Vavavoom, The Mad-bitten Cunnilinguist

I say yes to the va-va-voom in me. Mad-bitten cunnilinguist. Brossa by bar light, she courts Pakistani queens, mellifluously wagging tongue, tit-talking her way into getting diamonds. I long for the literary bimbo, lesbo-a-go-go. In my dreams she is Susan Minot reading passage from LUST. Mary Gaitskill at Texier's loft canoodling a kitten. Sometimes I rehash memories from failed attempts at making it. Instead of the quick in - out, I dick-tap like Vladmir draft-typing Lolita. Amoureuse d'amour! Je regarde les femmes en le train. God-whipped! Torn between the cold showers and handfuls of torturous ass

Street hassle – Peripatetic Latina outside my window on the grounds with the broken trees and dried branches doing her normal inspection. She phones the super and complains about lack of sanity for a view. Overheard her on the phone tough-talking somebody about wanting to come over and kick their ass. Deadpan delivery of mamita talking tough gets me so hot. Makes me think why sweat some art entitled chick when "miss thing" outside my window is like what?

Sitting in waiting area of public office in the Bronx, early to mid- twenty something black girl walks up leaving. I nod hello. She smiles. I think to myself to win her over I better have a good paying job. Take her to parties in Brooklyn, Queens, Long Island. Saturday nights we better be at the club. Sex better be good. Mature black woman walks up leaving. I say hello. She responds in kind. I think to myself. I don't have to try to win her over. One look in the eye and she knows what she wants. I can be myself. Uphold an erudite stature. Live like a King to her Queen. What was the Euro American art girl! I compete with her ego. I stress art. I stress sex. I stress my status as an art persona. I endure friendships with pseudo intellectuals. I'm paraded around openings and parties as "Kofi", Magical Negro, Afro Futurist

how a subway ride becomes testimonial as to how I have elevated my status checking out girls thinking maybe in a past life I would have but sitting in the here and now looking at you thinking of a romp it feels like reading an American novel written by a super entitled woman with no true sensibility, lack of imagination and I'm tired and feel a little sickened by it as if I drank warm white wine when what I needed was a failed attempt at a pick up line from a stranger who suits me because she made an attempt and what makes love interesting is when someone takes a chance, makes a move, not the forced suggestion, rather something sincere which makes you feel special, wanted, admired