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you know what you are

By Puma Perl

you know what you are,
he said, reaching across
the table for the lemon bar.

he smiled and bit
into the cake. his teeth
shifted slightly as he

the café faced Telegraph Avenue,
not far from the intersection
where, as a runaway girl,
she had picked up
middle-aged men in search
of young hippie pussy.

he took her to his place.
as ordered, she requested
permission to enter
and undressed at the door,
folding her clothes neatly
and placing them on a chair
he had provided for her.

rain forest sounds played
as he laid out his tools.

she shook as she kneeled
before him for the first time,
cried at the clamps and the feel
of the collar around her neck,
the feather brushing her back
softly before the whip came down.

thank you, she whispered,
as he placed a pillow
beneath her cheek.

i know what i am,
she said clearly,
and drifted off.

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