In search of skilled labor

When I was tougher on  
the outside than  
I am now,  
I used to drink  
beer, shoot pool,  
and say I wouldn’t  
fuck  
a man  
if he couldn’t run  
my pantyhose  
with his hands.  
 
I wouldn’t say that now.  
I don’t wear pantyhose.  
Fuck, you’re lucky  
to get me in panties most days  
it’s too much to ask for the hose.  
 
But I wouldn’t say that now.
I wouldn't say that to you,  
now.  
 
I’d put my long,  
bare
leg,  
up on the bar  
and take your hand in mine.  
 
I’d turn it over in my manicured hand,  
looking for  
the invariable
scars
that tell me  
you slapped a
butterfly bandage,  
or electrical tape  
on,
instead of getting medical  
attention like a pussy.  

I’ve always liked those ragged edged-scars.  
Something about them makes  
my vulva get thick  
and my nipples get tight.  
 
I’d check your scars,  
trace them with a fingernail,
and get a little wet.  
Damp, really,  
 
Moist.  
 
Not enough to fuck,  
just enough to flirt.  
 
I like the way work-browned  
skin gets redesigned by scars,  
but it’s really the thick calloused pads on a
mans hands that give me  
the shivers,  
the levy-breaching cunt flood of capitulation  
that I’m going to do what you want
tonight  
because  
you  
know work,  
hard work,  
cruel work  
work that demands  
the body respond to the  
rigors
to the torment by  
making  
skin armor.  
 
And
I am  
hard work.  
Cruel work.  
Work that demands your  
body respond to torment.  
 
I don’t have pantyhose on.  
 
But I do have something  
that needs to be done,  
and I can’t think past the  
way  
your hands  
 
look  
 
on my thighs.