DIRTY, SHE SAID

With the tip of her unpolished nails she plays by the rim of the glass resting infront of her by the surface of the bar, beautifully raw, like she. The intensity of her libation she thought to match well the situation. Anticipation had been building up since the sun raised, she had been gently commanded. Good girl, he had said, she very well knows how good she is and is overall aware she is no girl no more, but this, was a game she was curious to play. She enjoys her own company by the bar, to the movies, through anything else she does throughout the day. On full control, her life is very much of her own. Still, collaboration in certain areas of this kind of fulfilled lives can be quite lovely and delightful. She is a mother, to her inner child and to all of the wonderful creatures that live in her mind, nevertheless, she had enjoyed this affair with this, her new friend for the day. They met under the same underlined demands, left, almost, no trace behind besides the burning on her left cheek she could feel while resting by the, apparently, not soft enough though very elegantly designed stol she is seated on, reminding her to the whip in his hand, how it made her laught but no further emotion than that, a substitute feeling for the lack of substantial and deeper spasms. It had been fun. The collar buckled by her neck attached to the leash she had been directed with had left a subtle red rash by her smooth and silky skin, she applies on it the coldness in her hand transferred by the drink she is celebrating all the flashbacks of this her latest venture with. Being dominated is not in her nature but this had been well consented and accepted. The delightfully present and teasing cravings under her skin should not be ignored, she has learned. highly un-recommended in the making of a healthy mind, an advice she so naturally endorses. Intense red, whether a curse or a bless, it runs through her veins. Yin-yang molecules make their way through her nose with every breath she takes, travelling in and out through her poors. Tapping now her lips with her fingertips she gets that silly grin on her face. The last olive in the cocktail pick, resting in the emptiness of a glass with dripping brine remains by its crystalline walls, will receive the last bite of the night in which she opened the door to that room she had not been before.

Dirty, she said. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts.

THAT EXIT


For about two years I walked around with panda eyes, they all laught at such an abrupt statement, and so did she, even though it was true and it had taken a long while for it to be fun at last, while savoring drinks in this fancy hotel where, apparently, Madonna often stays, second fun-fact of the day. As the content in their glasses leveled down, quite evenly and synchronized, they continued to share past love affairs, the ones that no more hurt, of course, so they could gracefully deal with the more current events. All of them three were of the intense kind, love fully, get high, fall hard. Nightlife represented on its best. Flavours, colours, sounds and sweat, sweet dancefloor sweat. As almost always, the day will gradually aim towards that three floors venue with free love blessed, by collective ecstasy connected, filled with rebel hearts and freedom of mind. Techno beats spread through a crowd full of intimate possibilities, all of us sellers and buyers in this meat market of the tolerant and humane kind. Up the stairs, and above this all, an optional exit, entertainment and atraction for the consenting and curious adult. Discretion underlined while trespassing its doors, and impossed by the lack of light and inability to distinguish all parties involved. She has never dared to go as far up. There are things she hasn’t seen yet, secretly, she wonders how far she will be willing to venture, she wonders about all this places and arranged events she has heard of but never dared to. The bottle of beer offered by her, now back from the world above friends brings her back from wonderland. The music here is too good to stay still, all three together now swing their way into the dancing area where different outcomes to the end of this night lay out on a Tuesday, while the twilight outside wakes up Amsterdam and its romantic canals, its loud singing birds and its green and flower coveted parks.

That exit. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

THE WITCHES ARE OUT TONIGHT


Though she knows being on her own is grand, all this beautiful things she gets to do, all this wonderful adventures she guets to go through, still, sometimes, she does notice a slight gentle touch of loneliness sliding from her naked shoulder down to her bare hand and all the way to the tips of her fingernails, plain and untended, to ever so gently, for the slightest of moments, ardently swathe and linger to her index finger. Sleep, eat and swim, randomly, not in a one, two, three manner but in a six, ten, sixty-nine kind of way and then, maybe, paint for a while and write something nice. The female strength, the masculine tenderness, like a snake orgy they intertwine, tangle and curl. Life is such a mystery, you don’t have the answers and neither do I, one can only give it sense by letting it in, pour through and see where it sails to. Sensuality, sexuality, not weapons but tools for us to celebrate, life, ourselves, to connect, to communicate, develop. ‘Bring me a higher love’ she had heard Whitney say. Music, what an empowering platform, to cling to with sharp claws, sentient, like all animals, we are. This musical frequencies devouring our stress, our ‘I don’t get what this all is about’. Back glued to the wall, hands above the head, hips and spine slowly sliding down to the rhythm that commands her best interest and intentions. What’s your best dance move? They asked, she lifted up her hand and shook her head, feeling the air through her hair and by her neck. The heels under her feet help her leg get the right angle to awkwardly bend to the demands of the tunes so finely disposed. Sets of eyes encountering each other as they recognise the great invasion of passion they all share from the very core of their very odd beings. A Dancefloor Witch Project, Akelarre of the modern age, gathering around the brewing pot we all keep and hold in our bellies, warm and round. The witches are out, tonight and every night since the begining of time.

The witches are out tonight. Short-story 12 from o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.