California Girls by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
We scramble into your white Mustang
top cranked down, ready to roar
November - December 2008 | Naughty & Nice
We scramble into your white Mustang
top cranked down, ready to roar
At this moment in her young life Laura was experiencing the most undignified of rituals, one familiar to many college girls before her—the walk of shame.
There’s no escaping our
parking lines and the times I
stood alone looking down
wondering.
Funny how the simplest of events can cause severe maladjustments in one’s life.
Without a doubt,
trapped inside out.
The sun’s
Eye, watches
Joy unfold
Here was Candi at Lord & Taylor’s Paper Round-Up Boutique at last. She had been waiting for this moment for months.
My husband is in the backyard talking to the person I hate most in the world.
“You know what they’re for?” the salesman asked as he noticed me examining a wicked pair of gold peep toe stilettos.
It gives me a chance to dream
in my own time and way.
Every year at this time I am reminded that I am named after a fictitious feline.
The sommelier pours a mouthful into the deep glass, holds it aloft by the stem, and swirls the wine briskly. The light dances in the translucent carnelian as the wine pirouettes.
I guess I just have that kind of face. You know the one; the sister-daughter-girlfriend-wife-lover-chiropractor of that everyone thinks they know, but don’t.
That you,
someone I barely knew,
would love me.
How Father Brennan, a good Irish-Catholic from the farmlands of Iowa could find himself sitting in an airport hotel room in Paris with a silly little condom wavering in his hand the Lord only knew.
The jazz age babes
boop-boop be-duped
their way
out of kitchens
Naughty and nice are words proclaimed
By parents to their children in holiday style
You see there’s a jolly old elf
And he keeps a large file
His lips are soft as they ambush mine and his arms are strong as they drape over my neck, giving me the chance to stare at the tattooed biceps emerging from his tight black t-shirt.
School teachers in small rural southern towns shouldn’t wear slutty clothes to the gas station. Everyone knows that rule here in Shallotte. Too bad I broke it July 4th weekend.
I roll my finger through his silky black curls
Ooh so smooth silky black curls
The sound of her saccharine voice
for the first time in ten years
brings the hair on the back
of my neck to full attention.