Bound Liminality

My wrists are decorated with a soft, but firm rope, anchoring my body and mind.

I whispered in a breathy, desperate voice, “More, please. S’il vous plait, mon chéri.”

I can’t quite see anything, but I can picture my beautiful scheming Frenchman standing inches away, grinning in self-satisfaction. The object of his desire, a heartless tease, is finally trapped.

“Pas encore, j’adore quand tu mendies, ma chatte.”

His voice was just the right amount of condescending. It incensed my ego, but lit aflame my desires.

I tried writhing my hips against the soft sheets, undulating my hips, trying to entice his gaze towards son chatte. The part of me that is controlling and neurotically type A is furious I ever slipped my wrists through the rope; she’s even more furious I ever stepped into the room. If it were up to her, my lover would be left on read. Forever.

There is a part of me that also is completely pliable to his touch, melting faster with every stroke, every lingering caress, every kiss that was deliberately cut short a few seconds. His touch was electrifying, almost effervescent.

This liminality, the space from where I was when I stepped in, to where I am going, terrifies me. It is not just “letting go” nor “being vulnerable” nor “giving over your trust.” This man is about to ravish me, down to every last molecule of my being. Like musician to his instrument, he’s about to play with my body until he has mastered it, until it croons pitch perfect melodies. The fear is not simply just relinquishing control. It is the fear of the perfect façade I’ve worked so hard to preserve crumbling between his fingertips. The fear that he’d discover beneath the surface of this woman I present to the world lies parts of me I am angered of, ashamed of, afraid of. To fathom the liminal continuum from here to there, it is a feeling that punches the air from my lungs and vaporizes it into

nothing.

Sunlight and Smog

The screeching of drills and ponding of hammers makes me wonder if I’ll ever be satisfied. I hated the construction in the morning―always at exactly 8am. It meant I would only get four hours of sleep and wake up zombie-like and stupid trying to figure out if there was any activity I could do remotely well in the state I was in. Then I would fall into a deep nap, somewhere around noon, and wake up around 2pm, refreshed but in a world where the day was almost over. Then, I would work well into the night and past the early morning, to make up for the previous ill-timed slumber, and fall asleep around 4am. The drills would start at promptly eight and the cycle would begin again.

Now the construction is only in the afternoon. The late afternoon―usually 2pm, sometimes 12:30. And I’m still filled with useless rage at the noice and the voices coated in Spanish that invade my space and make me question if I’ll ever be satisfied.

…

When was the last time I was fully functioning in the afternoon? It must have been in Colorado, before I moved to New York and my mind was transported into a different time zone. I remember sun and grass and trees―the only time I was annoyed by noise pollution was when the neighbors “partied” too loud. And the time air was stuck in the pipes and it made an infernal, amazingly loud clash every time I tried to eat or sleep or think. But both problems had a simple solution: Get the landlord.

In Colorado I was never surprised to see the sun, I expected it. The state received 300 days of sunshine out of the 365 in a given year. I always made a point to go out and enjoy it, until I didn’t. Why take advantage of the sun if you know it’ll be there tomorrow? Still, I ran in the morning, biked to the grocery store, walked to class and to the high school where I tutored “at-risk” youths. The sun was always out and still, so much managed to annoy me.

The stores closed at 9pm. The only clubs where an hour away. And if I wanted to get my hair done, there were only few places within the entire state I could go and expect to feel satisfied. And so I knew I needed to leave, to grow and find a place where I didn’t feel everyone was stuck in time, stuck in the enteral sunlight surrounding Boulder, Colorado.

…

In Los Angels, there’s plenty of sunlight as well as plenty of smog. The city glitters with rhinestones and pyrite. Only the sand has a genuine sparkle, a kiss from whoever decided to put paradise on Earth. But I wouldn’t know much about the beaches in LA. I mostly stayed in bed, indoors, and you slept beside me and held me and for a long time I felt safe and satisfied.

Here’s why I left and here’s what I must say: I couldn’t depend on you to keep me satisfied any more than I could depend on you to keep me safe. For that, I went to the other end of the country. To create my satisfaction and put it on the page. Once I’ve done that, maybe you’ll come back to me. Maybe I’ll let you return.

Instead Of

Instead of writing I’d rather be in bed with a book and a man beside me.

They say only two people come out of Kentucky: preachers and storytellers. My daddy was a preacher and lord knows I can’t do that.

