Buttonhole

The factory was full of machines and production tools. The tools and production were to create and birth new garments. After the garments had been birthed they were placed on racks and wheeled over to a graying man. The man had a sensual beard, rough hands, leathery skin, and smelled of an excess of some cologne that had been popular for a few years. The garments would be wheeled over to him and each would be laid on his table to be tested. The garments would quiver with new life, waiting for his touch.

 He first would pick up the garment and feel each seam. He would run his hands up and down each seam and the seams would rise to his hands, embracing his warmth.  If the seams were of expected quality, he would smile and the garment would melt in his emotion.

Done with the first inspection, he would move on to the next inspection for the garment. He would cup the collar firmly in both hands, thumbs towards the sky. If properly made, the collar would lean back, away from his face, but at a proper angle so that the tag was parallel to the man’s face. The collar would wait for the 3^rd and final test for the shirt, so it would lay still – behaving itself so that the man would begin to fulfill the shirt’s desires of being finished.

The man would move his mouth as close to the top buttonhole as possible. He would open his mouth and stick his tongue in the buttonhole, moving it up and down against the sewing. Tonguing the buttonhole, the man would begin humming. He would move his tongue faster and faster -- up, down, and sideways in the buttonhole until the buttonhole would quiver and snap back to its original form.

With the garment climaxed, the man would rise from the table, button his shirt back up, and shout, “THIS GARMENT IS YOUNG, LITHE, AND PASSES THE TEST! NEXT GARMENT!!”