sorry, Stormy

A poem for Stormy Daniels.


sorry, Stormy,
but i think you can assume
that if anyone invites you
alone to their room,
it’s probably not because they want to interview you
for a prime-time engagement on the tube
or simply to share a quiet dinner for two:
it is most-likely transactionally-based
on the high probability of painting your face;
and let me tell you, it ain’t in red and blue –
probably a good thing, too.

i know we should,
we can,
do better,
but how have your male fans acted in your presence –
i mean really acted –
through your decades of attending porn conventions?
winning awards for your performances?

what sex act made you most famous?

when you walk into that room full of horny, aging dudes
and a couple young bucks who think they’re ones you’ll introduce,
what is your expectation?
that they will treat you with grace, humility, and attention?
at least one of those is true.

maybe you’re lucky and can say
you have a current partner who respects you every day,
but Karla Kush said the same thing in a video on X
when her husband finished building their children’s outdoor playset,
then she said she was going to suck the fuck
right out of his God-damn penis stick to thank him.
ruins the moment a bit, don’t it?

any time Steven Seagal is mentioned,
it’s public perception to avoid his suite without question.
Stormy, maybe you’re older
and you’re thinking, that part of your life is over,
or that people can see you as more in this post-#metoo age et al,
but your vagina has been preserved on camera

and it hasn’t been established as this age’s Michelangelo.


Photo by Jonaorle on Pexels.com

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