Too much of a rebel to follow someone’s footsteps. Too stubborn to take the clear path. Rather make my own way and have the cuts, scabs, and bruises to show for it. But hey, at least I can say I did it—in the end.

..

I thought, still do, if I go to bed exhausted that must mean the day was well spent. Ever vain and obsessed with (my own) youth I feared not getting enough sleep. Not just for the health (de) affects but because of the bags lack would form around my eyes.

Now I welcome it. They’re a badge (bag) of honor. Sexy even.

I’ve decided instead of looking for a romantic partner I admire, I will become a person of admiration and be romantic with myself.

You can smell fire. From a distance.

We were standing on a bridge. The sun was out and you held my hand, you were smiling as you told me you loved me. The sun was behind us and vines covered the mossy water. Everything was so bright and the water was so blue.

Then the dream ended, and I woke up.

Crave

It begins when my eyes open.  A small crack of light is all I need to remember the room. The shadows made by a candle.

I know (I know)—ITS OVER—but the memories play like a song I hate to remember because once you do they don’t go away—they stay and you rethink them over and over until you forget why you hate remembering in the first place. No scent, in case you count the one s/he left on my skin.  He stopped wearing cologne after he figured out he didn’t need it to impress me. The candle stayed because I think he liked it. I always wore perfume so when I left his bed a piece of me remained.  Ligature marks decorate my wrists and when I complain you say it’s good, This way you’ll always remember me and I’m angry at you for saying it because you knew I was yours.

You’re mine.

Said after you tucked a strand of synthetic hair behind my ear and placed your hand on my cheek.

The Spider and The Fly

I swear to God, it was not my fault. I never stood a chance—the whole thing was decided before I sat down.

First, of all he’s fucking sexy. My type of sexy: dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. But not too dark, just dark enough to let the world know he’s not White but not dark enough to give any clues as to where he’s from. Even when I learned where he was from, I still had difficulty distinguishing his racial and ethnic origins. He was a mystery—which was sexy.

Besides his general darkness there was a wave to his hair and said hair fell into his eyes. This brought out a spark, a sort of intelligence that could not be concealed by his silence or ostensible modesty. His hair fell past his shoulders and framed his face. Black hair only made his black stubble more pronounced on his dark brown skin.

He didn’t smile often but I managed to coax one out of him, the night we met. I noticed he had dimples in both cheeks and showed unruly, obviously-evident-of-a-childhood-spent-outside-of-the-United-States, teeth. Not smiling was a part of his aesthetic, and his aesthetic was hip hop.

I’ve been in love with hip hop since I was ten years old; I know the authentic aesthetic when I see it. My first love was r&b but hip hop will forever hold a place in my heart. When we walked to the VIP room, no other song but Hotline Bling played as he paid the manager and handed over his credit card information. Hotline Bling is a new age-y mix of hip hop and r&b told from the perspective of a love scorned man, upset that one of his lovers has changed after their relationship has ended. He uses the song to mourn and remember the times she used to call him late at night to receive his “love”. I should have known then; lovers come and go, but hip hop remains.

He wore Timberland boots and an oversized grey sweater. His blue jeans had rips in the right places. He smelled nice. I straddled him once we (finally) got to the VIP room and realized not only did he smell nice but he was pudgy in the middle. He had a Dad body. But he also smelled like mild soap and expensive cologne and he didn’t remind me of my dad, so I didn’t mind that he was out of shape. I was (very) surprised when he said he was thirty-five. He didn’t look older than twenty-eight.

I had turned twenty-three six weeks prior to our meeting. I had moved to NYC nine days before we met. I should have ran. I should have taken my heart and ran. Instead, I said,

     “Hi, what’s your name?”

     And I was very proud of myself because I sounded like a normal human being.

The Light in the Distance

He is on the other side of this wall, but he cannot see me.

But I can hear him, as he speaks to himself at times. The depth of baritone sends a familiar throbbing feeling between my thighs. I can wake up to that syrupy depth every day for the rest of my life. Like a strong shot of espresso, mellow but wildly stimulating. It is an electric jolt that runs right under your skin, making your baby hairs stand upright at attention.

I guess this is all a romantic, roundabout way of saying that I miss him. Long distance can be a real bitch.

