Hole

A poem by Spencer Spencer that subverts expectations of sex work in the digital age through the portrait of an unforeseen moneymaker—a belly button.

Call it softcore. I show no face, tits, ass, or vag. 
My site features all natural, non-glam shots of my midriff, 
sweaty and bare. I prop up the camera and focus 
on what my (mostly male and middle-aged) fans need— 

close-up examinations of my navel. They drool a pool 
for the grease. The dead skin gunk. The bad bacteria. 
My hole is loose and lived in. They are enamored 
by my belly button’s depth. How many fingers can fit in there? 
One? Two? Your tongue down to the root. They say slutty. 
Not me but my innie. And admittedly, my moneymaker 
has been around.