Tequila, Mexico
He asks if I ever been fucked
by a Tequila’s bottleneck?
I giggle in my drunken stupor,
my age refusing to behave, ladylike.
My boyfriend is the youngest son
of a mastered connoisseur beyond
the vast fields of the Blue Agave
where my body has sinfully laid naked
each day, every day for the past week;
in my own virgin fields, beneath the incessant
of cloudless skies and the indiscriminative
of the illicit sun, I have been cumulated, watered,
chopped, fucked, de-cherried then carried
into the furnace to live eagerly widespread eagled
in the mouths that desire such liquescence;
I’ve gained the title of my boyfriend’s
self-centered, self-entertaining,
self-indulgent drunken whore;
he tongues the empty bottleneck,
lubricating the recycled glass,
and he tongue fucks it with such grace,
with such delicacy, with such queerness
that my insides clench, my lips burnish,
creating a catalyst of pre-ograsmic froth;
the sweet sensual scent of Tequila’s
post-drunken lust seeps from my overheated pussy
as the bottleneck thrusts in-n-out
by the gentle handle of my lover;
my erotic thoughts drift to Felipe Calderon
macheting his way through the political
candor of sexual politics and awakened uprisings
to become everything a President is not
permitted to be, and suddenly I fantasize
about that influential man slurping up Tequila
as he slovenly pours it over my snatch
until his radical tongue is replaced by the
pre-election of his dick raging spermatic wars
inside my personal Mexico in this small rich town
of Tequila in mid-June where my body alas convulses
(originally published in the Camel’s Saloon, 8/12)