He has been speaking to himself… about groceries, about laundry, about how his boss has been a real pain in the ass as of late. And the ramble goes on, but it doesn’t get better as he turns the conversation to talk about me. I wonder where she is right now, if she’s thinking of me like I’m thinking of her... I don’t know how to tell her I miss her so goddamn much! God, this woman will drive me mad – mad in love.

And I listen quietly, a little giddy. I’m still glad I didn’t give away my cover, this feeling is excruciating. There are butterflies fluttering rapidly all around my insides, and my heart feels like it’s barely holding itself together at its seams. I am wrapped in fairy lights, wearing only the lacy pink lingerie that he bought for our last anniversary. I don’t know when to flip the switch, to surprise him with both the festive lights and with myself.

Love is a funny thing.

I seem to imagine the strong whiff of his musk – a sandalwood, an earthy pine, gently folded into a cardamom spice. If his smell were to be a perfume, I would spray it onto my pillowcase every night, to invoke that feeling that he is surrounding me. At least I can pretend that he is sending me off sweetly into dreamland.

His footsteps grow louder as he approaches the bedroom. My heart beats at a concerning triple time – is this what tachycardia feels like? The thudding rings louder and louder in my ears, as the anticipation is tense enough to cut through with a hot blade. My fingers reach for the light switch, as his shadow just starts to approach his bedroom door frame.

“Happy anniversary… and happy new year, my love.”

My voice quivers, as I lay my eyes on him. God! He makes me melt.

“Babe, you know how I feel about knots…”

Dear Reader

Apologies, for I smoke quite frequently. It is a coping mechanism I picked up, unsurprisingly, on long waning Parisian nights. With a man I called my lover. He would hand roll us “the finest tobacco from Belgium” and we would laugh too loud late night in the narrow streets. After long dinners in idyllic Le Quartier Latin, we would smoke and wander. He would hold me by my waist and gently wedge the stilettos of my heels out of the old cobblestone. Nosing my hair, whispering dirty thoughts in my ear in French "j'ai vraiment envie de toi", gently caressing the space behind my ears – I believed truly in his need for me. In the way our bodies collided, how our breath turns into song, the conversations that keep us up until the birds announce sunrise.

He is smoke. And I a flame.

Desire is too delicate of a word to describe what we had between us.

It would be a cliché to tell you that my lover and I had something indescribable. Every woman deeply entrenched in love would tell you the depths she would go to for a love this right. She is lost, star struck, yearning for that feeling that she remembers. She is chasing the idea of a man that she has created, one she wants to believe in, even if her lover is nothing like that. Nothing is stronger than a woman and her faith. Don’t dare remind her that she lives amongst selfish mortals, that he is not the figment she has conflated into eternal love.

She might douse you with gasoline and set you aflame.

We were kinetic, celestial bodies on a destined collision path. A slow, majestic burn that would make the cosmos cringe with a furious jealousy. Tell me how we wouldn’t set the world on fire, either by accident or damned purposefully.

Perhaps that is why I still smoke, on much harsher, colder nights in New York City. How the burn hurts me like he did, how deliciously his smoke wrapped tightly around me, how he filled me with an ashen warmth. A need so bad, that hurt so good. "J'ai vraiment envie de toi." I need you.

He is smoke. And I a flame.

Secret Keeper.

I have a friend. I like to keep their dirty little secrets. This person without fail texts me every profane and deviant interaction they have. It's known that I don’t mind the dirty (as long as it is consensual of course). I know who it is every time I get their text. I have a special tone for this one to warn me. When I open the message it could be a sprawling story of his erotic encounters, it could be a photo of someone tied up, touching themselves, or even his lovely penis buried in someone's ass. So, I take caution and open them when I am alone. For two reason, I want to spare anyone else from embarrassment upon seeing the smut I am sent, and second, I know how much it turns me one and as much as I enjoy being aroused in public, I am taken over the edge by his revelations. As soon as I divulge I have this unbearable need to reach down and touch myself as soon as I am able.

On my way back from the city I hear the sound of his text. Immediately I've become wet. I realize how much this pattern has conditioned me. There is no one around so I know I can take a pea... but I am also a bit masochistic and like to suffer just a little, so I withhold until I am alone. I wonder what it could be this time. Did he finally fuck his boss in their office? Did he tie up the tits of another innocent looking girl, coming all over them as he eagerly fucks her pussy with one of his homemade high-powered dildoes? Or was it his best friend’s cock he’s been waiting to get fucked by? I frustrate myself more just fantasizing of the details. How he met them, what was the charm that led to his success, who got fucked and where. I've created an entire world, with just one sound.

