Side Chick Blues

TITLE: Side Chick Blues
AUTHOR: María Lapachet
GENRE/THEME: Butch/Femme Erotica
PUBLISHER: Cordoba Books


María Lapachet’s poetry chapbook “Side Chick Blues” cuts like a grainy 16mm short film of ferocious need and burning love doused in a hot tub of fresh blood, yet breathing loud. She howls,

“I want your hands running through my hair.
I want the smell of you on my skin and hair
I want you handprints embedded in my ass cheeks.
I want your teeth marks on my back.”

Yet those who previously read Lapachet’s erotica know that lust is day to day exigency that supplies strength to a relationship. Call it “love,” call it “need.” Truth is, in Lapachet’s kneading poetry sex and love are like spoon and a bowl of soup to a hungry mouth. Love is love when you are here with me. Not when you are gone.

This chapbook’s 24 poems are more Erica Jong in “Fruits & Vegetables” and “Half-Lives” than Anais Nin excavating wisdom and mirth in copulation. Lapachet tells it as it is. The poetry is understated because her language’s wicked honesty leaves no room for double-reading. She is hurt. She is wanting. She’s telling us that.


After not hearing from you for a couple of days,
I lashed out. I was bratty, disrespectful.
You were probably tired of my shit
or not in the mood to deal with it.
My punishment – our punishment –
is discovering San Francisco with my ex.
It should be you, but you cut me cold turkey
and I’m too proud to chase you.
You didn’t want to engage with me anymore
so I left you alone. Why apologizing when
you made it crystal clear you don’t want me?


We go to the Disney Store and she says
I can get anything I want.
Anything I want? Anything you want!
She buys me two t-shirts. But I want you.
I need to know what you taste like,
how it feels to be pinned under you,
how it feels to be buried between your legs.
Are you as strong as I have imagined?
Will you like me on my knees in front of you?
Crawling, begging hungrily for your cock?
Will you make me cum without touching me?
Will I walk away from a night with you with jelly legs?


I’m about to enter Chinatown when a butch looking woman stops me,
asks me where I’m from, if I’m here alone, and gives me her card
because she wants to take me out for dinner.
I woke up feeling like shit and this makes my day.
I thank her for the offer and we go our separate ways.
I walk through the gate and the lions thinking about my ex
(on her way back to Hong Kong).
I want your hands running through my hair.
I want your sweat and saliva on my skin.
I want your handprints imbedded in my ass cheeks.
I want your teeth marks on my back.
I ache for you in ways impossible to describe,
ways that don’t make any sense.
The intensity is intoxicating.
I’m about to throw away that woman’s card when I see it.
The hotel I was supposed to stay in.
I could catch herpes and ebola just looking at it.
Fitting. If I needed further proof of the fucks you gave
(zero) this is it. This is the wake-up call
a semi-normal femme would have gotten
months ago. But I’m not normal.

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