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Image for the poem "PUSSY GALORE"

"PUSSY GALORE"

 

To the throb of music, the
announcer, stage left,
stomps a foot to the beat,
flings a hand out, pointing  
indicates center stage as a
spotlight suddenly burns  
bright where I stand,
feet apart in red stiletto heels  
  
showing off a pair of nicely
turned ankles wrapped  
in fishnet stockings, held up
with garters of roses.  
My figure sparkles from
glitter dusted on my skin.

The beat courses through me,
my eardrums twitter,  
tickling the canal
as I start to shake my head  
with dark hair piled high
off my neck
to best advantage,  
held firmly in place with
lacquer and rhinestone pins.  
   
Clad in satin evening gloves,
I lift my arms high
over my head, hands giving
their signature wave  
with patrons cheering
appreciatively,    
anticipating the act
they’ve come to come by.  
   
Now this is where you're
supposed to chuckle.  
   
Gentlemen customers
move in close while others  
stay in their seats with their
drinks, and maybe a girl.    
Money’s already scattering
onto the stage.  
   
The music shifts and my hips
swivel, twisting the g-string
that slides up and clings
between two beauties.  
I turn, bend, reach for my
calves, and make ‘em smile.

The men all howl like the
wolves they are, or more like  
coyotes, who do this
every night I do my show.  
I’ve got the
choreography down pat.  
   
I begin to swing round and
round on a pole, stage right,  
and through the cheers –
Come on baby, take it all off!
I hear a new voice call out,
Will you marry me?   
   
As I swing round once more,
I catch sight of him  
slow-clapping out of time
to the rapid riot
of grinding and thumping
that snaps and pops.

Silver disco ball overhead
moves a storm of sparkle
round the walls, the stage,
the floor and him.  
He’s straight-faced, and I’m
grinning large, showing off  
my pearlies and dimples,
and I’m so nervous!  
   
I start to high-step each time
he claps, heading for the    
edge of the stage where small
lights of blue and red shine.  
His stare and mine don’t
flicker off one another.  
   
Two of the boys by the stage
reach up, take me by the waist,
easing me down to the floor.  
I playfully
push them away, still grinning.
   
Taking long, slow, deliberate
steps towards him,  
he’s still clapping with
no expression, while the  
pulse of music and other men
with their wolf calls    
and whistles, make me want
to pitch over in a swoon.  
   
But then, everything goes low
and slows down,
catching my second wind –
I’m about to let go.  
   
Flexing and bending my knees,
lowering and straddling,   
lap dancing him and
I don’t even know his name!  
   
My snatch playing his crotch
covered in corduroy,  
blowing him like a wooden flute
with the wood he’s    
giving back to me, drowning
in the hard whine of sax . . .


And as I’m backstage,
cinching my tips pouch tight,  
reaching for my coat
to wrap up from the cold air
out back, the cell in my tote
plays a rapper’s tune.  
   
I whirl around in my ballet
flats as I caress
an ear to my husband’s voice
on the other side,    
I close my eyes as I pull off
the false eyelashes  
and smile, to hear him say
he’s out back in the car . . .

   
I finish my shower upstairs,
the smell of coffee from the
kitchen, grateful I woke
in time to see the kids off as
their dad prepared to
take them to school, then
head off for work.

Wrapped in a white plush
terrycloth robe,
I pad barefoot downstairs to
serve myself
a cuppa (with milk, no sugar)
and munch an egg bagel
while rustling pages,
reading through
the morning paper.  
   
   
   
 
Original mousework art done
on MSPaint, by Jade Pandora.

Written by Jade-Pandora (jade tiger)
Published | Edited 25th Jan 2019
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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