My little deviant, my sweet James. One of the most imaginative and fluid lovers I’ve met. When I returned home, I set the space. I made my bed, rolled up a joint, found the most powerful vibrator I have, and laid in bed. My legs had fallen open, pussy exposed to the cool air, dripping wet already, I took out my phone and opened the text….

Incinerate me.

I went on a date the other day. It was a nice change of pace from the last one. They have these ice blue eyes and dark black shaggy hair. They wear oversized denim jackets and nice wool button-ups. They have this sweet little side smile, it was that smile that caught me. We met at a panel we attended about healing with touch, I figured it could be a useful tool to add to the club. They had this presence that was captivating, yet not overwhelming. There was a grace that I felt envious of. I complimented their long gray jacket and segued into discussing the panel. We shared our thoughts on touch, sensuality, and ways we want to magnify healing touch in our own lives. We paused and smiled at our conclusions. It was a long silence, but without discomfort. It was simple, sweet. I broke our stillness with a timid preamble of leading to the question, “could I take your number?”

After a few short text messages, they ask me for a date Saturday at noon. They suggested some galleries in Chelsea, and I my favorite cafe in the area. They made me shy and excited at the same time. The sensation of nervousness coupled with confidence is a peculiar cocktail. We gently touched brushed hands as we opened up about our lives over a pot of jasmine tea. Visiting the galleries we played a coy game of restraint and surrender. Brushing hands, standing too close, and grazing my body against theirs as I pass on to the next piece. It escalated until we stopped in front of this one piece. It was an abstract. The canvas carried rich illuminating tones of red, some blue, and gold. It was thick with oil paints and the depths were casting elongated shadows across the piece. It had both of our attention. They came up from behind me to whisper in my ear. They were so close I could feel the heat from their skin down the back of my body, without touching they leaned in, “what do you think she’s saying?”  

It was like they were asking me how I wanted them to touch me. My pussy began to tingle and my feet went numb. I stared ahead and took a breathe to catch my words again. “I think she is an easily excitable woman. She has a lot of unmet desire. But I think she knows exactly what she needs. There are these chaotic movements, with spaces of complete stillness. It’s unnerving and confident.” At that point, I wasn't sure if I was talking about the artist or myself. But either way, they liked it and grabbed onto my hips, it was the first real touch we shared. It was a touch that makes you take sudden, deep breaths. It was soft and comforting, yet had so much force. I had nearly let a small moan slip my lips. They could tell I was aroused and bashful, so they took my hand and we moved on. Visiting different, brightly light galleries filled with daunting price tags and our increasing excitement. As we wandered from room to room in one of their favorite spaces in Chelsea, we found ourselves in an out of sight corner with a gallery assistant too busy tending to an annoyingly curious guest. They looked over their shoulder, then back to me and kissed me. It was a kiss that I felt down to my ankles. They pressed their hips into mine and I could feel myself gasping with each thrust to my hips and pull of my hair. We only broke when we heard steps nearing and laughed quietly as we continued to observe a photo of a beautiful man in some river down south.

We left Chelsea with a new appreciation for abstract art and a second date. They escorted me to the Uber they called and opened the door. Before letting me go I felt their soft hands grab my arm and pull me back. They immediately kissed me, bringing my hips in strong against theirs, my pussy responded to each caress of their tongue against my lips. There is something about being intimate with a femme. The way they traced my desire with their mouth, the way they bit and pulled away. My longing has grown quite strong for this person. She incinerates me and I open myself to ashes.

Gratitude & Growth.

I am grateful for my sexuality. I am grateful for embracing my strength and sharing it with others. I am grateful for the questions I’ve asked myself, the answers I’ve given others. For all the former lovers, moments of exhilaration, and the uncertainties of a next time. For the awful dates and challenging people that have tried to bring me down. For the times of overwhelming emotion and deep heartbreak. To know my body, to please myself, to orgasm regularly, and to share my experience with others. I am grateful for fucking, loving, crying, playing. For my trauma and my healing.

Every part of our experience...then, now, to be, is a part of our growth today.

Confessions - Jennifer

Jennifer is now living the "fantasy Manhattan life" she always wanted.

