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Sex Sestina
by Anne GÛmez Huff
I don't want to undress her SEX
underneath the pinkHOTpants that wear the whore with lipstick on her teeth,
but I guess it must turn someone on, maybe the middle-aged briefcase
sipping caffiene-free
Pepsi, as he thinks about his dishwater wife...as he hides his middle-aged
hard on.
When she drops her quarter, she fumbles furiously towards the ground like
ripe fruit
(BREAST feeding his staring eyes), & he wants her... I hope he doesn't
cum.
His wife makes dutiful chicken dinners that dry out in the oven, waiting
for him to come
home. She accidentally looks like hell, so that SEX
is out of the equation. Last June, she tried on her yellow wedding dress,
but the teeth
of the zipper were like a hungry mouth, open, open, open. She's begun
rubbing free
magazine perfume samples on her neck, hoping he will like one. She
imagines herself on
Oprah, mascara running amuck in the name of lost love, as repulsing as
rotten fruit.
Like art, Oprah doesn't care. She hates getting those exotic fruit
baskets, she's tired of middle-aged haus fraus (domestic engineers) that come
on her show crying & moaning about how leather didn't work, that their
greying SEX
is still as cold as a mussel in a shell. Nobody but Oprah knows how she
grits her teeth
when she cries with them. But if there's one thing she's learned, it's
that nothing is free;
this is the price of her fame & fortune, so her life companion says,
putting his clothes on.
Companionship to a martyr was not in his plan, or have his SEX life
broadcasted on
national television when she decides to share. Not that he does not enjoy
the fruit
of her labor. But when she tells the studio audience that sometimes she
can't cum,
damn it, his manhood is at stake. To think about it makes his once
redwood-like SEX
as docil as a Play-Doh snake. He looks at it the bathroom mirror, raking
the teeth
of the comb across his barren garden. He will tell the trainer it's time
to go fat-free.
It's all about getting in to size 3 dresses to go to those gala,
star-studded fashion free
for alls. No one cares about their body. Once they get the gold sequin
Armani fishsuit on,
that's it. She rows like a Harvard boy on her NordicRow, harder, faster,
lusting fruit
Newtons. She feels her oiled muscles, she feels the strain of health,
she's waiting to come
on to shore. This is better than SEX.
She thinks about the pinkHOTpants she ran past on the street & feels the
heat in her teeth.
The vibrating of the bus makes her HOT, so runs her tougne across her teeth
like she does when she does gets paid for it. She never gives it for free,
& she knows she's HOT, she's GOT IT, she's got the Jean NatÈ on
her body is oiled like a bodybuilder, her breasts are as firm & high as
summer fruit
& touchable, for $50, baby. She's come
to like (it makes her HOT) eyes on her drum-like ass, she knows how she
radiates SEX,
some homo fruit on 7th told her. Her teeth gleam
like new stars coming into sight on a cloud-free twilight
Her SEX is a pink BOX, as HOT as Barbie's sauna.
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