this was thought up one long ruminative night after the Las Vegas gambler hauled about 60 semi-automatic and faux-automatic heavy caliber sniper rifles mostly modified by the then legal bumpstocks acting as repeating action inducer, and which unluckily for about 800 Clarke Country Country Music Fans had just shimmied under the legal requirements which America is not happy unless they can beat the stick at that made for tourist dance, called the Limbo, nothing more than an Island inside joke.
invented purely for the chance to see and call dibs on the American women and giggling girls whose panties they rated while watching the cattle in the head block or flailing on their bovine spines, either Mad Cow or serious dust bathing, these unflattering positions akimbo to straight up gynecological exam, feet in stirrups, shoe horned and papped, or thirdly, the last junky I saw before leaving 10th St. between A and B, on a good nod before gentrification, and when they could afford to live and get straight before breakfast and three more times before bed, a legless rubbertree folding over and popping up in a good Louisiana hurricane, bending touching the ground, then right before planting over, like a good death dream, waking up for the split second it took to right the blissful euphoric mind whose engine was being serviced for the next few hours not requiring any motor skills whose necessity was not purely emergency,
fight or flight, or just phoning in the posture of the former upstanding productive citizen for the gone fishing sign which had become permanently posted on his face for everyone to see and know that the fish were biting and that this was one angler who would not stop until he’d caught that Fishing Rodeo contest whose body of waters included a little spot off in the low tide where a 23 pound Bass lived and prospered, until he could get him, a good old-fashioned far east shot of On Leong China White, at least, 30% stout with the mysterious Cantonese characters one of which looked like a junky at his kitchen table arm out straight belt wrapped tight hitting himself and nodding before he could untie, point flopping in the arm, for thirty minutes, and then all over again for two hours, good shot, whose nod was contortionist rubberband Circus act, all double-jointed, or the highest aspiration reachable among the most avid mystics, and weekend yoga women awash in lulu and drinking $20 Green Cleansers before they got down to the advanced yogic posture so close to levitation that you expected someone to go up to the mats on the main riser and run silver hoops around her, the sure fire tell of Vegas being “Check it Carefully.” but not really, just the way they’re instructed nervously accommodating on-stage the magicians levitating assistants, but this wasn’t that, this was full mambo limbo, 4 inches from the mat outside the hut in Mustique where they serve the Magic Mushroom Rum Punch, which along with the breeze and thick, rich, sonorous accents from Colonization’s last chance at Paradise, and realization the folly over the happy citizenry which made their occupation at once absurd, hedonistic, slothful, and rendered them homesick, finally releasing Her Majesty’s and the Commonwealth their sovereignty, while with the next penstroke reinstating their rightful manumission and deep heritage and culture and love which they felt come from the mountains carrying their ancestral DNA through the rapids’ spray, the flowery breeze, and the deep lush luck of living among rich tourists whose money, station, and friends had prevented a rapid decimation of exotic woods and habitat, from Leeward to Seaward Islands HRH and the Empire had been divvied up to look like an American Checkerboard with a long way to go to King themselves, leaving behind the Independent ex-patriot tax-dodgers, sybarites, and virulent anti-Royalist hating anarchists, whose money is already made on something vile, and whose dream while serviceable in these tropic Caribbean breezes, did not match the Old World vicarage of a landed Country Gentleman, hunting for Pheasant, dog by his side, or up steep mountainous rough trails, beyond endurance until the 8 point noble buck is caught up in his spot and ends it there, or rather mounted on a gentleman’s liberality to breathe pipe tobacco, swirl snifters cupped and mixing with Cuban perfect Cigars, staring through glass eyes that didn’t see it coming, next to 60 of his own from the dawn of the 20th Century until today, even having known a buck whose good fortune it was to have been hit in the heart by none other than the Queen Herself, God Save Her; God Save Berelli; and God Save places of honor in honorable places.
Between this outtake — and collected writings @bob.gucciones_resturant mag @penthouse --
“on the 31st floor, a gold plated door won’t keep out the Lord’s burning rage.”
-- @gramparsons.forever sang
with his @flyingburritobrothersnz band round
then @emmylouharrisfanpage with the @jamesburtonstudios Hot Band
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Juliet Green, my true soul sister. This book would not have been possible without you.
