Bettie Page, distracting me from the awesomeness of Eugenie de Sade (which is no mean feat) with her particularly maddening juxtaposition of pubic floss and fishnet.
Oh Milla, why do you still dapperishly provoke me so?
I invited you over because I liked
the way your poetry about man
parts rolled off your tongue
when you read aloud in the
writing club I started in our
high school. I also liked your
thighs, and the way your shirt
stretched across your chest
and the cute bird charms you carried
around on a string on your wrist.
I kissed you because you seemed too
shy to kiss me, and your lips were that
lightest of pink that reminded me of
pink lemonade in August and also of
virgins. I pulled your pants down around
your ankles because I was curious to see
what underwear you had deemed appropriate
for this occasion, and also because you
were a vegetarian and I wanted to see
how sweet you would be. I held you
on top of me after because your
eyes were that deep blue of oceans
from postcards and you had a giggle
that reminded me of schoolyard brawls and
your skin was the softest I’d ever felt
since the last girl I’d made love to.
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