drag king: a woman who takes on the character, attributes and persona of a man, often on stage but at times also off stage
I will see you on Thursday. But I won't. Not quite. On Thursday I will see an aspect of you. One of your faces. The notorious Don Juan on whose arm I will step through the door of the party is only a part of you, and I never quite know how big a part of you I am seeing when I see him. He looks at the world through your eyes, but while your eyes communicate openly with my heart his eyes only grip my cunt. He operates that way, your Don Juan.
I will be different on Thursday too. I will be in high heels and slinky dress, claws and nails and draping myself over him and being his woman in a way I am not your woman.
No acting. Just the way I relate to him. An aspect, again.
So we'll hold each other, and we'll look at each other, and we'll dance and cling and cause a minor scandal on the dance floor as we've done before, but who will know if we are relating as aspects or as wholes, and who will know how our selves underneath the drama touch one another?
Do you and I touch when he and I touch?
I've heard traces of him in your speech. I've seen his movements when you're on the dancefloor. I know you carry him with you. I'm not sure he carries you.
I'm not certain his body holds your memories of touching me, kissing me, feeling me, holding me, fucking me.
Will he let you look through his eyes for a moment to tell me how you feel?
Or will you hide behind his cocksure gaze?
Which of you decides what happens?
I want to feel your hair again, silky soft in my hands, but his hair will be slicked back with wax. I want to smell your skin, but I suppose his skin smells different.
Does it?
If I turned out the lights, and if my hands were bound, would I know which of you was with me?
Would you take turns with me? Or would you meld?
I want you to fuck me in all your shapes and all your ways. And oh yes, I like not knowing what is what and which is which and who you are.
Poetry by Princess Charles
Read 658 times
Written on 2009-08-15 at 13:17
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a honeyed web of drag lust - act one: she's a king
I will see you on Thursday. But I won't. Not quite. On Thursday I will see an aspect of you. One of your faces. The notorious Don Juan on whose arm I will step through the door of the party is only a part of you, and I never quite know how big a part of you I am seeing when I see him. He looks at the world through your eyes, but while your eyes communicate openly with my heart his eyes only grip my cunt. He operates that way, your Don Juan.
I will be different on Thursday too. I will be in high heels and slinky dress, claws and nails and draping myself over him and being his woman in a way I am not your woman.
No acting. Just the way I relate to him. An aspect, again.
So we'll hold each other, and we'll look at each other, and we'll dance and cling and cause a minor scandal on the dance floor as we've done before, but who will know if we are relating as aspects or as wholes, and who will know how our selves underneath the drama touch one another?
Do you and I touch when he and I touch?
I've heard traces of him in your speech. I've seen his movements when you're on the dancefloor. I know you carry him with you. I'm not sure he carries you.
I'm not certain his body holds your memories of touching me, kissing me, feeling me, holding me, fucking me.
Will he let you look through his eyes for a moment to tell me how you feel?
Or will you hide behind his cocksure gaze?
Which of you decides what happens?
I want to feel your hair again, silky soft in my hands, but his hair will be slicked back with wax. I want to smell your skin, but I suppose his skin smells different.
Does it?
If I turned out the lights, and if my hands were bound, would I know which of you was with me?
Would you take turns with me? Or would you meld?
I want you to fuck me in all your shapes and all your ways. And oh yes, I like not knowing what is what and which is which and who you are.
Poetry by Princess Charles
Read 658 times
Written on 2009-08-15 at 13:17
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Rob Graber |