"Die Happy Confessions" is a video series where the adventurous women of Die Happy Tonight events share their deepest secrets, wildest fantasies and true stories. Videos are produced by Die Happy Tonight, a New York City based nightlife design company and creators of the worlds most liberating gentleman’s club. Video shot and edited by Lexcie.

Confessions - Paula

Paula is a New York City dominatrix who loves the act of "power play" with the Cities most powerful men. Just talking about it makes her want to cum.

No actors or scripts were used in the making of this film. Meet the women in this film at our events throughout New York City. To watch more of our films, click here.

"Die Happy Confessions" is a video series where the adventurous women of Die Happy Tonight events share their deepest secrets, wildest fantasies and true stories. Videos are produced by Die Happy Tonight, a New York City based nightlife design company and creators of the worlds most liberating gentleman’s club. Video shot and edited by Lexcie.

In-Betweenness.

My shadow sill strong, my desire and fantasies continue my incineration. This has not changed. But my medium is in evolution. How can I pull out the depths of my longings, how can I stand in a position of great power and love, while nurturing my quiet spaces? How can I be in all my seductive, luxurious, perversion and still get to where I want to be, still be adored, still get paid, and have even greater success. This is the question I ask myself. I want to tear open my dissonance for all to see. I want to share with others my repulsiveness, my intimidation, my ineffability. I want to be it all, but I do not want it to be this way...not forever. I am searching for what belongs to me. I am finding these little spaces, the in-betweenness where I can more than exist. I am investigating the ways to…. The ways to my goal, ways to my love, ways to my liberation, and ways to express all that is silent.

I cannot flourish in this space, nor can I make it in the world of ‘should’s’ and ‘do-right’s’. I just don’t want to. So where do I fit in this cycle? What role is just for me? How can I thrive from me alone. I have yet to find it, but it feels closer than ever. It feels like it’s in formation, just for me, just for my eyes.

Confessions - Jessi

Jessi enjoys being slapped in the face while being pleasured. "Die Happy Confessions" is a video series where we ask the young women that frequent Die Happy Tonight events to share their wildest secrets and fantasies, anonymously.

…

“Die Happy Confessions” is produced by Die Happy Tonight, a New York City based experience company for adventurous adults.

Candor and Confidence.

I went on the worst date of my life yesterday. We met outside of a club, I was at a taco truck ordering my late night burrito with a friend. I had gotten off from work and just wanted to stuff the burrito in my face. Some handsome man walks by me and makes eye contact quite intensely. I was a little shocked, 4am, taco truck, wasn’t exactly my idea of smoldering meetups. He walks past me again, introduces himself and asks if he could take me out on a date. A bit taken aback and flattered, I agreed and gave him my number.

I respected his candor and confidence. So, the next day we make a date for the weekend.

My first hint as to the outcome of the date was in his texts following up to the date we made. After we choose a place he had laughed and said he put me in his phone as, “super hot taco truck”....um gross. Second, he certainly was a bit forward. He called me love as he had asked me about how I will be arriving to the designated bar. I decided, “hey, it’s text message. So much is lost, I will give it a chance in-person despite these minor oddities.”

We meet at a small, semi-nice, bar, not a cocktail bar, but certainly not a dive bar. We greet each other at the bar and go in for the hug, yet, I swear he was aiming for a mouth kiss. I subtly avoided it, but I couldn’t help to think “what was he thinking?”. As he hugged me his hand slid down to the top of my ass. Immediately I thought to myself, “what the fuck have I gotten myself into and who the hell does he think he is...I mean he is attractive, but you don’t got it like that ‘love’.”

I realize I will have to be very upfront with my boundaries this evening. So I comment on that, “oh, an ass-grab I see.” He plays it off like he didn’t mean it. He sits next to me and almost immediately has one hand on my back rubbing it and one squeezed on my knee. Again, quite bold, but I let it go, to see if it is a friendly ‘how are you’ or more of a creepy lingering, presumptuous touch….it was the latter. So again, I share with him my boundaries, “Listen, for someone who I have just met, at a taco truck a few days ago no less...you’re touching me an awful lot.” He lingers there moments more, but decided he will be respectful and remove his hand. I can see his habits of going to touch me, but he does manage to restrain himself.

We continue on with the date. He is a smart, attractive, successful older man. Generally just my type. I figure, this may not be so bad, he might just be quite excited and very affectionate. I mean after all, half his family is Greek and he grew up going to Europe constantly, perhaps its cultural I thought (mind you, I am quite familiar with my European lovers). But as time went on I realized it was far from cultural, it was just him.

