[25.10.06] [Utahna Faith]
POETRY BY ELIZABETH ELLEN
"but he's not saying anything. he's staring, openmouthed. / I look down and his dick's hard again, harder / this time than before. / I should be pissed off, but I don't give a shit. / I push him down on the bed and mount."
by elizabeth ellen
"something's not quite right," he says,
pausing before he fucks me. hovering,
at the point of entry; his dick half an inch
from my pussy, three seconds from
being inside me.
"I don't know," he continues, his hand on my chin,
twisting it left and then right. "I think it's your hair.
it's too light, too clean, too iridescent."
he extricates his torso from
my thighs. excuses himself to the bathroom,
backpack thrown over his shoulder like he's riding the rails.
when he returns there's something in his
hand, but I can't make out what.
"here," he says, tossing the mystery object
in my direction. "why don't you give it a try?"
I catch it with one hand, a goddamn
box of clairol.
son of a bitch.
"don't worry," he says. "it'll rinse out.
three washes and it's gone...
"like you?" I ask.
he doesn't reply.
I look at the lady on the front.
she looks good,
like she just got fucked;
and maybe she did.
maybe she knows Sergio, here;
maybe she dyed her hair blue/black just for him
then sucked his purple dick.
"so you going to do it or what?" he asks, impatient now,
his dick going limp
like a three day old balloon.
"I don't know," I say. "I've never had any complaints before.
what if I dye it now, for you, and things don't work out?
then I'll have to dye it back next week
if I want to get laid. you're the only
motherfucker in town
with a penchant for
"what can I say," he says, the crocodile smile spreading across his face
like an oil spill on the beach. real slow, but devastating.
"I have exceptionally good taste."
"or incredibly bad," I say, staring into his
green/gray eyes, the color of seaweed
and just as slippery.
"listen," I tell him. "I'm not walking around town with this shit
in my hair afterward like that applebee's bitch you screwed
last week. everyone in town can tell who you've fucked
by the color of their hair."
"you say that like it's a bad thing," he grins, reminding me
of why he's here in the first place: reptilian charm/amphibious charisma.
he's got it in spades.
son of a bitch.
"I've got a better idea," I say, feeling somewhere beneath me;
searching the space under my bed for last year's
halloween costume. "I went as uma," I explain, pulling the wig down
over my scalp, tucking blonde strands underneath. "you know,
from pulp fiction?"
but he's not saying anything. he's staring, openmouthed.
I look down and his dick's hard again, harder this time than before.
I should be pissed off, but I don't give a shit.
I push him down on the bed and mount.
"you want it now, don't you, baby?" I say, hovering over top him, half
an inch from the tip of his penis, three seconds from having him inside me.
I don't bother waiting for an answer. I ride him good and hard. I fuck him
half an hour, maybe longer. I watch myself in the mirror, my face framed
by a mixture of black and blonde. I look at Sergio. he doesn't seem
to notice. he no longer cares.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Elizabeth Ellen is the editor of Hobart's Short Flight/Long Drive Press. Her chapbook, Before You She Was a Pitbull, is due out from Future Tense this December. She lives in Ann Arbor.