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strut

Wenches, three of them, wide and wicked
Strutting along Bleecker like it was a red carpet
Thick thighs in zebra stripes, caramel skin glowing
Five paces behind, I fell in love
and followed.

I think I tiptoed
I know they swaggered

Spat words so raw and raucous
Stretched by the Brooklyn accent, warmed by the love between them
Even as they tore into each other with language that held me bound

You callin’ me white?
Hand on hip, head cocked
Girlfriend, look at your man
Her eyes narrow, my eyes widen
He’s the whitest motherfucka I ever met
…..that boy’s a pussy

Laughter so dirty I stumbled, blushed
Never felt so unripe.

The solace of the fire escape
Hands black with grime and ears ringing with sirens
Watching over CBGBs with longing

The Bowery invited and I finally accepted
I tried to strut my “don’t mess with me” gait

I couldn’t pull it off

They messed with me

Street preachers spewing forth fire and brimstone
On the corner of Joey Ramone Place
Hostility for lone little white girls with pagan tattoos
Trying to strut

A finger pointed rudely towards me
Yo baby!
My chin stuck bravely towards him
Yeah, what?

More brass than I felt, more bile than I wanted
Taste of metal in my mouth as his finger inched closer
Resting on my snake, bold and curved
Looped around my neck, nestled on my collarbone
Keeping me safe

A flash of gold teeth, a grin, a grunt
Nice bling
And off, shuffling back to the steps
And me, scurrying back to the fire escape
To watch from a distance.

Few days later, few streets over
Lower East Side longing
For a man so clichéd I groaned
Even as I craved.

Arms laden with pipes, muscles pulling tight
Sweat sliding down the curve of his calf
Into his workboots
Straight out of the Village People
Hardhat included

I could’ve watched for hours

Sorry honey!
You should just holler – get the hell outta my way!

Stepping past with a sway
Hips rolling, heels clicking
Words thrown over my shoulder

I can’t…..I’m too Australian

Laughter thrown back, loud and lascivious
Trailing me along the streets of New York

No sugar…..you’re too much!

Felt myself ripen

Journal Comments

  • Paul Louis Villani
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