He pulls into the driveway
outside it's thick and humid, the Georgia border
always hits like a warm washcloth.
Inside his truck
the air conditioning pumps clean and privileged icicles,
the skin on his arm smooth and thick
my hand touching his long thigh not an accident.
His gaze rides up my arm
and then he says,
"Is this because you're curious?"
For a moment, I have no idea what this fine, fine, fine-ass man is talking about.
Twenty years ago, my father is opening the front door to a boy in a collared shirt,
looking him up and down,
"Couldn't you find anyone from our side of town?"
Fifteen years ago, I am dancing my way through college in a pair of thigh-high boots,
sequined garter wrapped around my first two hundred dollars tonight,
my nipples covered with cow-print pasties
(they were the last ones left)
dancing between the thighs of the last man on the left.
I am the last girl left, and his money the same color is still not money enough
south of the Mason-Dixon line.
Ten years ago, my big city lover swivels inside me, that motion white men just don't do.
Where do they learn it?
Standing on corners in hoodies?
"Yo, man, you gots ta swivel in the bitch--"
Shut up, dumb white girl, shut up, your privilege is showing!
Five years ago, nothing's hotter than a Marine,
I think it's the white belt
pulled through his hands, his palms the way I like my coffee and the backs
the way he likes his.
And here and now.
After the carnival.
After Tilt-a-Whirl and Alpine Bobsled, Power Surge and Freak-Out, Giant Wheel and
After the Merry-Go-Round, on which I am always still the princess of all I survey
I survey him next to me, in the driver's seat.
I am this tall and I would like to ride this ride.
Is it because I'm curious?
Yes, I say into his fingers at my lips,
I would like to find out
About your hand on my thigh, my cheek, wrapped around my throat.
I am wondering
What inappropriate and insensitive phrases will fill me to the mouth
when I am filled up with you
I have a desire to investigate,
To see your face cut into little stars
and how you'll die the little death
when I am on my knees, the privilege yours,
not so heavy a burden for one whose lineage was bred to bear--
no empty limbs above awaiting fruit.
Yes, I say, moving my hand to the corner of his collarbone and starting the long slide
I am damn curious.
whipchick always rides the merry-go-round.