We are together in Mexico but you alone are the epicenter of a testosterone storm cloud.
A thunderous burst of mariachi music:
Men dance
the cockroach (stompspin, stompspin)
and we’re stuck, two white girls without rhythm.
You press your lips together and they swell with sex:
Eat me
I’m a pink-frosted cupcake
Take a lick
You dare them. Don’t even need to say a word before they rain down:
howls
and ow-ows that hurt as they pelt my skin.
I am in
the way.
Figures:
I am twice
your size, after all.
This flood of men falls upon us, on you. You laugh, flipping your amber waves of perky blonde, an American flag flapping for the beautiful, dear sister, fucking bitch.
Their pick-up lines snap sharp, drag on. Crunchy, cheesy:
I want a
Taco Bell crunch wrap.
I’m sure
you could order your usual:
burrito sans meat, cheese, beans, or tortilla.
Caught in the undertow, you stand tall but clutch my hand.
Your
bird-bone elbows flap flail as we swim away through spiced smoke.
You
doggie paddle, breaststroke(d).
Their
eyes stick to you. Flies
doomed
to jerk, t-t-twitch on rich skin.
I lose you in the crush of the crowd, unseen in your shadow.
But I find a smile burns away the salt that rims my lips, as the sweat of one stranger
licks down
my spine.
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