9
Jul
2016
0

Training Bra, Menage a Trois, How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen, The First Time I Gave Cousin Lisa an Orgasm, and Subterranean Lovesick Clues

Poems by Alexis Rhone Fancher

 

Training Bra

A rite of passage, mother says,
even though I’m prepubescent and
flat as Texas.

The saleswoman at Bullocks Wilshire
measures me across the chest, and again,
just below my breasts.
“30AA,” she declares.

On the box it says “Training Bra.”

A tiny rosebud blossoms in the crisscross
between the “cups,”
made of some stretchy material.
Guaranteed to expand as you did.

What if my breasts never grow?
I stare at my naked chest in the mirror and
contemplate that dismal future.

The saleswoman hooks the bra in back,
sticks my arms through the straps,
eases them over my shoulders.

Lean into it.” She demonstrates,
bending at the waist,
doing a modified shimmy. “You try.”

The bra rides up above my nipples. And stays there.
In training for what? This is a mistake.
I want out,
but her cool hands restrain me.

She adjusts the straps, eases the fabric down
over my breasts.
“Take a look,” she says.

The fluorescents burn brighter as
I grow incandescent, dream breasts burgeoning.
I watch my nipples
contract beneath the fabric.

The girl in the mirror stands straighter,
settles into the harness, reveling in the outline
it makes against her skin.

The bra embraces me like a boyfriend.

I can see my future, the boy who’ll explore
my geography in the back seat of his car,
his eagerness pressed against me like love.

I hug myself and see
the sudden cleavage I’ve created,
breasts straining against the cloth,

see the sweet havoc in my boyfriend’s eyes as
he cups my voluptuous breasts in his hands,
dives face-first into his salvation.

 

(Menage a Trois) Tonight I Dream Of My First True Love

“Trembling, like Paris, on the brink of an obscure and formidable revolution.” —Victor Hugo

It feels like a competition. I lay between the two of them, sweltering, like Paris in August. Gene’s lanky six foot four inches hangs off the foot of the bed, Brett’s dancer-body liquid, compact, is curled into mine, his hard need pressed against my thigh. I’m not sure how I ended up here, in love with a man who wants me to fuck his best friend while he watches. Now the three of us crowd in my too-small bed. I stare at a black and white photo of Montmartre on the ceiling. Brett trembles like needle to the pole. Van Morrison’s on the radio, having sex in the green grass with the brown-eyed girl. The ceiling fan rotates counterclockwise, but we’re all sweating. I should have moved the beds together when my roommate moved out, but it’s too late, now Gene’s spread my thighs, and pinned his best friend against the wall, and now he says nothing while Brett watches him slam into me. I need him to scream I love you! again and again like he did before. But Gene’s eyes are locked with Brett’s. I see what I’m not meant to see; I am disposable, nothing more than a deep hole. A hot rain pelts the bedroom window. Gene pours into me like runoff. His tears look like raindrops on glass. I turn his face so he can see what he is losing. I want him to watch his best friend as he arches his dancer’s back and comes in my mouth, his spasms an arabesque. I pull back my hair and dip my head, trembling, like Paris, on the brink of an obscure and formidable revolution.

How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen

  1. My father hated him.
  2. So his best friend, J.R., picked me up. Shook my daddy’s hand at the door.
    Promised me back by midnight.
  3. Daddy thought I was obedient, a good girl.
  4. It was hot, even for August.
  5. R.’s parents were in Vegas, so he loaned us their bedroom.
    5 a) They had a king-sized bed.
  6. Diana Ross and the Supremes were singing Baby Love.
  7. R. watched cartoons in the den.
  8. Michael’s middle finger furrowed between my thighs.
  9. I felt that familiar wetness.
  10. Except it wasn’t my finger.
  11. I remembered where I was and closed my eyes.
  12. He pulled down my panties.
  13. Pushed up my skirt.
  14. No one had put their lips down there before.
  15. No one.
  16. It felt delicious.
  17. I hoped he liked my scent.
  18. There were lilies on the nightstand.
  19. “Your hair smells so good,” he mumbled.
  20. He was holding his cock while he licked me.
  21. I had never come before.
    21 a) Not like that.
  22. It was then I knew I loved him.
  23. He tasted like me.
  24. His dick grew too big for my mouth.
  25. When he entered me, it didn’t hurt.
  26. “I thought you were a virgin,” he said.
  27. I thought of the dildo that pleasured me in secret.
  28. “Horseback riding,” I said.
  29. When the rubber broke, he promised he wouldn’t come inside me.
  30. He promised.

