Every year…our town is home to a trans-gender conference.  It’s great fun!  The “girls” take over and shop and dance and just hang out being “fabulous”.  This poem is in honor –  something fascinates me about them, not quite sure what it is, but I’m thinking about it right now…

In the pink phosphorescence
of my combustible world,
I sink into opium transcendence,
spread across the lush hotel bed,
silver-sequined spandex skirt
pushed high up on my hips,
legs open to receive my daily bread.
Martini in hand,
cigar between candy-colored lips
bruised by kisses,
swollen with need,
bitten by my own teeth
in anticipation of heaven.
Feathers, glossy yellow, sashay
across the tiny hairs
standing like soldiers
on my flesh—
so awake, so aware, so resolved
to what will touch my muscled thigh,
glory in the smoothness there
and there.
I drift and slip and slide
with an air of indifference.
But I am not.
I would choose no other room,
no other view.
Shades of complacency, blue with comfort,
mingle with wild indecency.
And it is.
This is why I stay,
why I’m here.
I want to drown
in the scent of sex
in this cotton candy room
where I choose my vice
and sell my wares
to some middle-aged businessman
in a bad suit and thick cologne
trying to pretend his slick
like vasoline.
What would his wife say if she saw us
together up against the wall,
my face pressed into the cheap paint,
and heard the growl of satisfaction
in my throat
because he finds escaped
in this
and not between her moist lips.
It’s not enough.
He must have more,
something hidden between my thighs,
pulsing there with the dignity of a sword.
He buries his face between my shoulder blades
and sighs the sigh that says
Here I can be myself.
I feel like God,
like his savior.
And I open more and more
as the twelfth olive slides sedately down my throat.

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