Bet You Look Good On The Dance-Flaw

Reality is a tool we twist to our own design here. You want to dance? We can be anything we want in this space we define for each other, this parallel continuum we create between us, we can assume whatever identity we please... let's amuse ourselves with playful vignettes in which you're portrayed as beautiful, desired and unattainable.

You as the exotic dancer in the Paris bordello before the wars, conjuring erotic fantasies as the clientele make discrete assignations with girls who giggle deliciously while sipping absinthe, men watch as you dance, all of them desiring you above all others, yet knowing that your sex is forever out of reach, reserved exclusively for just one man.

Or you can be the Black Swan ballet dancer driving yourself to an impossible perfection, yet dancing naked privately for the rich old man who sponsors your scholarship fees. He sits in a wheelchair and gloats with impotent delight as you pirouette and move with such lithe grace.

Or you can be the fiery flamenco dancer in a ritualized assertion of your female power to beguile and entrance, whirling in a flame of color and energy, watched and envied by all others.

Or you can furtive-fuck on the Dancefloor-crush in strobe-flash blackness, gliding him between your legs, leaving a glistening snail-trail, as others frug around you. The guy monitoring the CCTV heart-attacks as he replays the footage, back and forth, over and over.

I watch you dance, and know you are beautiful. I look into your dark eyes and see depths I long to penetrate. I apologise if I misjudge your mood. You talk of seeking transcendental love in an ideal relationship. Maybe we all feel the same? But while we wait for that beautiful moment of absolute total fulfillment, surely it's not unreasonable to seek temporary solace in each other, and amuse ourselves with harmless escapist fantasies? Reality is the tool we twist to our own design here...