Post-Performance PS from the Poetry Prostitute

It was a dark and stormy night, and it was barely the middle of Saturday afternoon.

Damn, was I depressed. The 13th is usually my favorite day of the month, but this mid-March monsoon that had begun in NY the previous day was growing worse by the hour. Trees were falling all over the city, killing half a dozen hapless people, and I was performing erotic poetry for the first time since last August. I envisioned a venue empty except for the hostess and the other bedraggled performers.

Was I ever wrong, and am I ever grateful to the people who filled the cozy, rosy-hued, bordello-like upstairs room of Madame X in support of all stripes of erotica performers. There were two other poets (my personal favorites, especially the one who already is my personal favorite in other respects), some essayists, storytellers, letter-readers, even a rapper. The hostess, Monica Day, changed from a slinky little outfit into an oversize white button-down shirt in the name of moving to the next level of intimacy with the audience. Door prizes in the form of bottles of champagne were given out to lucky audience members who rose to the "what was your most sensual moment" challenge, scribbling down those moments on little pink note cards, which were then carried up on stage in the mouth of a guy with a silver ponytail who was Monica's "pet" for the evening. (Yes, he also crawled on all fours.)

Overall I felt good about my performance although whenever I perform it's like being in a hyper-focused dream fog so it's hard to analyze. I was pleased to finally have the perfect chance to wear a shiny black micro miniskirt that hardly screamed "practicality," but did in fact scream "poetry prostitute."

It was great to take this persona out of mothballs because I have a new perspective on those poems that comprise the eBook and so the material feels fresh, not stale.  

I am only sorry I got that second glass of red wine; I waited to get the first glass till after my performance, but since there was a two-drink minimum (yes, even for performers), I followed the "waste not, want not" principle on a stomach that was mostly empty except for a little bit of bread and butter and a banana (I'd been too nervous to eat a real meal that day). But no matter, there were four of us who went out for dinner after the post-show schmoozing was through. The monsoon had turned into garden-variety rain, and there was Rocco's, a little old-school Italian place right around the corner, shining like a beacon through the raindrops, kitchen still churning out meals for another half hour, a happy discovery I hope to return to for their linguine with white clam sauce. (Yes, the poetry prostitute prefers to partake of pasta post-performance, and most other times as well.)