David Cassidy Then
David Cassidy picks me on The Dating Game.
I walk around the partition
and there he is. A quick kiss,
then Jim Lange gives us the good news.
“David, we’ll be flying you and your date
to . . . Rio de Janeiro! You’ll be
staying at the luxurious Rio Hilton
and attend a party in your honor!”
At the Hilton we knock the chaperone
out with a lamp, then we jive
around, smoke a little Colombian.
David says something to let me
know he’s willing, and I get
to chew his clothes off.
He dances Swan Lake naked
and I sprawl out on the bed.
He saunters over scolding me in French,
and covers my face with his modest rear.
He gives me a few minutes
then he’s up, blow-drying the drool
from his legs. He slips on a white jumpsuit,
runs a thumb across his teeth, and
turns to where I sit, still dreamy on the bed.
“Come on,” he says, full of breath.
Never so proud, I bring my hands up,
rub his stink into my face like a lotion.
I will wear it to the party!
As the lobby doors open
reporters start the sea of lights.
The cameras take us kissing, dancing.
They angle to get David’s sheathed body.
Girls watch his ass like a television screen
of men stepping onto the moon.
Little do they know what really lies there,
that this is no tan. “This is David,”
I say, smelling my face like a flower,
and pull him close, stoned out of my gourd.
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