Fridaynightcatlady
Sex ed advocate
Hey everyone, just wanted to share a poem I wrote a few years ago. I'd love to hear your thoughts and get any feedback 
Skinny legs
I hold what remains of my drink,
an improvised Harvey Wallbanger, waiting
In the bar, half-flirting.
two men approach me in their dark, worn out suits. They look aged
and overworked. One of them mutters to the other, 'this is what you want?
Some skinny legs?', but even in the noise of blasting 90's music,
in a club where men kiss other men,
I listen.
(I wear my sister's quinceañera dress, a strapless princess cut gown that my mother had made for her as a gift. It's oversized, so in my petite figure I look the way children that play dress up)
I walk with them outside and cover my eyes from
the neon lights of the club,
a big sign that reads 'Manhole'.
They guide me to the parking lot where we get into this old black chevy.
A baby's car seat lays on the floor
looking unused.
(Because the room was filled with music of an old ABBA cassette, I ignored the sound of the car ignition as it parked outside our little barrio, and because I was too busy looking at myself in the mirror, the way my ribs flaunted through the fabric, I didn't notice the shadow of my mother Verónica, aged 56, or the sound of her keys dropping on the floor).
I think he said his name was George or Skip,
in the backseat next to me, the one with the snarky comment.
He’s funny looking, lips chapped
Greasy hair, the kind my mamá would remind us not to talk to in the streets.
‘Téngale cuidado con los pachucos’, something she’d blurt out of her
middle class Mexican background.
But my eyes are fixed on the baby’s seat on the floor.
and I know he’s probably nervous because he moves
uncomfortably in his seat and because he keeps trying to touch me.
So I let him touch me, and he ventures towards the insides of my skirt
and touches my manhood.
(she’s crying because she thinks it's her fault because of that time she bought me a Barbie doll when I was 5, or because she would occasionally call me Juanita because I'd ask her to. Or because my sister was behind her, looking with disgust at a dress that was tailored for her, but was now pressed against the body of that little *** she’d see shoved against the lockers at our school).
But then the car stops in a valley and we're bounded by the silence of trees
and I listen to their heavy breaths as they try to undress.
We do it in the backseat with the car doors open so we get more space,
but I am intoxicated by the smell of older men's cologne.
And while we're doing it,
one of them just yells 'puto' in a very gringo accent.
And I pretend it turns me on so I just nod
and wait for him to finish. And when they're done, we share a cigarette and keep quiet.
We drive back and stop at a McDonald's,
and buy a little kid's meal. Outside,
by the side of the road, two grown men in suits stand together looking in awe.
A couple of harriers devour the remains of a small animal,
its corpse lingers and the blood,
red lipstick, splattered in the concrete.
And so I ask again if the baby seat was theirs.
And then I look at George, and his eyes get all watery because
maybe the kid had died or maybe he didn't really enjoy calling me a 'puto’.
So I lean next to him and lay my head over his chest,
and he lets me.
Skinny legs
I hold what remains of my drink,
an improvised Harvey Wallbanger, waiting
In the bar, half-flirting.
two men approach me in their dark, worn out suits. They look aged
and overworked. One of them mutters to the other, 'this is what you want?
Some skinny legs?', but even in the noise of blasting 90's music,
in a club where men kiss other men,
I listen.
(I wear my sister's quinceañera dress, a strapless princess cut gown that my mother had made for her as a gift. It's oversized, so in my petite figure I look the way children that play dress up)
I walk with them outside and cover my eyes from
the neon lights of the club,
a big sign that reads 'Manhole'.
They guide me to the parking lot where we get into this old black chevy.
A baby's car seat lays on the floor
looking unused.
(Because the room was filled with music of an old ABBA cassette, I ignored the sound of the car ignition as it parked outside our little barrio, and because I was too busy looking at myself in the mirror, the way my ribs flaunted through the fabric, I didn't notice the shadow of my mother Verónica, aged 56, or the sound of her keys dropping on the floor).
I think he said his name was George or Skip,
in the backseat next to me, the one with the snarky comment.
He’s funny looking, lips chapped
Greasy hair, the kind my mamá would remind us not to talk to in the streets.
‘Téngale cuidado con los pachucos’, something she’d blurt out of her
middle class Mexican background.
But my eyes are fixed on the baby’s seat on the floor.
and I know he’s probably nervous because he moves
uncomfortably in his seat and because he keeps trying to touch me.
So I let him touch me, and he ventures towards the insides of my skirt
and touches my manhood.
(she’s crying because she thinks it's her fault because of that time she bought me a Barbie doll when I was 5, or because she would occasionally call me Juanita because I'd ask her to. Or because my sister was behind her, looking with disgust at a dress that was tailored for her, but was now pressed against the body of that little *** she’d see shoved against the lockers at our school).
But then the car stops in a valley and we're bounded by the silence of trees
and I listen to their heavy breaths as they try to undress.
We do it in the backseat with the car doors open so we get more space,
but I am intoxicated by the smell of older men's cologne.
And while we're doing it,
one of them just yells 'puto' in a very gringo accent.
And I pretend it turns me on so I just nod
and wait for him to finish. And when they're done, we share a cigarette and keep quiet.
We drive back and stop at a McDonald's,
and buy a little kid's meal. Outside,
by the side of the road, two grown men in suits stand together looking in awe.
A couple of harriers devour the remains of a small animal,
its corpse lingers and the blood,
red lipstick, splattered in the concrete.
And so I ask again if the baby seat was theirs.
And then I look at George, and his eyes get all watery because
maybe the kid had died or maybe he didn't really enjoy calling me a 'puto’.
So I lean next to him and lay my head over his chest,
and he lets me.