Some time goes by and he decides to go in for a kiss. I again thought it premature, but I ended up enjoying my time with him, so I figured let's see how his lips work. His hand goes onto my knee, beneath my dress. It is a longer dress that goes a little beyond my knee, so he really had to sneak his way in without being too obvious...I must admit part of me was like, oh, okay, points for being ‘smooth.’ But then he starts to move his hand further up, I wonder, how far is he planning on going? I mean a knee touch is appropriate, but there is a point where it becomes real awkward.I have been quite upfront with my boundaries, the fact that I am sex-positive, and how I tend to teach consent to many. But he slides it up far and quick. To the point where I put my hand in my lap to prevent him from making contact. (I admit that morning I decided to not wear underwear, and forgot about that small detail... who needs panties anyway?). I tell him that he needs to remove his hand from beneath y skirt because he is getting very close to my pussy, and that is not acceptable. He again, plays it off like he had no idea and removes it. At that point it was quite annoying. He decides to try one more time, after enough time had passed. He was very good at ‘acknowledging’ my boundaries and spacing out his violations so that it wouldn't be so obvious...he certainly is not new to this behavior. For a second time, he kisses me and his hand goes right back into position. I tell him, sternly, “remove your hand. You know my perspective on consent, why are you placing your hand where I told you not too?” He removes it again, he says something witty to make light of the situation. We have only ordered one drink, so I am finishing up that one and not getting another. I do enjoy some of the discussion we had, but his actions continued to be out of line. After our drink and some snacks, we leave. I am off to a friends for their birthday. It is pouring out so he offers me a ride. I accept, after all, it’s pouring and I might as well get a ride out of this annoyance. He brings me to my friends and leans in for a goodnight kiss. This time he shoves his tongue down my throat and hand assumes the up-skirt position quickly. I pull away and say, “we discussed this, and if you attempt this again, I will kick you in the fucking face,” He laughs as if it was cute and feisty of me. I say goodnight and I leave.

Dates like these are confusing. In one aspect, sure, I accepted his kiss, I enjoyed part of it, he spaced out his strange violations and was quite subtle about it. It made me question did I open myself up for this? Was I not clear enough in my verbal communication? The answer is NO. He was the one who was blind to reading my energy and deaf to my clear and verbal requests.

The next day he texts me, I thought it only appropriate to share with him that I am not interested. This triggers a whole slew of pleas from him to give another chance, to let him make it up... he wants to be close to me. I politely decline. Then it turns into him wanting to pay me (sorry boy, I am expensive….and that's just for dinner), to him wanting to pimp me out, to me being a manipulative, selfish, dishonest, person that plays with people. He was convinced it was mutual, just because I accepted a goodnight kiss. I reminded him of my thinly veiled threat to kick his face. He only grew more irritated. I let it go and received a few more messages throughout the next 2 days. Beginning with an “I adore you, please give me a chance” to “You think you’re so perfect, fuck that” to “I need company.” After his messages were met with no reply, he got the message ad ceased his harassment.

This is unacceptable behavior. It always will be. I am lucky enough to have been strong enough in expressing my boundaries, keeping up with that conviction and refusing to let him manipulate me into think it was mutual and it was all my fault.

These are abusive tendencies and frankly, immensely pathetic.

Gentlemen… This is not a good look, take rejection with grace, be grateful to have it told to your face and not be ghosted, and acknowledge how much it takes to state clearly ones boundaries.

Also, never grab someones ass or attempt a pussy stroke on the first date and without consent.

In all honesty, I would have respected him more if he attempted to pick me up and fuck me at the taco truck. But to make a formal date to just go straight for the ass and puss… not a very intelligent move. Stay vigilant ladies. And gentlemen… LISTEN.

Curse of Consciousness.

I have done my best work in the past few weeks. I have made it known what I will accept and what I will reprimand. No longer do I have any attempts at mutiny. My soldiers are in order, they serve with loyalty, and they are rewarded with my good graces. I treat each one as a special piece of my empire. Very small pieces of course, but valuable ones. They support my dreams, my projects, they acknowledge my beauty, and they apologize for their misgivings.

