Electric Callous Remover

By Reza Jabrani

I stuffed my girlfriend’s stocking (not a euphemism)
with foot-related gifts: an ultra-nourishing balm,
a highly-rated toenail file (4.8 stars), and an electric
callous remover. Her callouses are a menace.
She only wears clogs, sockless, so she’s built
up layers of mangled, yellow, dry dead skin,
protecting her feet, I guess, from the world,
but who, I wondered, an old bull with his cud, will
protect the world—and me—from her feet?

She took minor offense at the presents.
Claimed, selfishly, her feet were fine.
I said, for me, for us, just try it.
The next morning, as snow fell thick
and wet blanketing the American heartland,
I heard the electric callous remover buzzing
in the bathroom upstairs, hard at work.

Until the buzzing ceased. I heard a short,
sharp laugh, then running water, followed by
an eerie, triumphant silence. My girlfriend
descended the stairs in her silk robe,
resplendent, thick thighs, big, perky
breasts, and half-pumiced feet.

It died, she said. The callous remover.
Already, I asked, crestfallen, indignant.
It’s December 26th and it died? Or do you mean
you killed it? She shrugged, laughed, then joined
me on the couch, putting those ravaged feet in my lap.
I wanted to chastise her, to appeal to the spirit of
Christmas but then her robe hiked up to reveal
her creamy thighs, her pussy, bush freshly-buzzed
and I forgot about her feet, the callouses, forgot everything
but her. And God, whose glory I thanked as I ran
my hands up her knees and she untied her belt, laughing.

Reza Jabrani writes coarse prose and crude poetry @coarseprose