Contradiction, in free verse

You remember that garishly painted whore?
The one we laughed at, that mad night in Bombay?
That is you.

A halftone ad in a two-bit tabloid.
Too bright, too loud, too obvious.
The very epitome of crass.

And perversely, an object of my fantasy.
A nadir- to own and violate
and derive a kind of sick pleasure from.
It feels, a little, like biting back that gag reflex
and feeling sick but good
that I've conquered an animal part of me.