Here's To You, Queen Bee

I met a girl like Shaqueena when we were thirteen or fourteen-years-old. Unlike the other plus sized girls I knew, Shaqueena wasn’t embarrassed by her generous body. She wasn’t prom queen and didn’t want to be. She wasn’t abused or used. People thought she was a bully, but she was really no more aggressive than anyone else. She just didn’t put up with anybody’s crap.

Of course, everyone was fascinated by her breasts. But what really fascinated me about Shaqueena was her confidence. While the rest of us girls spent hours analyzing every pore on our faces, Shaqueena never wore makeup. She didn’t waste much time brushing her hair. The clothes she wore weren’t the latest fashion and looked like she threw them on in a hurry. Bras were optional. She stomped. She ran. She laughed boldly and often.

I’m still analyzing the pores on my face…and the lint in my belly button. But I’m sure Shaqueena’s out there somewhere, and I’m sure she’s still living large.

Here’s to you, Queen Bee. You rock.

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This poem published at Shoots & Vines.

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Shaqueena, Big & Tall

by Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

Shaqueena had the biggest tits
I’ve ever seen, I mean, each
of those puppies was the size
of a Rottweiler’s head.

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Even us straight girls
couldn’t help but stare
at them in gym class.
Soapy globes in the shower,
suntanned worlds unknown,
Shaqueena had the power
of a woman in eighth grade.

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Those glamorous glands
didn’t slow Shaqueena down.
She didn’t try to stop them
with eighteen-hour harnesses
or hide them behind books.
She put them out there, honey,
for all the small girls to see.

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Goddess of the braless,
large dark nipples peeping
through thin white lace.
Bouncing on the playground,
they’d hit us in the face.

.
We memorized her mammaries,
worshipped her jiggling temples,
wrote poems about them,
gave both of them names.

.

We were jealous as hell.

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Shaqueena, Queen of Meat.
Sturdy, curvy, proud, loud.
When God was passing out
boobs in the lunch room,
Shaqueena took all the trays
and ran away, laughing.