Rough Trade

Rough Trade—
Bulgarian Cheesecake

I met him—in the four-star hotel lobby
One night in Turgovishte—northern Bulgaria
Slavic eyes—have always turned me on
And those bored bedroom—droopy eyelids

I was more interested—in architecture though
Lovely cathedrals—Varna, Burgas, Razgrad,
Dobrich, Shumen—Albania, Romania, Moldova…
They didn’t—ban the women from the lobby

It would be bad for Business—customers paid
For rooms and sex—he was the young pimp
Among his usual clients—cops, politicians,
dealers Professors, actors—foreigners like me

His name was—Svetoslav Spasov
And he looked—under 18 like his young girls
The nice swanky lobby—flow of illicit drugs
He gave me—the sob story about pimping

Supporting his ill mother—crippled sister
“If I stopped pimping—who’d support my family?”
He said lying thru his teeth—Bulgaria the premier
Sex trade country—it didn’t interest me (much)

He didn’t believe me—about touring
Architecture—and all that jive smoking his
Pipe—nude in bed young Svetoslav Spasov
Smirky smile—knowing I didn’t believe him

What a—Somnambulistic Wolfboy Beauty!!!!
Spastic a couple of times—just for me
His girls in the lobby—not missing him much
Even young Bulgarian pimps—need to get off

I hustled him back—to New York City
Kept him in my penthouse—all to myself
Looking out at—Central Park at night
Nothing like Bulgarian—cheesecake!!!

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