Just wrapped a job. My own job, my own name on the invoice, which means when I say we're done for the day, we're done. I'm stood here filthy, forearms marked up, shirt stuck to my back, and the first thought in my head is how much a certain kind of man would lose it seeing me like this.
That's you, isn't it. Not the clean cologne-and-shirt version. This one. Dust on the skin, hands that have actually done something, a long day still on me. Some men want polished. You want used and real. Good taste.
I like knowing you wouldn't even let me shower first. That you'd take one look at me in the work gear and forget every clever thing you were going to say. I do that to men. I've made my peace with it, and honestly I enjoy it far too much.
My hours, my rules, nobody signing my timesheet. So when I decide the end of a shift belongs to whoever I want thinking about me, that is how it goes. And tonight, covered in a day's work, I'm deciding it's you.
This is the cleaned-up telling of it, mind. Boots still on, keeping it decent. The version where I don't tidy anything up for you lives somewhere more private. You know the place.