The Hand

Quick primer: what follows is a satirical look at what happens when one applies the writing methods male authors employ when writing terrible caricatures of women in their stories to a male character.

Sunlight pierced the peaks as a gentle breeze swept the valley floor. It was another summer day as Veronica and Margarita sat on Veronica’s porch sipping sangria. Veronica had invited her cousin to partake in one of her favorite pastimes.

They watched as the ranch hand pushed a cart full of fresh logs over to the stack of firewood. The women watched as he hoisted each log from the cart, and carried it over to the large stump. They watched for an hour as the hand would grab a log, set it on the stump, and chop it to more suitable pieces to use in the fire.

The hand continued on his task until he needed a break. Swinging the axe into the stump, we walked over to the water barrel. Pulling the paddle from the vessel, he pressed his bearded lips to the edge. As he drank, he could help but let a bit of water dribble down the side of his mouth. As he did, Veronica and Margarita watched on with enraptured interest.

Veronica could not help herself, as she watched the mix of water and sweat roll down through the hair of the hand’s chest. She had never seen a man who’s bosom rivaled that of any woman. He glistened like a diamond studded necklace in the sunlight.

The hand’s pectorals were like two bags of flour glued to his chest. His abs descended like a pan of fresh baked rolls. His buttocks rolled around in his near skin tight shorts like two bowling balls fighting for dominance. As the tree trunks of his thighs cascaded down to his supple calves.

Veronica often assumed he must be gay. For she had never seen a straight man take such serious pride in his body. No, most of them were slovenly sacks of sugar, meat, and putrefied oats.

“You see. I told you it’s a wonderful show. Look, look,” Veronica smacked Margarita’s arm as the hand walked back over to begin stacking the chopped firewood on the cart. He gingerly tied each bundle, before scooping them into his arms.

The hand’s glutes jiggled and jaggled with each step. Veronica watched with owl wide mahogany eyes, twirling the kinks of her hair between her fingers. She may attend Stanford during the school year, but come summer, she’s the same as any other woman. A young woman is weak for this worker bee. He might be dumb as a rock, but he’s more of a man than the twigs and Rollie pollies at school. Heathens of privilege that wouldn’t know what to do with that wood, much less a woman of her tastes.

“Why, yes, Vee. I see what you mean now. He is quite a specimen. Have you ever seen a man with such strong breeding hips? I bet he could thrust endlessly.” Margarita pointed out as she slumped down in the chair to spread her legs, less the heat get to her. She continued to watch as she brushed the curls of her obsidian hair.

“How many children do you think he could carry at once? I bet he could carry at least three. I have nothing to do with a man that doesn’t know his place. A man that provides, but is also an excellent father.”

“Oh, truly. No self respecting woman would get with a man that didn’t know his place was in the field. The house and finances are the wife’s affairs. Give a man money, and he’ll waste it on booze and his lads.”

The cousins continued to watch the hand work all afternoon. Only retiring when the sun was setting, and the sangria had gone to their heads.

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