The Tight Thong of J. Alice Prufrock
Theesa panti que resemble dentalia flosse
Donned a personas infantilia y flirtatio.
Make'a you say, "Who's the bosse?"
Mi respondo — "What is the ratio
Of flesh to fabrica there?"
I shall wear them to prove my tenacio!
We are ho's, then, you and I,
With our rears spread out down to our thighs
Like blowfish seeking darker waters;
We are hoes, who, aging rather quickly now,
Have lost what we're endowed —
Bosom, ass, and tightly belted skirts
Give way to birthdays and rich desserts:
German chocolate and soufflé are to blame,
But my wardrobe's the same
As it was when metabolism ran high…
Oh, do not ask, "Will it fit?"
It only hurts me when I sit.
At the party, their faces waxen,
The women speak of Michael Jackson.
The lacy string that works its way so deep into my crack
The lacy thread that rides its way so far into my crack
Poked its fingers in the quiet places of my crotch,
Stood rigid inside, despite my attack,
Brought such expressions to my face as found in courtrooms,
Wrapped 'round those kinky hairs, then made a sudden yank,
A tear welled up, brimmed on layers of mascara,
Still, I held true to my status — oldest living "skank."
True, there are no panty lines
With the lacy string that slides along my cheeks,
Working its way so far into my crack;
There are no lines, there are no lines,
When I wear the pants that look like paint on my obliques;
No lines on my chinos or my white slacks,
And no lines for all the skirts and dresses
That made promises to us from the racks;
No lines for you and no lines for me,
And "no line" is only part of the reason,
I wear these small panties out of my season,
Dolled up like a showgirl for all to see.
At the party, their faces waxen,
The women speak of Michael Jackson.
And without these lines
I wonder, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"
To wear the pair that makes them stare,
Although they know my bum's so bare?
[They whisper: "I certainly hope this is only a whim!"]
My snakeskin coat, my boots so high, they touch my hem,
My striped turquoise halter, sans bra, shocks them —
[They whisper: "She's lost in time, it is no whim!"]
Do I dare
Act my age?
Wear panties in my size
And skirts below my knees in shades of beige?
For I have tried them all by now, tried them all:
Tried control top, briefs, and boy shorts,
I've gone commando as a last resort;
I've tried, but I return to panties fashioned for dolls
Who have secrets they are desperate to keep.
I missed the way they creep!
And I have tried briefs, I said, tried them all —
Those panties that cover more than they ought to,
Keep me in a satiny vice, smothering 'neath the fabric,
Here I ask a favor, and it's none too small —
An untamed maverick
Should flap free, so please let my cheeks do!
And let my panties creep!
And I have tried control top, I said, tried them all —
Control top that compacts my rolls — a row of salty fish
[Why should I hide my form inside like this?]
See the lines beneath my dress
That makes me so digress?
Control top that pinches, crams, and cuts so deep into my guts.
Please let my panties creep!
And let them ride my crack!
Let me say, I've gone most days through a crowded Macy's store
And search for knickers better than my own
The ones you say I outgrew so many years ago
I dream of days of old when I was firm
And wore my little thong with so much pride.
And control top, briefs, or French cut never came between us!
We two were so free.
Young…loose…oh, but now I'm trapped, you see,
Social politics, and my size now, "plus"
Makes things so confusing for my fashion.
I was raised to always scrimp, and save, and ration.
All of these panties are in such excess to me
Fabric to spare [even for expanding rears] and lines that draw attention,
I'm no Calvin Klein — it's not my intention,
To interfere with the trends of youthful hoochies,
But the lusty Sirens call me forth to shake my hoochie coochie,
And to them, I must concede.
Most days I can convince myself of this,
As I streak my graying hair one more time,
The fake tan, the fake boobs, and the botox cannot be crimes,
As long as I can keep one stiletto from the grave,
It is reason enough for me to misbehave,
To speak low and rasp as after several cigarettes,
That I've rolled into little questions,
To say: "I am Cindy Crawford, come from the dead,
Come back to shame you all; remind you of regrets" —
Perhaps, all my on-lookers with their nails painted red,
Will point: "How long can she last, place your bets!
Will she wither beneath her regrets?"
But for comfort, for the sexiness it brings,
It's worth their ridicule,
After the boy shorts, the French cuts, and the bikini briefs,
After the visible panty lines and the suffocatingly modest layers of silken fabric —
Such prudence makes me sick! —
Give me the thong whose straps cut deep into my skin!
I must feel the lacy floss burrow down into my ass cheeks again:
It's worth their ridicule,
Even if she, with her nails painted red and skirt long, sings
Turning toward my ear, but loud enough for all to hear:
"How long can she last, place your bets!
Will she wither beneath her regrets?"
. . .
No! I am not Mary Magdalene, nor am I trying to be;
I'm not the woman sitting at the well
So, those without spots, cast stones at my cell,
These are only words, I know,
I wish I believed they were true,
Can a self-proclaimed ho have her own measure of pride;
An aging prom queen — her reign past due;
With only the postman in which to "confide" —
Through rain, sleet, and snow.
Oh my thong…Oh my thong…
Together forever the two of us belong.
Take my grease paint. Take my liquid diet.
Only give me my thong and I will be quiet.
Or perhaps I'll join the forces; perhaps I'll start a riot.
Dressed for any occasion, I may surprise you.
I have seen them marching through the streets
Their cause going before them in a cloud
Of fragrant smoke — a billowing shroud.
They are warring for this or warring for that,
I will courageously join them, in my own right,
And fight for my fashion, albeit too tight.
