This wonderful poem was trusted to me by a good friend, talented poet, hedonist and unashamed, utter slut. Enjoy!
My shoulders blades touch – almost.
Neck thrust forward, I’m cormorant.
Fanned out, my slim-winged arms.
Corset bites: you lock the last clasp.
Should I care about my breathing?
Regarde dans le miroir. I’m hour-glass.
I love, love, the black lace panties!
Less, the stunned catch: my unsporting,
emphatic cock. You smile. We sort him.
But my hips are beautiful, aren’t they?
I bend a leg at the knee; my contours,
soundless, merge and flow differently.
Foot, mon amour! I arch it en pointe
like a fortune fish curling in the palm.
You unroll the black silk stockings.
I hate, hate that I haven’t shaved
my legs, and have FAT WHITE THIGHS!
Oui, tu es vraiment une fille.
Snap! Garter clips are miniature jaws,
obligatory rigging. I go taut as full sails,
my ‘goods’ trussed up. Ouch! Mmm.
In the hotel window, a full moon watches.
I am as high and deep and boundless;
want breasts, long for a cunt, get heels,
nearly break a bloody ankle! Fuck!
Screaming tendons, screaming shins.
Oui, c’est difficile d’être une femme!
You slip me into my short leather skirt,
fill my top for me: small, champagne tits,
shadow my eyes with a million narratives,
burn my lips bitch-red. Blonde, accessorized,
you inspect. I do the same, but for longer.
You walk me to the underground on your arm.
Later, in a galley of divas and drag queens,
the loose beat is everyone’s; and you
glance over, stroll up to me, a stranger.
I ask for a light. You’re very handsome,
stripe-sharp but soft skin for a ‘sailor’,
rookie-cute mastering those imaginary balls.
You say, you look like Carole Lombard, honey’
Aren’t you a diamond-cut movie line!
You step in close. Come. Dance with me.
I blow smoke at you, unpeel from the bar,
know how this will end – it’s in your eyes:
against a wall, my skirt hiked up, your fingers
too eager now for such delicacies as clips;
my neck bitten, my breasts squeezed raw.
You press your strap-on against my hips
I pull away. Lights rotate or flash, the music
comes in waves. I drift purposefully, smile,
dare you. ‘Sorry, I’m not that kind of girl.’