The Itty-Bitty Fuck-Me Dress

It came in a six-by-six inch box,
rolled like a pair of stockings.

The sixty bucks my husband spent on it
would have covered me better.

Just enough black lycra to cover
my tits and my ass and

all the rest left bare: nothing but gooseflesh
on my stomach, thighs, breastbone, back.




I wore it for the first time
one 90 degree night in Tampa.

The cab driver went the wrong way
down a one way street,

twice.

I don't know why he couldn't drive straight
even with his eyes stuck to the rear-view mirror.

I wasn't a moving target: my damp thighs
were stuck to the vinyl back seat.


Later, at the restaurant, the waiter
eagerly explained the specials to my breasts:

"Les fruites du mer" he sputtered
and I felt the spray on my chest.

I could only smile at my husband
and point to my lycra-wrapped boobs:

"What do you think they'll have?"




The second time I wore it
was New Year's Eve at Les's Lounge.

I hung my coat and watched
a few jaws drop, swing, eat some air.

During the New Year's Raffle, my name
was called and made the mistake of

running

up to the stage to collect my prize.

My breasts were told they could have
any damn thing up there.

So I told them to take the coffee mug.


I've decided people don't talk to my face
because they can't hear over the low

"fuckmefuckmefuckme" mutter

of that tight little black dress.

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