My Stripper Name Is Medusa

This story is paired with Chapter IX of Bulfinch’s Mythology. For best experience, download the LithoReader for your iPhone or iPad and get NonBinary Review for free. 

Welcome to my nightclub crevice, crawling cold with stiff men.
I’m his fantasy of fables and for only $5.95
he can only glance at scale curves, slithering down steel pillars
holding up his Perseus God complex
thinking he controls my figure,
when his head can no longer control blood lust
he watches me strip on stage. I stand out-
Eyes yellow, fangs fetish his neck and Miley tongue slides out
murmurs in his ear, “I am death.”
Covered in edible glitter, platform heels but untouchable.
Unless he pays private price.
I’ll lap him full,
setting back women’s rights,
with each dive, thrive of my thunder thighs-clapping
adjacent against paying customers, who act more like Greek Gods
slipping dollar bills between my skin cracks, slapping
patriarchy red hands across my ass,
their claim to power, my sole agreement submission
or so he thinks.
Can see he wishes to touch me,
shed my fine white lace, grab a hold of my scales,
declare them slimy or coldblooded.
In this private room where size does matter and
my snakes are bigger than his pants serpent.
Mine coil tight, constrictor his little stones.
He pleads-
“please” frozen and shading blue.
As my lips curl around the phrase,
who is he to believe, he’s only ever had all power
between blue business suits,
forgetting my eyes are up here,
expanding out of their sockets to expose sounds
of my hair hissing.

NBR4WeberphotosmallJaclyn Weber has work  in Collision Literary Magazine, Write Bloody Publishing, The Feminist Wire and Zaum Literary Magazine. Jaclyn has performed her work across the Midwest at universities such as Cornell College, The University of Illinois at Springfield, Upper Iowa’s Fine Arts Series and many more.