THE JOY OF FEMINISATION: THE NOT SO SECRET LIFE OF A SLUT

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.’

 trixy sucker by ©Nuit d'Or

trixy sucker by ©Nuit d'Or