Goldfinger

Seventeen and barely legal when I first unhooked the brooch on my satin robes, revealing a pair of freckled brown shoulders.

He hovered his hands above them and I felt a slight static in my navel, that feeling when you’re going down the stairs in the middle of the night and a looming mirror awaits you at the landing.

My hands let go of what’s left of the dress and I stand, proud, back turned to him

He promised me fame and that was the word he whispered as he caressed my body, his stubbly fingers barely grazing my skin.

He said I was a star and he cupped my breasts from behind, his hand lowering to my belly ring.

His finger inside me and that was to be my key.

His room filled with pictures of women in various stages of undress, smiling and signed, and that empty spot by the window where he would put my picture.

Six months later, I am still posed, handcuffed and frilly, making love to the camera, wondering when he’d cash back.

My co-actors’ hands are on me: they don’t have the golden touch of Midas.

But still I grin and moan, and I wait patiently, for when his cursed touch transforms me.

——————-

This is the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.

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