Cinderella

I worship Vivienne Westwood,
you exclaimed.
Cinderella,
were we but sixteen then?

When you would dress up in front of me.
In your salmon pink fishnets, canary yellow patent mary janes, and lavander shirt dress.
were we but sixteen then?

When you asked me if I think Clint Eastwood or Marlon Brando enjoyed blowjobs immensely.

And if the Queen ever spreads her legs.



You would demand intently of me to brutalize you.

Rape you.

"I want to be your whore".
- You would point out.
- between smoke rings and soda gulps . . .

we were so young then.



Slipping into our glass cage. All fragile and raw.

You treated me like a tampon.

AND I LOVED IT.

24/7.




Cinderella.

You're back.

We're not sixteen anymore.


But we can be.


Tonight. You would pull me back to your red and white calico bed.

Then we would fuck like cats until noon.








For now.

You would paint my nipples gold.

And we would say our prayers
- like the good children that we are . . .