It’s not that I want to be her;
it’s that I want to sheathe my legs in her stockings.
Swirl it and tilt it and sweetly spill it--
a double dip of vanilla ice cream
with maraschino cherries on top
(with hints of black cherry juice,
with whips of black licorice.)
Trill it and glisten it and scoop it.
Lick my black heels and then spoon me.
I ooze hot butterscotch when I catwalk.
I can pussyfoot with shiny stilettos,
I can slink with marabou vamps,
I can gallivant in thigh high sly boots.
I desire to be a pin-up minx
flaunting my bullet brassiere
(that a skinny girl just couldn’t fill.)
I long to be buxom if only
for a day. If only for a photo shoot
starring peek-a-boo lace and white satin waist-
high panties. Creamy gams splayed to reveal
vintage ruffles. Pearlescent girdle and garter belts.
Ornamental welts. Cherry stems tied into tiny bows
and kinkier formations. Exquisite schemata of lust induction
by orchestrated visual themes of seams, buttons, hook & eye
coquettishness. A tease of innermost thigh. A pulsing
crotch panel. Rubbery sheen of thorax fetish pageant. Tightening
vinyl corset. Pin curls, trussed wrists, false lashes, black curtain
of bangs. A curvaceous cursive font on a marquee flashing
the hot pink va va voom of my coy curvilinear name.