It has been the job I accepted, to teach each how to honor a respect. Not just me, but every woman, every person, every identity. The way you treat those at the edges of society reflects on your worthiness to participate. Only with the most respect, only with a careful ear for listening, both verbal and nonverbal, a knack for understanding the nuances of consent, can you stay serving in my empire.

I have taken on this project, for the past two years of working in this industry. When I began, I knew it would be a few different things to me. One, it will be my own empowerment, my own disguise, alter ego, my own way of full expression. Two, it would be a chance to connect and encourage other women to recognize themselves in the magnificence beyond and share in our successes, our pain, and our boundaries. Three, I would act as if I were undercover. In the end the men I work with have asked themselves the questions they’ve run away from. They pushed themselves beyond what they wanted to. Perhaps, this disappears as quickly as it arose, but every question answered, every thought provoked, alters your brain, changes your way of thinking. It is my sorcery, my way of invoking magic. The curse of consciousness, and the growth of society. One man at a time.  

Beautiful Deceit.

Winter is a beautiful deceit.

The night has stretched its languid body into the day. She has finally awakened. Her cold deviancy sedates me as I prowl through the shadows at growing intervals.

I don’t mind the winter. She rolls in, seductive, threatening to make her way into the spaces left unattended. She is the evil mistress, she is the bad influence, she forces you into submission, she dares you to escape her grip.

I don’t mind her anger, it’s well-placed and passionate. The only bit of heat I have to hold onto until she surrenders in embarrassment to spring. This time, many dread, flea from, and deny. But I embrace her. I relate. The fear others have of my power, my intensity that lays frost to the ego. Contrary to summer, winter holds grudges, she remembers, she doesn’t boast, but she makes herself known.

These nights are my sanctuary, isolated in my desires, disrobed of my assumptions. In a perpetual state of the hunt. Vigilance and deceit.  

Just my type.

I was sitting at the bar during a break in the busy night when I saw this handsome, bearded man in the middle of the room. His demeanor intrigued me it was unlike most of the men here. I stared a moment and caught his eye.

I did not need to leave my seat and chase after him, I knew he was going to come…and he did. He sat next to me with his green eyes and heart-melting accent. He looked at me and simply said, “I need to talk to you.” It was like he had no choice, and neither did I.

He was a wealthy engineer from Ecuador, well-groomed and styled. He smelled of brandy and vanilla and the sharp aroma of winter. I welcomed his urgency as we fell into the natural ease of conversation. I was taken aback by the way I spoke of my desires with this stranger. The rush of my heart came with his curious stares and his rough hands gentle on my arm.

Such intense reactions to men at work do not come frequently.

My hunger for this man increased.

Who is he? When will I see him next?

I spend the rest of the evening sitting on his lap as he grasped tight onto my hips. I slowly moved my hips, whispering my favorite things in his ear as he slid money into my g-string.

He was just my type. And I was just beginning.

Dominance.

There is

A particular taste to dominance. This illustrious and savage mistress of mine.

Her pungent aroma intimidates those...

with weakened prowess.

Yet the distinct weave of her velvet skin..enraptures. With one caress of her delicate texture…

you are...

Impassioned.

You take a bite, breaking the taut and flawless skin.

Dominance is eager, her supple juices sting your tongue with its bitter taste.

But dominance is patient.

She finishes soft, with a sweetness enticing, asking for forgiveness.

So, you take another bite at its command,

And begin this cycle of senses again.

Dominance is an overripe fruit.

Deceitful and intoxicating

A bliss that drives you mad,

The bitter transmutation of something once pure and sweet

Dominance is my shadow.

Modest in its loyalty, ceaseless in its pursuit.

Flame my Divinity.

These men they arrive at my feet, to be in the eye of my storm. Drunk with the words I feed them. It is vulnerability, fantasy, sensuality. This ritual they bathe in is a ceremony embedded in our history, the worship of the goddess. Their energy feeds my omnipotence, their offerings kindle my grace. The confused may call me a whore, yet they know not the power this word holds. Because yes, I am the horae, ‘the divine whore’, a healer, and an image of the goddess. I embody history, tradition, worship. Every sensual glance, touch, or word I utter...is an act of honor. Sex an act of exaltation. Where the power is with me, where I am the revered, and my sacred body holds no shame. Where I determine one’s worthiness and allow only those honorable to serve. This is the power I wield every day, every night I go out, every fuck I have, every man I turn down, and every love I embrace.

Their reverence flames my divinity.