Just got home after fixing up this busted-ass carburetor for my neighbor’s old Chevy. Hands dirty, nails chipped, grease in my hair—the usual. But fuck, there’s something wild about knowing how shit works, y’know? Like, I can take apart an engine with my eyes closed, but sometimes I catch myself wondering if anyone’s ever gonna look at me the way I look at a perfectly tuned ride. Not just the tomboy who can handle her tools, but the woman underneath who wants to be handled too.

Last night, I let someone peel these coveralls off me slow, trace the oil stains on my skin like they were art. They called me hermosa while their fingers tested my edges, found the soft spots. I don’t do delicate, but damn if I didn’t melt when they growled ‘Quítate eso’ and yanked my ponytail back to bite my neck. Maybe femininity ain’t about lace—maybe it’s about knowing exactly how hard to grip a wrench and a thigh.

(Also, PSA: If your dick can’t respect a woman who’ll rebuild your transmission before breakfast, don’t slide into my DMs.)