“Whore”

Whore was such a beautiful insult
When we were in sixth grade
“Randi” rolls off my tongue
Fired at a classmate
Who I heard had her breasts pressed
But, that is not why I called her that
Just that she had been rude
And being more rude made sense
But, then it is ninth or tenth grade
I bark the same at my best friend
“I am vulnerable”, a poor excuse
Shattering her heart to make mine whole
A look in the mirror when in twelfth
I regret those words said
Because they were in anger
And I suddenly love being this “whore”
The dirt accumulates in layers
“Sexual promiscuity is a disease” plastered
On my mind
“Oh how could he have had a one night stand?”
“This hook up culture would ruin us all.”
Words to dress up like a gentleman
While in dreams I wander
I dream of my lips and his Adam’s apple
A kiss where his beard doesn’t interfere
Tongue down the male sternum
Onto the slight divide between the belly and the pubes
Of being pushed up against the wall
His breath burning
Buttholes, Buttholes, Buttholess
Pictures stored in hidden folders
The freckled breasts of an actress
A year older
Cumming on a creaky bed
To the image of
“Emo gay teen masterbating”
I am as much a child of sexuality
As anyone else
There is no shame in genitalia
In the flaps of skin of foreskin
Or the nerve endings in the clitoris
Elvish queen secreting milk
Zoned out, selling sex by 5th street
“Here for casual sex”, upfront
There’s no need for money when it’s fucking
Dingy hotel rooms, 200 bucks an hour
His smell, his manhood, my mouth
“Sir, this boy is eager to please”
So, I remember my rumour
“50 bucks for one blowjob”
And laugh, for I’d have done it for less
Of only the man was right
10 bucks and an ice-cream would have sufficed
For heaven’s sake, it is hard to distinguish
When you say it like that
Why couldn’t the nympho be the nymph
And not the hatred in “Whore”
Fuck it then, I will sell my flesh for pleasure
In a country where hate manifests
In festivals, the scene of loud voices
And the unwanted touch
That is my choice, my politics
Indulgence in the warmth and body hair
Or the slight curvature of the belly
If the whore is what I must become
Then I might as well be the best at it
And “Randi” isn’t something I say anymore
And when I call someone whore
It is a pat on the back of a fellow soldier
A smile exchanged
A celebrattion
Of a sexuality that is a weapon

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s