My Fictional Life As Celia Cruz's Bitch

A post in which I brandish synonyms for street girls as though they were candy to say.  Apparently having a cold and staying up late make me way more gauche than I usually am.  But you all already knew that.

I'm pretty sure all of my ex-boyfriends, (those who are still alive), would be deeply depressed to discover what a paragon of rhythm they let slip through their comatose fingers.  In my early years I posed as a shy non-rhythmic type person whom others had strong urges to crack open like an oyster with music and sex and riff raff.  The usual.  I was as non-sweltering as they come and consequently everyone wanted to steam me up just to see what that might look like.  Too bad none of them knew about my secret identity as a cuban singer. 

In fact, in a completely fictional account of my early years, I studied with Celia Cruz as a double hip jointed transvestite.  She enjoyed her own sense of humor and liked that I was a modern "Victor Victoria", except with no taste.  Those stupid boyfriends (whose names shall remain a deep mystery*) would have given at least one beer to see me gyrate like a prostitute on crack.   Too bad they didn't know how to unlock the music to get me going.  As exciting as all versions of "Tainted Love" are, nothing can compare to the true Cuban heat.


I would get into the tightest sequined "dress" just to hear Celia's version of sexy.  Have you heard that woman laugh in a song?  That laugh could nitro-freeze any set of balls instantly!  You don't mess with women who can sing like that.  That's why, in my fictional biography, I became Celia Cruz's slave.  You would do the same.  Believe me.  Even post-denture she's a hundred times more sexy than Britney or Madonna. 


I promise to make noodle kugel like my Grandma Shirley some day. 

In the mean time I slink around in silk and sequins with thin cigars smoking between my lips, I am seductress and devilina rolled into a tight tobacco hell.

I am moving my shoulders most seductively right now, with great rhythm and animal grace.  OH YEAH!

I'm not even balding because I am a woman. 

But my thighs are pretty impressive.

If I even had a license** I would drive something like a Rambler.  Fuck Hummers!  I would drive some broke down rusty motor with a breath of lacy hope and rubber too thin to prevent life from incubating in the margins and becoming as unwanted as my mustache.

Because I have the spirit of a Cuban whore or wife, or whatever.


My chin hairs might be unruly...if I didn't take the greatest care to tame them...I am a whip!

Life for rhythmic whores is complicated.  And yet simple.  And therefore complicated.

I am undoubtedly wearing large feathers.

(Not quite covering my Cadillac sized ass...cause nothing can.)

I take myself just as seriously as you take me which is half as seriously as my family takes me and not at all as seriously as my in-laws take me which is a third as seriously as they take themselves and three fourths as seriously as my family takes themselves and only a fraction as seriously as my husband takes himself.

But the real question is: how seriously do you take yourself?  And .... how big are your boobs and lips?

Also: are you balding?

My great gift is not losing a follicle of hair. 

Celia loves me and if you could see me shake my jello you would find me irresistible too.

Like all sexy dancers with rhythmic gifts you will want to kill yourself when you see me gyrate...but please...don't compare yourself to me.  I am gifted but not angelic like you. 

Kisses!

Sequined kisses!