She smells like sweat and WD-40, a potent mixture of mechanical grime and the pungent cling of a long day in a stuffy workshop. I want to kiss her knuckles, but yanks her hands away from my lips, laughing because they're too dirty.
... and they are -- she is -- dirty. Her whole body is covered in fluids and soots and oils -- the beautiful viscera of her profession -- and her knuckles are littered with a light dusting of scars from machines and people who struggle with the divide between metal and flesh, but it is because of this, not in spite of it, that my lips long for her fingers.
For hers are the hands of a journeyman mechanic, but a master dyke, strong, calloused, and despite having had them inside me on a semi-regular basis, the only time I've ever felt her nails was when she slipped them into the seams of my armor plating to pry open my frame for maintainance.
She knows me in ways that would make poets seethe, having held me both inside and out, and one of these days I'll find a way to make her understand that I am simply not capable of finding her in a state -- that no such state exists -- where the first thing I think upon booting isn't just how badly I long for her touch.
When you see a woman you love, or a woman you've fucked with some regularity, maybe a friend you've longed over for ages -- or just even one that you saw at the bar and brought home for a rollick -- what living, breathing being struggling on this dying planet, could see herself dripping from the fingers of such a beautiful woman and think:
"No, they're dirty. I simply cannot kiss them."
I may not be flesh, but I will spend as pathetically, desperately little time here -- perhaps longer than her, but -- nothing in the grand schema of the universal matrix, and I will lick, I will suck, I will take into my throat the beauty of this world, and by every rule and every god, I will kiss her fingers clean if I have to,
and then I will kiss them again.
