In search of skilled labor

When I was
tougher on  
the outside
and softer
on the inside
I used to drink beer,
shoot pool,  
and say I wouldn’t  
fuck a man  
if he couldn’t run  
my pantyhose  
with his bare hands.  
 
I wouldn’t say that now.  

first off,
pantyhose are blasé,
and most days
you’re fucking lucky
to get me in panties,
even luckier to get me out

But 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
white-lined stories
that tell me  
you slapped a
butterfly bandage,  
or electrical tape  
or super glue
on something pretty serious,
instead of getting stitches

and bite my bottom lip.

I’ve always liked those ragged edged-scars.  
Something about them makes  
my vulva thick  
and my nipples tight.  

I’d trace each 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,  
that’s hot

But it’s really the
thick calloused pads on a
man’s hands
that gives me the shivers.

It’s the moment
he’s finished my pantyhose
and run my skin
like nylon need
that I fall apart in
a levy-breaching
cunt flood of capitulation ,
and 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 it’s the moment
a man scrapes his
hands on my body
he realizes
that

I

am  
hard work.  

Cruel work.  
Work that demands your  
body respond to torment
without a hope
of building armor
against my
endless
aching need…

Baby.

I don’t have on pantyhose.

(Because that would be weird)

 
But I do have something  
that needs

to be done,  

and I can’t think past the  
way  
your hands  
 
look  
 
on my
thighs.