Poetry: "Vasoline"

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...

Vasoline

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.