Tranny Slag

by Jake Street

Take an Eastenders drag on a cheap cigarette
fag called across the street as fag in my lips
bleeds a cherry red ring and the dirty Spoons
purses its door to my purse – predrinks alone.

Stumble to Bound down back alley hobo grins
take the grope for safe passage – speak friend
and enter, bat him away from my melons and pass
meat heavy and hung on hooks, big question marks.

Pass a mirror window see mannequin fake tits
recognise a woman, ignore my reflection and touch
up my hair, spot a spot and sigh, reach into a tight leather
hand bag and cover it, sigh again and find the door.

Flirt with the bouncer, stroke ebony with my ivory
make them ignore no ID, no face, only see the facial
I paid for, and the facial they want to give me, rush
to men’s loos confused looks a must, check my phone.

Turn the tap, lean slightly too far forward, drop keys
don’t bend knees to pick them up, slowly run fingers
up calves, lament missed hairs like wooden spikes
grunt with success when meaty hands cop a feel.

Leave to the dance floor, slide body near eligible bound
man, ignore the ring on his finger, and sink to knees
let his stomach sink with me and slip two fingers sensuously
into my mouth watch him melt in my mouth in his mind.

Tip a toilet attendant, wait for them to leave,
ignore the person in the next cubicle echoing urine
focus on not getting hit by the door, or by his cock
get it over with think of England and know I’m queen.

Hurry out, wipe spunk from eyes, and tears
call a cab, light up and hope, disappointed of course
guy walks out, thanks slag nice cock, dry up
glide home in a dodgy car with seraph wings.

Shower quickly, fall asleep, try not to dream, to remember
that it isn’t over. The cravings aren’t gone. Go again
next week, the cycle ever on, who would love a tranny
slag me off, I come from iron, jumping all the borders.