I see two nurses kissing at the gay club,
their latex dresses and Florence Nightingale caps
and white heels straight out of my childhood
dreams of being like Hello Nurse
from Animaniacs, that blonde bombshell
sex goddess cartoon with cleavage stacked
like bookshelves and red lips even tastier
than the pizza she nibbled on in that scene
when Yakko and Wakko sing about her 160+ IQ
and multiple PhDs, but you know what
they were really drooling over,
leaving seven-year-old me to wonder
what place a little Asian girl has in this world
of ’90s Marilyn Monroes running in slo-mo
on the beach wearing red swimsuits,
their nipples perking up on primetime,
or fair-skinned sex kittens on the covers of
Playboy, Hustler, and whatever men read
“for the articles,” girls-next-door
with baby faces and bare bums,
while twenty-five-year-old me thinks
about getting a guy who can “do both,”
because the kissing nurses are two blond pretty
boys with just enough muscle, and oh,
how every time I’m attracted to a guy,
I think about what he’ll look like in a dress,
because I refuse to be the only one with
feminine wiles, and it’s funny how we’re
turned on by the simplest things,
how love hotels in Japan have “Under the Sea”
themed rooms, and what woman wouldn’t
want to get fucked dressed as a mermaid
and “In the Space Station,” a ’70s James Bond
romp in the golden sack, then of course,
the Victorian rooms and the hot tubs
surrounded by Roman pillars, and the red
bird cages for a little midnight dance,
but what if I’d rather play doctor than
nurse, or teacher than schoolgirl,
or fly you rather than ride you? Or why can’t
we have a go on the carousel
in the middle of the funhouse, surrounded by
carnival mirrors, because I like you a little scared
riding that horse, wrapped in my arms.
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