Poetry

Sex Slave in a Rubber Suit

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 POETRY

      

Mardi Gras, 1995

We must be bored to be made voyeurs

of this public display of affection.

The master walks you like a pit bull —

leash taut from straining — up and down

the gay section of Bourbon Street.

Polished with a coat of vaseline

your rubber suit glistens

like black patent leather shoes.

The sun is your tormenter;

you have mastered the master

whose whip beats impotently

on your legs — you slough off

pain like a dead layer of skin.

A college boy steps out of the crowd,

you bend over — a bow for the master.

Handed a 2×4, the boy swings

as if smashing a baseball

over Jackson Square into the Mississippi.

All we hear is thunk of wood on muscle;

awed, we stop drinking Hurricanes.

©2000

Jennifer Johnson and Nerve.com