October 18, 2013

The Hot Pink Thong Rant. ~ Gabriellae Biscaye {Adult}

Ah, I know what you’re thinking.

Another blog-poem about my gaping loneliness,

My difficulty to make friends,

My attempt at picking up the pieces of my wild broken heart,
Solving the puzzle,
Being so fickle with words.

Or perhaps,
My self consciousness, defiantly declared!

“I wish men would come up to me,” whispers the pretty busty blonde.

Why, yes, I do.

I wish men would come up to me,
And look me straight in the eye
Wanting to get into my mind, the me,
Rather than my pants
Or miniskirt.

I really wish men would come up to me,
Not with developed strategies,
But to develop humanity, start a story,
Longing to be equal-leveled, not above or below
Me and my body.

Without desiring, expecting,
(Psst—we all do that.)
I may be the queen of expectations and fantasies,
but I’m warning you for your sake—

So that you don’t get let down
Cause I’m not down.

I wish men would come up to me, ya know,
Not ’cause I’m a fresh piece of meat
But ’cause I’m someone you’d un-superficially want to meet,
Greet, treat, pull out my seat, rub my feet?

So what if you can see a hint
Of my hot pink thong?
Your boxers make their appearance
(Bulging out from your jean tops)

On the regular,
Doesn’t mean you are available
For an imaginary strip tease,
Nor that I think less of you,
It doesn’t mean a thing.

Just as when I laugh and say, “I’m not that kinda girl”
It doesn’t mean a thing to you,
It’s barely an obstacle
On this mad race we partake in,
Wherein you take
“You’re a great guy,”
To signify 3-days-or-less-till-we-get-it-on
On your marks. Ready, set, go.

What if I’m not ready?

What if I really, really like you,
But I’m not ready to see your ****
Or for you to see mine, as glorious as both may be.
A glory that climaxes, eclipses, once united.

I know, “You’re a man; you have needs,”
So do I,
If we both want it, that’s fine,
There is such a thing as a line,
Can we draw it?
Or do you have to test it out?

Give it a try, a tumble, forget about the doubt,
even if I shout (“Wait! No!”).

Physically hesitate, stomach pulled in,
Legs to my chest, muttering uncertainties,
With furrowed brows,
Echoing the schoolgirl fear of infections, the feverish frenzies,
The not-just-fun-times
That frequent many a f*ck.

I just wish men would come up to me,
First, without the sex thirst,
is it me, am I expecting the worst?

Yes, I’m alone at the bar,
Yes, I’m singing “Sex Bomb,” dancing to reggaeton,
By myself,
Cause that’s what alone means,
Not that I’m there waiting for you or anyone else
To reinforce the fact that I look damn fine
Or to offer to show me a better time, take me out
Or take me home
I got here alright; I can handle it without a shot from your handle,
I don’t need your help, your hand
around my waist, restlessly wanting, waiting,

Asking me if I’m hungry cause your stomach
And other organs are growling endlessly.

I want to make jokes
About boobs and bumping uglies,
And not have you think, winning, I’m so DTF.
Down to F…

Fly? Flirt? Fart?

Forget about it.

Don’t you dare tell me,
“You shouldn’t wear that If you want to be treated right.”

Do you hear yourself?

If I want to be treated right
As if being treated right should not be a constant,
I wish men would come up to me
With this mantra no matter the matter:

Respect, respect, respect.

Ladies, stop too.

I want you to come up to me, and for me to come to you
Not to throw stones
But take a walk
In her shoe
(‘Cause maybe she has only one and the Prince will come soon?)
Who are we to say we are better than the prostitute?

Let me feel pretty,
Oh so pretty and witty and gay!
And confused.
Or have my tramp-stamp tattoo.

Let us take it off, put it all on,
Bikini or burqa: what’s it to you?

Run through sprinklers on a unknown lawn,
Wear huge glasses, sun-or-not,
Sneakers with dresses, heels on the sand,
Endlessly blow-dry our hair with a Maxim in mind
Perhaps emulating the babe on the cover,
Not realizing there’s really nothing to covet,
Hey, even your honey says we should make nothing of it…

Except, then, as I’m crammed with exams,
And cramming crackers along with knowledge,
Comes the comment
Not that we’re wonderful, we’re the only one
But that, “Oh sugar, your tummy pouch is getting’ bigger…”
Doesn’t sound like you dig my figure.

I wish men would come up to me man,
Without seeing a setback, thinkin’, “She could use a tan.”
I could, yeah,
And I can also have chub bordering my belly
And you see it.

It’s not gross,
It’s pizza.
Or maybe those low-fat bull-crap snacks?

Whatever, these societal flaws
are deeper than the skin and are about more
than just bein’ thin.

They ain’t gonna leave you
by simply running a few miles on the track—
Which I do for me, beyond the body,
‘Cause my salty sweat is refreshing
When it rushes from my forehead to my lips–
No, I’m not just jogging to eliminate my hips.

I want to stay strong and soft,
Gentle and fierce,
Thanks to my mama, papa, girls, peers.

I wish men would come up to me,
And not think “big” or “beginning” but see
the bigger picture.

Speakin’ of pics:
The publically posted sultry self-pics
Shouldn’t make us feel good about ourselves,
But sometimes they work (though usually not).

They’re usually taken when waiting by that phone
And somewhere between that never-arriving call and
Wallowing in self pity,
Comes Facebook (or whatever else is hip these days)
Which, let’s face it,
Is wallowing in self-pity.

I wish men would come up and know
Saying yes to the date, a kiss, a spank
Doesn’t commit me to the morning after,
Or the alter two years later, with a baby in tow…
Unless I want it to.

Let’s all of us, define marriage,

Before proposing it or voting against others rejoicing in it.

Too few are those who really do.

I won’t get too controversial,
‘Cause then this rant won’t ever stop.

But don’t—and I’m talking to ladies and gents and all in between and out of it—
Go near my vagina
If you don’t want the mind.

Choices and sacrifices, brilliance and hurt
That accompanies the momentary
sat-us-faction, the fact that it’s now us.

Haters, players, there’s really no need
to knock us down,
Our cramps already do,
Womankind is made of more than flesh.

So don’t limit your gaze to examining just that
The flashy, flesh:

Your eyes the camera, the wink, the flash
which I prefer to the wide-eyed stare,
This ain’t a film, it’s just flesh!

Please expand, extend, explore your senses
And absorb more,
So that when I don’t want you back
Or get off track,
You won’t say,

“She’s just a whore.”

“She’s just a tease.”

I scoff at that—
‘Cause you didn’t bring me to my knees,
But my cramps sure as hell did
A blow to the pride for both?

The life between a woman’s legs,
Has this power to produce, to cause pain, to please,
But most importantly, it cycles, it bleeds, it cleans
Like any mother, human, lover.

Encourage it.

It’s you. It’s me. It’s we.

Stop judging, hating
My body and brain
They’ll never be yours.

I wish men would come up to me,
And treat me like their equal,
Not just separate,
Treat me not like they think I want,
How they would want if they were me,
But how they know I want,
Because they know me,
They’ve asked me.
It’s not how the law and its politics say I feel about it,
It’s a shame, really, we live in a society
Where everyone thinks they know Victoria’s Secret.

And that I am Victoria,
And that they will be victorious…
Looks like they don’t know shit.

Maybe their minds are clouded.

They’re getting distracted,
Especially cause I’m wearing that hot pink thong.

(Oh—it’s lacy too.)

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Assist Ed: Michelle Margaret/Ed: Bryonie Wise

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