I would also like to thank my dear husband, Jeffery Lee. For their help and support on this journey, my appreciation goes to Josh Behar, Andrea Cagan, and Stephen LaManna.
To the following lifesavers, my gratitude: Leslie Abramson, Kenneth Beck, Alan G. Dowling, Robert Edwards, Vincent Fauci, Howard Fine, Joanne Jacobs, Lorraine, Pat Moran, Danna Rutherford, Donna Stocker, John Tierney, and Cynthia Watson.
I would also like to thank the following artists and photographers for their contributions to this project and my life:
Kent Belden, Brendan Burke, Dennis Ferrara, Greg Gorman, Jeff House, Gary Kurfirst, Michelle Laurita, Cynthia Levine, Sam Maxwell, Jeff Pitterelli, Elisabetta Rogiani, Mike Ruiz, Liz Smith, Gilles Toucas, Rai11 Vega, John Waters, and Albert and Elizabeth Watson. And for their continued inspiration, Dr. Lois Lee and Children of the Night (www.childrenofthenight.org), a nonprofit organization dedicated to working with children between the ages of eleven and seventeen who are victims of the sex industry.
My love to all my fans and friends who have supported me throughout my career.
I welcome your comments at www.tracilords.com.
1. The Ohio Valley
I grew up in a dirty little steel town called Steubenville, in eastern Ohio. It was one of those places where everyone was old, or just plain seemed like it. Even the kids felt the times, and the times were tough. The streets were narrow and filled with men in Levi's with metal lunch boxes coming and going to the mills and the coal mines. It seemed like there was a railroad crossing on every other street, where coils of steel were piled up high along the tracks like giant gleaming snakes resting in the sun.
It got real hot in the summertime and the dust from the mills wrapped around the people and held them firmly in their places, and the echo of coughing miners was so common you just didn't hear it. The local bar, Lou Anne's, was always hopping. It wasn't odd to see your neighbor howling at the moon, and every now and then some of the miners would wander down for a cold one and tie their horses to the stop sign.
Drinking was a hobby in that little town, and as in a lot of small towns, everyone knew everyone else's business. Women had not quite yet been liberated. Husbands ruled the house, women cleaned it, and any strong female opinion was often rewarded with a fat lip. But no one thought much about that.
At seventeen years old, all my mother, Patricia, ever wanted was to escape. She was born in Pennsylvania in the late 1940s, and her dad took off to California and left her and her mother alone.
They moved around from place to place, and after a while she had a new stepdad and two half brothers and sisters. Never fully welcomed into this second family, she found comfort and a home at her grandmother's house.
My great-grandma Harris was a little redheaded Irishwoman who loved sugar-toast and drank tea all day long, no matter how of it was.
She combined a fierce sense of social justice with an almost patrician gentleness that was unusual to find in the government housing project where she lived.
The projects were cock-roach-ridden matchbox-shaped dwellings inhabited by desperately poor black families who barely survived on meager monthly public assistance checks. It was a place where hungry children played in the gutters of potholed streets while munching on sandwiches of Wonder bread and mayonnaise they dubbed "welfare burgers."
Word on the school playground was that if a boy gave a girl kisses “down there” a baby was made.Authors: Traci Elisabeth Lords
I wondered what it would feel like to get kissed on my panties, and fantasized about my new friend, Ricky, doing the kissing.
He was an older boy I’d met a few months earlier. I’d been walking to the birthday party of a girlfriend from school when he did a few laps around me on his ten-speed bike.
I was ten, he was sixteen, and he was funny, making me laugh by pretending to fall from his bike.
Christmas in Mingo Junction, age ten.
When I arrived at the party I told all my girlfriends that I had a secret admirer. I didn't even know his name, but I was sure he liked me. It made me feel wanted, and as I walked home that evening, I heard the clicking of his bike behind me. He stopped, got off, and pushed his bike as we walked together. He told me that his name was Ricky and that he saw me at the park up the street all the time. He liked the way I wore my hair.
