The Keyboard

I love to feel the soft, warm feeling of a woman’s hand stroking me. I relish in the tickle of females nails gently protruding my keys. The fluidity of her fingers makes me giddy with pleasure. Every time she presses another key I cannot but do as her hands are telling me for I am at her will and would have it no other way. She is so skilled at what she does that I envy her every touch and wait with excitement until she returns.

A man’s hand is something of a different nature that provokes changed feelings, but ones that are not disagreeable. The calluses and rough skin are pleasurable in ways that are uncanny. A man, unlike a woman, only uses a few fingers. My other components purr with pleasure as a man bangs down upon me with such gusto and absolutely lacking in skill and I savor his movements with a great deal of heart. The harshness of his movements is my propensity and I cannot but almost cry when he leaves me. The moisture from his dry, cracking skin is something that I cannot live without.

A child’s hand is so very unlike either of the latter, that I cannot fully explain how wonderful it feels to have that ever so soft touch. A child is so much gentler then a man or a woman. They treat me as if I am a delicate piece of handed down China. As if I could break with the hardest touch. Children have wetter hands because they are so nervous. I do not complain for I would never dare to change a child’s way.

My good friend and lover, the computer, purrs with contentment when he is turned on. We are both in agreement that there are differences in touch between the genders.

I do not like to gather dust, for I love the soft cool air from the spray can that people are so fond of. I love the breath of it as it reaches down between my keys to expel all of the dirt and grime left over from many uses.

It breaks my heart when someone spills something on me because I could never work again and never feel the hands of love on my keys one last time.

I am a keyboard, connected always to my computer.