 

The First Time I Gave Cousin Lisa An Orgasm

We’d been playing doctor for months by then,
her huge breasts a magnet, her soft mons

a refuge from my impending adolescence. Some
nights, unable to dream, I’d touch myself like Lisa,

replay the us, hidden between twin beds in her pink,
frou frou bedroom, my aunt across the hall, making dinner,

the door half open, my fingers three thick in her daughter’s
pussy, the pin point of Lisa’s nipple stuffed in my mouth.

I’d suck. She’d moan. I’d explore. She’d explode.
It was the most powerful I’d ever be.

The first time I made cousin Lisa come
we looked into each other’s aloneness; the boys

who didn’t want us yet, the girls who shunned us
like they saw something we didn’t.

When I let myself remember, here’s what I see:
me: on my knees, between the beds,

the bounty of Lisa spread before me
like a feast, her steady rocking against my wrist

a sharp pleasure, the rug burn that my knees endured
a penance, prepaid.

 

Subterranean Lovesick Clues

1.
I remember listening
to Bob Dylan in Donna Melville’s attic
bedroom, 3 a.m. We were
drinking her daddy’s bourbon, playing
Subterranean Homesick Blues over and over,
memorizing it word by mumbled word.
Johnny’s in the basement,
mixing up the medicine, I’m on the pavement, thinkin’ ‘bout
the government… Donna passed me the bottle. The bourbon made me sick but I took a swig anyway. I didn’t want
her to think I was a lightweight. The word might get
around.

Maggie comes fleet foot, face full of black soot…

Donna took the bottle to her lips, her moon face flushed,
beautiful. She was my first Catholic and I was in
awe of the certainty of her faith, couldn’t take my eyes off
the lucky gold crucifix that dangled between her breasts.

“What do you think Freewheelin’ means?”
We were on the bed, pretending to study
the album cover, Dylan and some blond on
a New York street, looking happy. “I think it means fuck the
consequences, just do what you want,” I said.
Drunk, reckless, soon I’m ready to do what I want –
let my hand slip from the
album jacket to Donna’s left breast. Her sharp intake of breath. My tom-tom heart.

Look out kid, it’s somethin’ you did God knows when but you’re doin’ it again…

These were the moments I lived for at 13: the hot, disheveled solace
of Donna’s attic room, her clueless family asleep below,
Dylan’s growl on the stereo,
Donna in my arms, her lips on mine, her tongue down my throat,
Fingers fumbling with my zipper.

2.
Get dressed get blessed try to be a success…

3.
Donna hits the Confessional.
“Father, forgive me for I have sinned.”

I am that sin. I listen in.

“I kissed a girl,” says my girl.
“You’ll go to hell,” says the desiccated
man in the box.

4.
light yourself a candle…
you can’t afford the scandals…

5.
The Gospel According To St. Donna:

She is the innocent,
I am the sin.
I am the bad girl
That let the sin in.

6.
I remember listening
to Bob Dylan in Donna Melville’s attic
bedroom, 3 a.m., the last time I drank
her daddy’s bourbon, the last time we ever touched.
This was the moment I dreaded at 14: Afraid of
the spark, afraid of her own ignition –
Donna changed the rules.
Jesus had entered the bedroom.

“See ya,” Donna said as she walked me
out of her life.
“Soon?” I asked. ( A girl can dream, right?)
“Sure,” she said.

7.
She didn’t call.
I didn’t call back. 

You don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows…


Alexis Rhone Fancher is the author of How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen and other heart stab poems, (Sybaritic Press, 2014) and State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies, (KYSO Flash Press, 2015). Find her poems in Rattle, The MacGuffin, Slipstream, Fjords, H_NGM_N, Hobart, Ragazine, Chiron Review, Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles, Quaint Magazine, Blotterature, Menacing Hedge, and elsewhere.

Since 2013 she’s been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and four Best of The Net awards. Alexis is photography editor of Fine Linen Literary Magazine and
poetry editor of Cultural Weekly, where she publishes “The Poet’s Eye,” a monthly photo essay about her ongoing love affair with Los Angeles. www.alexisrhonefancher.com

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