I'd never had a boy speak to me like that before and was flush with excitement. As we neared my house I got nervous that my sisters might see us together and report to Dad, No I told him I had to go as I raced off, promising to meet him on the swings in the park the following afternoon.
Ricky looked young for sixteen, and he wasn't much taller than I was. He had no guy friends and got teased constantly because of his height. He told me how the girls at school were constantly mean to him too, and how bad it made him feel, but none of that mattered anymore because now he had me.
I couldn't wait for the school bell to ring every day so I could see Ricky, and we had so much fun playing together. We wrestled in the tall grass and he always let me win, and we collected lightning bugs in a big jar. They were our candlelight, he said, and I thought that was so funny. When he pushed me on the swings, I soared so high I thought I was going to fly away. I screamed and laughed until tears ran down my face, and the pure exhilaration of it all set me free.
Through him, I was learning how to be fearless, just like my sister Lorraine. I drew hearts all over my notebooks at school: I love Ricky. I love Ricky. I love Ricky. I couldn't wait to bring my new best friend to the upcoming school dance. My friends would be so jealous that my boyfriend was in high school! I was bursting to tell my sisters, but he made me promise to wait for a special time. So I kept my secret.
I've always felt feline, enjoying the simple pleasures of a cat, like lying in the sun all stretched out, or feeling the grass tickling my limbs. It was sheer bliss for me. One lazy afternoon about three months after I met Ricky, I was lying in a field making big angels in the tall grass as I waited for him. We had a date. He was late, but I didn't care, content to soak up the rays of sunshine, peaceful and warm.
I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up, Ricky was stroking my hair. I purred quietly in pleasure, happy he was finally there. I le was so beautiful with his sweet lips and long blond hair falling in his eyes. He kissed me softly as he'd (Ion so many times before, and I cuddled closer to him. Lying on top of me, he pressed his body against mine, and I could feel the wetness in my panties as I wiggled under his weight.
He told me I was beautiful as he started unbuttoning my House. I was in a trance, but I blocked his fingers and told him to stop. My heart was racing. I'd never let anyone touch me under my shirt and it scared me.
A flash of anger passed over his face but just as quickly disappeared. He said he was sorry and changed the subject. He said he wanted to play the wedding game, which we'd played many times before. It was where we pretended to be married and he'd carry his new bride across the threshold into a new life. Only this time he said we'd be going on a honeymoon.
It was getting dark outside and I wasn't sure about his new game. I was still a little mad at him for messing with the buttons on my blouse. I wanted to go home. I tried to get up and he pushed me back down. Alarms were going off in my head. I was scared and I told him so, but he kept taking my clothes off. I tried to push him off me but he wouldn't budge. I felt so weak beneath my friend. Why was he doing this? I had never done anything mean to him. I started to cry and he put his hand over my mouth, telling me to be quiet.
"This is what you asked for," he whispered in my ear. Those words stunned me as my thoughts drifted to my fantasy of him kissing me on my panties. Oh my God
I thought, what had I wished for? I heard myself sobbing, but it all became dreamlike. I felt like a part of me wasn't even there anymore as I struggled to free myself. When he entered me, I screamed until I couldn't scream anymore, but he wouldn't stop. When it was over, he left me lying there all alone, bloody and naked in the dark.
My whole body ached and I tasted blood.
Huge sobs rocked my whole being. Terrified, I crawled around looking for my clothes, scared to death he'd come back. I just couldn't believe what he'd done.
I didn't know how bad I was hurt, only that I felt like dying. Ricky and I were best friends. We were supposed to get married when we grew up. Now everything was ruined. What had I done? Was this the "one thing" boys wanted? Dad had tried to warn me, but I didn't understand. Maybe I was one of those bad girls from the "Dear Abby" column. Oh my God, was I going to be pregnant now?
It was my fault, all my fault.
I walked home in a daze, climbed in the back window to the bathroom, and stood in the shower until my skin was wrinkly. Everything ached. I thought I would cry forever. I loved Ricky so much and now I was losing him. When I stepped out of the shower, I still couldn't get his face out of my head, and I kept hearing my dad's voice, over and over again telling me that only whores kissed boys. Then it had to be true. How could I deny it? I was a whore. And I was only ten years old.