Her perfume lingers in the hallway when she passes thru the other girls like her and she is often asked out on dates by the men who pay to see the show Her legs are tender but strong somehow the varicose and spider veins seem invisible underneath the nylons her lips smell of lipstick, the cheap kind bought at the pharmacy near her apartment. Her father was a scoundrel. He use to beat on her mother. She inherited her handsome looks from her mother. All of her life she wanted to be somebody different. Somebody who stood out from the usual masses of human cows that loaded themselves into the machinery of the "everyday mind fuck" In her mind, she was a high class hooker, a wife married to a rich doctor, a high society champagne mixer. She wanted a man to rescue her from her nightmares. He would resemble Ricardo Montalban before the "Fantasy Island" years. Maybe Sean Connery would see her on the stage and recommend her to an agent. That agent would ensure her that she was gonna make it, if only..... if only she could fix the flaws. The flaws are what brought her here. The flaws are what made her more real and more beautiful then the models on the current magazine covers. The men jerked off to her in dirty bathroom stalls. The women felt comfortable around her. They undressed like school girls in a locker room and chatted away as she drifted off into another dream about rich men, French perfumes and cocktail dinners with famous actors and interesting people. The wigs on her dresser collecting dust, the nail filer on her night stand Nylons drying by a wall heater. She stared at herself in the mirror, tucking away the imperfections and hiding the secrets that made her different from everybody else. One more night to dancing, and tomorrow she could buy a new lipstick in a paler shade. She's was gonna make it somehow.......
When I was younger I had the strength. And now that I'm older, I have the experience. You would think with that combined, I could be a thoroubred...but instead, I prefer to be a unicorn, roaming in an open field all to myself. The image of Rita Moreno in a cotton dress reflects this thought like a mirror. She's a unicorn too!
hands in your pocket, flames in your head you walk down the street, pass the vacant church
where the melted hearts land
the smell of urine on the sidewalk, broken glass
pigeons seeking shelter on the telephone line
you take no pity on this filthy day
the liquor store sells spirits
sugar addiction and love quenched
gay porn and the classifieds
the music shifts in your pocket
he sings of your mercury mouth
she inspects with cloudy visions
torn pockets and lose thread
the cut on the tip of her finger
You walk the street searching with a sad hunger your heart, your head, the heat
two passing ships on a midnight ocean
hands in your pocket, flames in your head
I was the first girl in school to wear a bra. I was ten years old. Ashamed of my curves, I hid myself in bulky sweaters and walked in an awkward way, like a baby giraffe, sulking away from the cat calls. At 17, I decided to re-shape my eyebrows, which resembled a hairy caterpillar. I was in love with liquid eyeliner, and mastered it while sitting on the toilet seat on a Saturday afternoon, going "over and over" until the line was straight and smooth. The women I looked up to were classy, sexy, stylish and mysterious. I wanted to be like those ladies. Then one day I saw her! I was 17 years old. I walked into the house of an aging playboy who had an extensive movie collection in a room converted to house his trinkets, trophies and movie memorabilia. The poster on the wall was obvious in it's sex appeal. She was tough looking. Beautiful. Exotic features and a robust chest. She was not afraid to have curves. She displayed them the way somebody displays their switchblade, right before they slice you. I was in awe of her because she didn't look like the kind of woman who would stare at the sidewalk while waiting for the "walk sign" to appear. Her name was Tura Satana. A cult actress, who starred in some memorable racy films. I saw her image again in my early twenties when I grew into my own sensuality. I imagined that she was a tender hearted woman with a strong laugh. She probably gave good advice on men, shoes and spices. In my young naive mind, I imagined Tura was a superhero for the girls who weren't talked about in Vogue, Elle and Cosmo. We had curves, damn it! We weren't the women designers had on their minds in their spring and fall collections. We weren't the women that Hollywood wanted to cast as leading roles. We hated diets, wore high heels to the corner store and loved our arched eyebrows and natural cleavage. We spoke a different language and probably scared Bambi. Tura Satana remained an icon in a world that so rapidly forgets the original birds and gives props to the nameless starlets that pose along for the latest ride. She managed to keep her self a mystery. When I think of Tura Satana, she's leaning against a car, sun shining down upon her, while she looks on, unto a dusty road ahead, eager to break some laws and hearts. An original "bad ass", she was in a class of her own. My baby sister reminds me of this kind of woman. Brassy, sassy and not to be messed with. I thought of her today, with her big wavy hair, and her curves. My sister's refusal to buy into the belief that "Thin is in". What matters is confidence. And mix that with intelligence, class and sass and you got yourself a special kind of lady. To Tura Satana, who rode into our hearts with Faster Pussycat, kill, kill! May you reach your peaceful destination in god speed. To dangerous curves!
I was the first girl in school to wear a bra. I was ten years old. Ashamed of my curves, I hid myself in bulky sweaters and walked in an awkward way, like a baby giraffe, sulking away from the cat calls. At 17, I decided to re-shape my eyebrows, which resembled a hairy caterpillar. I was in love with liquid eyeliner, and mastered it while sitting on the toilet seat on a Saturday afternoon, going "over and over" until the line was straight and smooth. The women I looked up to were classy, sexy, stylish and mysterious. I wanted to be like those ladies. Then one day I saw her! I was 17 years old. I walked into the house of an aging playboy who had an extensive movie collection in a room converted to house his trinkets, trophies and movie memorabilia. The poster on the wall was obvious in it's sex appeal. She was tough looking. Beautiful. Exotic features and a robust chest. She was not afraid to have curves. She displayed them the way somebody displays their switchblade, right before they slice you. I was in awe of her because she didn't look like the kind of woman who would stare at the sidewalk while waiting for the "walk sign" to appear. Her name was Tura Santana. A cult actress, who starred in some memorable racy films. I imagined that she was also a tender hearted woman with a strong laugh. She probably gave good advice on men, shoes and spices. I imagined Tura was a superhero for the girls who weren't talked about in Vogue, Elle and Cosmo. We had curves, damn it! We weren't the women, designers had on their minds in their spring and fall collections. We weren't the women that Hollywood wanted to cast as leading roles. We hated diets, wore high heels to the corner store and loved our arched eyebrows and natural cleavage. We spoke a different language and probably scared Bambi. Tura Santana remained an icon in a world that so rapidly forgets the original birds and gives props to the nameless starlets that pose along for the latest ride. She managed to keep her self a mystery. When I think of Tura Santana, she's leaning against a car, sun shining down upon her, while she looks on, unto a dusty throad ahead, eager to break some laws and hearts. An original "bad ass", she was in a class of her own. My baby sister reminds me of this kind of woman. Brassy, sassy and not to be messed with. I thought of her today, with her big wavy hair, and her curves. My sister's refusal to buy into the belief that "Thin is in". What matters is confidence. And mix that with intelligence, class and sass and you got yourself a special kind of lady. To Miss Santana, who rode into our hearts with Faster Pussycat, kill, kill! May you reach your peaceful destination in god speed. To dangerous curves!
