Predator and Priestess

She wore low-cut black flared leather pants, high-heeled black boots with leopard print platform soles, and a tight, open-back blood-red top revealing just enough skin between it and her modestly bedazzled belt.  Her hair hung down her back in luxurious highlighted waves.  She drank Cosmos only, and she danced like a Priestess exorcising an affliction from the world.

I sat alone in a booth at the corner of the club and sipped my twelve-dollar bottle of Perrier.  In the heat of the club, with pulsing lights, rhythm and motion mingling, the cool water flowing down my throat was a fascinating sensation.  I watched her undulate and spin—hands waving above her, fingers spread wide.  All the while she smiled a secret smile—lips never parting—as if she alone knew why she danced and what forces she summoned with her exotic exertions.  I found myself smiling as well, matching the expression that never left her.  She would throw her arms up and spin—others instinctively moved away, knowing she was the Queen—and her sanguine top would slide up her torso exposing her navel and lovely curve of her hips.  Michelangelo could not have conceived a finer contour.  She laughed, enjoying herself.  I laughed with her.

A dancing blonde bumped into her.

I felt a flash of anger—You dare?—searing heat at once shot from my chest to my groin and up into my head.  My eyes burned as my vision flared and my ears heard only the roaring rage of my pumping blood—this all in an instant.

The lovely object of my obsession only turned, as did the blonde.  They locked eyes—something silent was spoken—then they both laughed.  They took up the beat together then and danced arms around each other, enjoying the chance encounter.

As for my murderous moment, it melted away, the vapors of my violent vexation evaporating into the aether.

A new techno composition ensued with synthetic pulses that graduated into an aggressive hammering rhythm.  Both women howled their joy and pointed at each other, somehow in perfect synch, dancing as one, knowing how the other would move and instinctually mirroring.  They spun each other around and around.  I saw the colors and could smell the sweet scent—how easy and carefree this is between women—lust without need.

I found my Perrier empty and, perhaps with some hint of envy, went to the bar for another.  Of course there was no room for a single mortal soul to squeeze one’s way to the etched glass and gilded trim of the bar.  I had no such concerns.  I watched with an amusement that never seems to dwindle as heads turned to look behind, eyes widen with apprehension without knowing the reason, and feet—seemingly of their own accord—move the bodies of the libation-craving clubbers aside, and as always, my Perrier is presented promptly.  I drink deeply.  Again, the cold marks me, grounds me, makes this moment—one of a hundred-million—somehow poignant.

I turned to find my booth now taken by two boys and a girl.  All three seemed star-struck, obviously fresh and young and recently twenty-one and marveling at the scene about them.  I cared not at all that they had trespassed.  Instead I returned my attention to my “Priestess.”  Nothing had changed there; she danced with Blondie, hands clasped and spinning and twirling.  A spiked-haired metro-boy had made his way to them, looking eager and trying hard.  They let him remain but did not invite him join in their secret sensual sacrament.  My feet moved as my mouth grinned, and I knew what I was going to do and why before my first step touched the floor.

As I made my way to my dancing duo, those in my path ceased whatever possession of passion had hitherto taken their limbs, and instead stood flatfooted and dumbstruck.  Their eyes looked into mine for only a moment—a brief, painful moment—searching in that single second for an answer to why they were so suddenly afraid.

Sensing something perhaps—I was now very close—my dancing priestess looked over at me.  I was equally pleased and distressed that she ceased to dance.  Her blonde companion saw her reaction and looked to me as well.

I hate the blonde now.  She is jealous of the attention I this moment take and she pulls at my dancer’s hands, all the while her eyes fixed on me.  She can’t help it.  I have trapped her.

She releases my new love, her body limp with dread.  My smile makes her imagine the cold soil of her grave, the helpless humiliation of burrowing worms in her flesh, and the empty forever of death.  Oh how she ran, sending several dumbstruck dancers stumbling and drinks spilling, until she finally vanished into the mass of bodies in motion.

My sweet dancer did not even turn her head to follow her partner’s exit.  Her eyes, mind, soul—everything!—was fixed only on me.

I felt the Hunger to feed.  She felt the Horror and fled—as a lamb flees the wolf before sight or even scent is taken in by the senses—her leopard-print platform soles “clip-clopping” like hooves as she hurried away.  It is a knowing the prey has for the predator.  It seemed in a single motion she swept through the coat check and was out the door.

I followed.

Outside, a waiting taxi had already swooped in to her rescue.  Even from afar I could feel her terror abate, feeling she would make an escape from this phantom fear.

Oh no…

As she pulled her door closed I swept silently into the other.  She turned and froze.  I smiled—my lips pale from deprivation, and my teeth white as the full moon—and I touch her face.  She shivered from my cold finger tips.  My smile widened and said, “Yes, I know … I know.”

I inhaled deeply and took in the salty scent of her sweat—fear thick now in the smell of her, mingling with the lingering aroma of her arousal from her spiritual coupling with the blonde.

“Where to?” the cabbie inquired.

My eyes remained fixed on hers.

“To Hell,” I replied.


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1 Comment

  1. Christopher Shawbell

     /  January 23, 2013

    Nobody has commented on this piece so I will… I love this little bite of wickedness. Yay for me.



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