You see stars over my nipples—shoot me—
the cover girl, hands reaching:
bombshell in smudged liner, under Hollywood
lights: this is a princess you’re talking about.
I’m the starlet, curving back, butt raised,
lips pout, bronzed cheeks, and rolled sideways
Best Picture style: silk sheets, head resting
atop my man’s chest, rubbing his hair, his hands
stroke my face, push aside my hair strand by strand,
and then the kiss that signs The End,
blanket over us for roll-credits privacy.
Roll me again: Holly really would…
Elongated legs, feet wiggling in air,
like my man ripped off my thigh highs, now
reaching for the gold panties, biting the sides,
ribbons undone, and I’ll give you the ass shot,
since I can’t give the V for the cover—
you’ll black box my crack, and I’ll spread more…more,
hands over breasts, giving you Screwball,
tongue out, dancing in front of camera—
I dare you to Slapstick, paddle my ass,
until you seduce me still, liner smudged—
our eyes: the look after a rainstorm.
I lick the cane. Naughty tongue riding up
the wood. The white cuffs, hat,
bowtie around neck—I squeeze my breasts
with one arm, tip you off with the other.
And I throw the cane down, stretch my body,
perform a musical number on you,
you take off the bowtie, undo the cuffs,
raise those black panties lower, lower,
lower—it’s the music that makes us
attractive, and I hum the tune,
our breaths combining, your body on top—
it’s the music that makes us.
The tub is filled with rose petals—ironic—
I step in nude, and the photographer
tells me to soak—come soak with me, come soak:
flowers over starlet: the dream sequence
when the symphony plays and I dream,
hands over petals, hands feeling petals,
and I finally rise up over
breasts, fingers removing flowers,
hair soaked, pulled back, the wet hair look where
you see my cheekbones, my red lips, and I expose
topless, becoming the scene of your wet dreams
when you paused the VHS to moan.
Illustration by Yvonne Martinez.