The Queen Turns 38
The crazy queen stepped out onto the balcony of a guest house which overlooked the Caribbean Ocean on her 38th birthday.
Three years had passed from the day she started weaning her way off Lithium, Zyprexa, Clononzepan and a host of other reassuring psychiatric medications. But sure as shit, there she was in early January nearly four decades old with an ass that could still turn heads in Santo Damingo. “Men don’t care if you are crazy if you have a nice ass,” she said to herself while strutting across white sandy beaches with a bright red Speedo wrapped delicately across mounds of throbbing flesh, both in the front and in the back.
“Just look at those ugly bastards my age,” she thought while shaking her stuff and kicking sand in the faces of homosexuals half her age, laying in g-strings on the beach. She felt sorry for them. She knew what lie ahead for those innocent young gay men soaking up the sun and flashing digital cameras at one another like bottles of lube in the sun of Santo Damingo.
“Do they really think I am going to have sex with them?” she asked her self while looking at her lover, a masculine top, hung to the knees. “No boys, this is the man who loved me when I was crazy. I’m saving it for him,” she said to herself while squeezing her buttocks.
She wanted to tell them all to find one good man and settle down with him, and to be careful to always use condoms when having sex. She wanted to warn them of the dangers of drugs and the party scene and how it could shove one down the path on which she has traversed.
But she stopped herself, for she knew, while standing in the sunshine on her balcony in the Dominican Republic, that she had lived a perfect life and wouldn’t turn back time to change a thing.
Three years had passed from the day she started weaning her way off Lithium, Zyprexa, Clononzepan and a host of other reassuring psychiatric medications. But sure as shit, there she was in early January nearly four decades old with an ass that could still turn heads in Santo Damingo. “Men don’t care if you are crazy if you have a nice ass,” she said to herself while strutting across white sandy beaches with a bright red Speedo wrapped delicately across mounds of throbbing flesh, both in the front and in the back.
“Just look at those ugly bastards my age,” she thought while shaking her stuff and kicking sand in the faces of homosexuals half her age, laying in g-strings on the beach. She felt sorry for them. She knew what lie ahead for those innocent young gay men soaking up the sun and flashing digital cameras at one another like bottles of lube in the sun of Santo Damingo.
“Do they really think I am going to have sex with them?” she asked her self while looking at her lover, a masculine top, hung to the knees. “No boys, this is the man who loved me when I was crazy. I’m saving it for him,” she said to herself while squeezing her buttocks.
She wanted to tell them all to find one good man and settle down with him, and to be careful to always use condoms when having sex. She wanted to warn them of the dangers of drugs and the party scene and how it could shove one down the path on which she has traversed.
But she stopped herself, for she knew, while standing in the sunshine on her balcony in the Dominican Republic, that she had lived a perfect life and wouldn’t turn back time to change a thing.
posted by Charles George Taylor at
9:30 AM
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