Pillow Princess

I lay my head on my fake therapeutic foam

and arch my back, moaning.

My room service came 

but instead of food, 

I was to be devoured. 

When my head is on that pillow, 

I feel like a queen 

with servants holding two large 

palm leaves fanning Me 

and feeding me grapes.

in humid weather. 

I am in awe of how good the service is here 

and at such discounted prices --

I cannot imagine this deal anywhere else. 

Maybe that’s the catch: 

stuck, lost in paradise 

like a gambling addict in Vegas, 

always waiting to hit the jackpot but 

only receiving small prizes. 

I offer a tip 

after they are finished

and I am denied, 

My credit is no good here, 

they say. 

I tell my sister and she condemns Me 

for “not putting out”; 

I am appalled that anyone thinks that sharing 

My body is not putting out to begin with. 

I know the value of My body, 

and the fact is  I don’t need to be  if I wish not to. 

What’s wrong w. being a Pillow Princess? 

Nothing. It’s great. Quite frankly, 

it’s about time the patriarchy pays back. 

On My back, 

where I absorb the most male privilege, 

second 

to cutting My hair dyke short. 

I am powerful beyond belief 

and My pussy is magic. 

I know this to be true 

b/c they keep coming back 

for more juice.