Friday, January 11, 2013

The Oldest Professions

I know I have got it
From my baby-blue leggings
To the twirling whip in my fingers
To my long hair curling around my face
A breezy way.
My whip
Never hurts,
Is more to tickle;
And anyway it is a rule
I have to use it.

Yeah, so what if I am walking
On this sleazy street.
My profession usually does lead me
To the other side of the tracks.
I know what you are thinking
When you pull up leering
And roll down your window;
You leave me no doubts
When you open your filthy diseased mouth.
Go fuck yourself,
I have higher clientele.
And if you men looking for some cheap thrill
Mess with me again
You will meet the dagger in my boot.

He is the one,
The one with presence,
The one with it I saddle
For the thrill between my quivering thighs,
For anticipation at the gate
And its opening explosive.
I take pleasure in his sinewy strength.
Even the glory of his nostrils is terrible
And all that is heard is our breathing rush of life
To the place where tears stream from our eyes,
To the place we are one in power
And from which we are both left trembling.

Yeah, I know what you are thinking.
I will not tell you
What you can do to yourself,
Because I admit I led you astray
In telling my story.  But I used to be
Not a prostitute,
But an exercise rider.
For five dollars a head
I would ride a race horse
In a morning workout,
And some I would do for free.