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| Everman girl Donna was embarrassed by my shorts, sitting with me in a Sixth Street cantina on a hot Austin afternoon. “Those cutoffs are indecent,” she said. “Your balls are hanging out.” “The air feels good,” I told the visitor to my playground. “Besides, these people see more than that when I go swimming at Hippie Hollow.” Still, she squirmed and darted her eyes until I had tucked the jewels away. Later that night, after the margaritas had kicked in, Donna wanted to feel the winds of freedom herself, so she whipped off her top and stood up in the back seat of my soaring Jeep, clutching the rollbar like she was on a roller coaster to the Promised Land. I drove her through the red light district, checking her out in tickled glances over my shoulder. Hair flying, nipples pointing straight ahead, she whooped, she giggled, she waved at cheering pedestrians and night crawlers, she closed her eyes and felt her hang-ups fly off behind her in our wake. Donna dug it deeply. The next night she wanted to enter an amateur contest at a strip joint. I took her. She won. When I saw her again, a month or so later, she was dancing for a living and had a tattoo on her breast, the first of many to come. Marking up that delicate flesh, which had once shone so proudly in the moonlight, now that’s indecent to me. But those breasts are her own, and these hot nights come one by one. |
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| Poemission |
| Whatever Feels Good |