Torera (The Woman Bullfighter)

She is skilled, and knows the ways of the beast.
He is elegant only in power,
sheathed in musculature, an engine of force.
She holds the lance, spike and sword.
The heat of the arena is hammer to the anvil
of his flesh; his eyes are iron, not yet tempered.
If she leaves the arena alive,
she will wash the sand and blood from her mouth
with lusty wine, and choose a handsome youth
from the crowd, to turn her bed
into a coliseum of lust, celebrating
the fierce sweetness of victory, and life.
In the deafening roar, she steps to the sands,
lance balanced on her hip;
with dancer’s grace, she waits.
When the charge comes, she teases
his molten eye, meeting it until she turns,
pivoting from its rage, and burying her lance.
Again the crowd shouts to heaven;
she is numb to it now, and the spray
from her enemy has left blood spattered
on her cheek.
The sleek boy in her bed
will admire her perfection, oiled by sweat,
but bearing scars.
She will suck his cock to fire him, then lay back,
a  mock surrender, waiting to be filled,
to be impaled, at last, without blood.
Her spike drives in
behind the beast’s ear, and it staggers.
Only her sword remains, it is all she will need.
The boy is unexpectedly strong,
as he turns her over, to have her from behind.
As he mounts her, she relaxes her vigilance;
as he takes her hair in his fist, the crowd is at last gone.
He can do what he wants,
as long as his cock is inside her,
with the memory of the arena’s sand,
tingling against her skin.

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Poem copyright R. Paul Sardanas
Photograph from "Matador" Pedro Almodovar


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