Friday, May 31

Show Off Your Skills, 5/30/13, Pensador Louco


Pensador Louco

- - True Skin - -

There's a certain form of hungry I feel.

What it is I cannot tell you. It's not something you can point to, hear, see or measure. You can only be born with it. Grow up feeling it. Live with it. Tease it. Love it. Feed it. A hunger as big as the greed of men.

I look at the mirror one last time. My hair loosely falling over half of my face. The other half is somehow immerse in shadows, but is visible enough to let my smile catch all gazes around me. Oh, such starving eyes they usually are. Thirsty eyes. Staring at me like I'm some kind of a prize. Collectible. Manhood possession. I should bring a mirror with me.

I check on my dress. Dark. Tones of red predicting the urban night ahead of me. My entire silhouette as a flirting nightmarish invitation. A game so innocent. So filled with ancient roles. How could anyone resist?

They never do.

My pendant shines as I step into the car. Reflecting the goddess' light. I start the motor and the streets pass me fast, almost ignoring me. Almost. The city knows perfectly who I am. What I am. And if they could, all buildings and houses would bend in reverence. I forgive them. Their silent complicity is as good a tribute as a profitable nocturnal hunt.

My hunger grows, angry with me. It demands to be heard. It fights me. It's been a while since I last let it rant. Patience, I tell it. A little more, perhaps. The time necessary for an approach. A proposal. The space between the blink of an eye, forged in a fire hotter than any human heart, and the fire is all mine. Night is all mine.

I stop and take a breath of the night breeze, before entering the club. Slow-paced rock music. Low tones. Dark songs. Bauhaus decoration. Hard. Cold. The perfume of useless money, stupid childish power and male status traded for highs, kisses and pill kicks. My kind of place. An atmosphere so vile it makes my hunger grow to the point of a ravaging howl.

I enter. Alone. My presence as a pheromone. Like a halo of dark, hypnotizing field. Invisible, yet impossible to go unnoticed. The music didn't stop, though. That kind of cheap trick only happens in bad movies. But it didn't have to, anyway. I feel all eyes over me. Single ones. Married ones. A starvation as demanding as my personal hunger. Fever. Desire. Need.

I understand needs. My needs.

It doesn't take more than a drink. A man approaches. So confident. So trusty in his own power. He looks around as to be sure no one else will do the same. I'm certain he feels like an alpha dog. Shame. I didn't remember to bring the mirror. He lingers near me. Buys me a cocktail. Nothing strong, of course. I wouldn't want to ruin my appetite.

And then things start to hurry. Why does it have to be so fast? People simply don't savor a good first contact. It's always so brief. So shallow. A long repeated pick up line. Men must learn it all from the same teacher. A nod and a smile. Yes. I have my car, if you don't mind. No, I wouldn't mind going for a walk. And we leave. His ego so bright it makes him glide. All eyes still on us. On me. My hunger counting the minutes to be set free. The goddess welcomes us outside. She gives me permission to proceed to her realm. Into the night. Into myself.

Then, the plaza. Close enough. Private enough. Convenient enough.

Don't judge me. I'm not really bad. I have self imposed rules, you know? I always give them a chance to go. What can I do if they're too busy, trying to impress themselves, to take it? Too selfish and too stupid to know their place? And when it starts, it's all the same. They “want”. They “need”. They “demand”. They won't take no for an answer.

Too bad it's also too late. For me. For them. For him. For anyone in the plaza, though I made sure we were pretty much alone the whole time. No time for excuses, pledges or tears. Not even much time for a long scream.

I am here.
Born as a woman.
Baptized by my goddess.
Bathed by the moonlight.
And hungry enough to suffocate men's petty needs.

The city shivers with my howl. His face, once filled with arrogance, now is pale white with submissive and passive horror. He sees me as I really am. My true skin. My night. My hunt. My moon. I should have brought the mirror. Make him look at himself. All pride and presumption gone, turned to a mask of impotence and fear. What is he, after all? A failure of a man.

I am the daughter of Gaya.
Priestess of the silver light.
Bride of the endless cities.
I am home.
Sufficiently hungry to devour all mankind and their games.

And the night has just begun.