Triple Sonnet Because She’s a Little Pornish

            Rita says my bangs make me look Good Girl
in the pornish way, reminding me of the slo mo
            when the East Asian model lowers her glasses
in the steam room, opening her mouth—could
            I feed her a Luxardo cherry or an orange slice
dipped in chocolate or an oyster shooter—baby,
            swallow it whole or take the next train home.
XOXO, GG or Good Girl or Gigi and Gaston in
            MGM’s last great musical or the Good Girl clutch
sashaying down Moschino’s runway, and Honey,
            it’s 2021, so why are we even labeling anything
when every day should be Sexual Fluidity Day,
            also known as taking the blue pill and the pink pill
and the purple pill: all the above, let’s have a time

because falling in love with you was the easy part—
            becoming an attention-whore-brat was the second
part, or an ode to sexiness or how I spent my twenties
            with pink drinks in queer bars with rodeo themes—
photos of older gentleman cowboys framed or how
            Andrew would fixate on my fixation as we danced
into the night or how an older man who treats you
            and eats you well is the biggest myth in the book,
the way the irrelevant ex-lover said our sex life
            was a category of porn, to which I say: What kind
of shit are you watching because it’s not the kind
            of shit I’d star in, especially if it involves you. But
every non-love story involves a costume: schoolgirl
            for basic boys, leather and feathers for the guilty rich,

            chartreuse slip and matching heels for the slow play,
hearts over nipples for the girl of your dreams, or
            what about the qipao the boy in Singapore offered
to buy—to buy me—to get it tailored—to get my
            body hugging—or as Rita said, “That’s a different
type of roleplay.” I remember the dim sum dinner
            he bought me to buy me, the sushi and chirashi
meal, after parading me around malls and malls
            and malls—the way he’d flinch when I hugged him,
how he was raised to find a wife, not a lover, and I’ll
            never be that good Chinese girl. I’m a Chinese woman,
getting my bangs cut the pornish way, or how Ginger
            Spice/Geri Halliwell called the nineties “like the sixties,”
and give me that decadence—turn the camera my way.

Ode to Role Play

Once Upon a Time in Singapore,
            an architect tells me I look like a porn star
with my thick-rimmed Tom Ford glasses,
            like a good girl caught in the middle of
the act, holding a dirty martini.

                                                                        Once Upon a Time in Greek Mythology,
                                                            Aphrodite marries Hephaestus over Poseidon
                                                                        and Ares, because he promises that she’ll
                                                            never have to work a day in her life. She kisses
                                                                        him, water dripping off her perfect nude body.

Once Upon a Time on Lover’s Lane,
            a romantic lead tells me he wants schoolgirl
roleplay, because that’s the sexual answer
            when your girl’s a professor. Lecturing is sexy,
he says. He gets rewarded—an A+ for logic.

                                                                        Once Upon a Time on Wisteria Lane, Gabrielle
                                                            Solis is almost caught with her gardener after
                                                                        he leaves a gym sock under the bed. She convinces
                                                            her husband it’s the maid’s. Episodes later, Lynette’s
                                                                        the one wearing the maid outfit, trying to seduce.

Once Upon a Time on the Internet,
            G laughs over how I call my lovers “love interests,”
like “you’re a casting director,” she says.
            I’ve got an eye for talent. I eye the talent. I want
two eyes tattooed to my nape to watch everyone.

                                                                        Once Upon a Time in Toon Town, Jessica Rabbit
                                                            tells Roger she’ll bake him a carrot cake. She loves
                                                                        a toon who makes her laugh—her raspy voice—
                                                            my animated crush forever. One night my own crush
                                                                        wonders if anyone’s ever crushed on Roger himself.

Once Upon a Time in the Sext Chain,
            I send him photos of me undressing, after
donning a red gingham apron top. I could
            bend over, bake a cherry pie. We depict sexiness
as cherries, peaches, and flames over Emoji.

                                                                        Once Upon a Time in Long Distance Land,
                                                            he tells me that getting tattooed feels like
                                                                        getting a hard paddling. I remember stumbling into
                                                            sex shops at twenty, touching teddy bear shaped
                                                                        paddles, because I can be a little sweet, too.

Once Upon a Time in a Fairy Tale, a Princess
            opens her nudes by accident in the middle of
a café. A couple sits behind her. Every sexual
            act advances the plot in some way. After all, it’s
much better to play and prance in your displays.