Tequila, Mexico

by Devlin De La Chapa

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