backs? Holding hands is what everyone does, and I no longer understand what it means to anyone anymore.
I know what you are thinking, everyone else gets meningitis. Why am I not writing about that? Answer: I will.
I am going to keep this post short, because as I said, I drank sake. And ate sushi.
And I might be shedding my uterine lining at any moment.
This is a simple request to all of my twenty-something subscribers and anyone else who has been trafficked to this site by googling pornographic terms: what is the significance of holding hands (besides making sure you do not lose your “date” to a well-dressed passerby)?
if you’ve made it this far without clicking the links, be sure to scroll up and do so.