Monday, July 23, 2012

Ode to the Trailer Park Goddess

I sing an ode to you, trailer park goddess!
You who are only pretty in summer when you are ripe like the peach between your legs.
By winter you will swell with an unwanted child from some half-forgotten, unprotected encounter that could have occurred with any guy for twenty miles.
You are mine, nymphette of Aphrodite!
I invoke your tight, tank top clad breasts that are just a little more than a handful, whose pertness needs no bra to contain them.

That beautiful cut-off encased apple ass, legs so short that your luscious roundness peaks out from the frayed edges of last year's blue jeans.
Cotton candy intoxicates my senses and heightens my appetite for your sensuality, as you ride hard the cusp between maidenhood and motherhood.

You've perfected the ability to walk fine lines--you're coy, yet easy; you demand fine smoke, yet ease your munchies with chili cheese fries and beer from the bar.

You ride the back roads with one guy after another--men and boys alike--too fast for most, fueled by something just short of ethanol from a mason jar.
Your temple is a single wide, with cable TV, and several window units. You dream of a shrine at the strip joint the next town over, but the only pole available to you now is the street light by your brother's pick-up.

But like every goddess, you have your dark side. Kali has nothing on your drunken rages that rend the peace of the trailer park at 3am. In three years, your smile will be gaped from new habits picked up from the hook-up of the week; your sagging boobage will flop out of your tube top as you scoop up a dirty baby that's been knocked over in a fight between your boyfriend and the babydaddy

 You'll be a good goddess and have children stashed all over the place, cared for by relatives--distant and close--while you spread your legs like Dukes mayonnaise. You'll care more about buying hot fries, cigarettes, beer, and whiskey than keeping the children still in your custody fed and clothed.
By thirty, you might as well be a crone, as your deeply wrinkled face smiles at the text message that your oldest is going to be a momma and is awaiting the paternity results from a dozen different dicks.

But for now, my sparkling trailer park goddess with the raucous laugh, powder pink finger nails, and fifty dollars from your momma's food stamps, you are my wet dream of the summer.   

These folks always have an offering of beer and cigs waiting:
Erotic Sensations