killingsoftly: (dangerous)
Walk on, walk on
What you got, they can't deny it
Can't sell it, or buy it
Walk on, walk on
You stay safe tonight

Are you joking?

No, really. Are you?

Self-preservation wins, hands down, every time. The rest doesn't matter if you're not still alive. What's your alternative here, getting forgiveness from someone as you die in their arms? Please. Overrated, romantic claptrap.

You do what you need to do to get by. To take care of yourself, because no one else is going to take care of you. You live, you fight, you breathe, you sigh, you walk on.

Sometimes people think you might need to ask for forgiveness for the things you've done, but don't buy it. I mean, you do something malicious, maybe you should, but if it's a choice between those two? Between self-preservation or forgiveness. You take care of yourself and let the next life worry about forgiveness.

Besides, who says there is forgiveness anyway? Who says it exists? That it's possible? That someone can forgive? And even if they say they have? They don't forget. They never forget. They're always wary. Always watching for the next time you're going to do them wrong.

There is no such thing as forgiveness.
killingsoftly: (just him)
The moment before a kiss, especially the first. To savor it, to lie there in the uncertainty of it, lips hovering close, or standing still across the room. The promise in it. It's a pure moment, however fleeting, full of promise and of choices. You don't know what it might bring. Pleasure? Boredom? Connection? A crashing of souls or a heated tangle of limbs. It can revive or it can drain. Enchant or repel.

Too often I know exactly what it will bring. It's a step in a dance and the dance has an end. I don't linger. I don't wish. I don't dream. I slide through the moment, let it go, and move on to the next moment in our pas de deux. Or pas de trois. Or pas de quatre. What have you. The possibilities in that moment can be infinite, even for me, and that sort of infinity is not what I need.

But every now and then I indulge. I stretch the moment. I feel my breath catch and just for that second, that heartbeat, I dream. Perhaps that's the guilty indulgence. That every now and then I dream, too. I hope. I wonder. I feel time freeze and all I can think of are the possibilities of the next touch. The taste. The surrender. I wonder if it will be me that surrenders, or my partner, and for a moment in time I dream of what surrender would feel like. To release the control. To let the moment reign supreme. To give and to take and to lose all sense of anything else but that anticipation leading into that touch. That caress of lips against lips. That rare occasion when touch transcends physical. Transcends an energy exchange.

To wonder, to feel the weight of possibility, the magic of the moment. That is indulgence in its most exquisite form.
killingsoftly: (Default)
Despite what the lovely lady was insisting last night, I'd have to say that part of me does. If not a role, then A position. Somewhere I've been stuck.

On the outside of society, more than any role within it. What I am dictates that, no matter what I might think or wish. I can be what she was, and be embraced and loved, no matter the cost, or I can walk as I do, and hope to find a better way. At least a less...

I don't know. Choices. She talks about choices we can all make. That we aren't bound by who we are or what we are, but that we can make choices to break free of that.

But she's human. They have so many more choices than we do, even if their lives are shorter, their view narrower.

I want to be a star. I'm...driven to it. Driven to stand in front of them, feel their love, their adoration fill me up in ways I've never been filled. Without it, without that energy, that emotion, I starve. I die.

Can a vampire choose whether or not to drink blood? No. He shrivels without it. Starved. A walking skeleton.

I need that energy, that passion, the same way they need blood.

I could choose not to take it, but I would die.

So the only choice left to me, if I want to live, and I do want to live, is how I take it. To try and cause the least harm. To let them love me from afar.

Because if I choose what my nature calls to me to choose, if I embrace the role I was born into and pushed toward...

Sometimes it calls to me so strongly. It's all I can feel, all I can see, taste. It consumes. A spark, a fire, a genius brushes near and I want to cleave to him or her and push them toward all they can be and watch them fly, and gorge myself in what they generate with their fire. I want to love them. I want to be loved. And I know, I know, that's what my role is supposed to be. Like my mother before me, it's where my nature calls me and in it I could find peace. Just...let go and be what I was meant to be.

But he's there, too, and I see him in them. And so I'd like to believe what the lovely lady says about choices. I'd like to believe our fate isn't written in the stars. That we can fight it. Be more than it. Choose another way. I struggle to make that choice every single day. I walk away when I just want to reach out. Touch. Be touched. I leave when I want to stay.

But isn't that a sort of destiny in and of itself?
killingsoftly: (Wanna?)
I don't.

Romance is a tool of the trade. I create it on the stage. I breathe the fantasy of it into their hearts, their souls. I move through the venue afterward, stopping here, there, to talk. To smile. To let their fantasies fill me. Their payment for their pleasure.

There's usually someone who wants more. Many someones. Who wants it most? Who have I already moved toward those heights? Who tastes like a fine wine, seeping through my pores until for a little bit I feel alive, part of them, one of them.

So, I play the game. I take them to a motel, backstage, the alley, whatever fantasy they feed me. And I become what they think I am. I give them what they want from me. Do they want someone sweet and tender and a bed of rose petals? Someone to press them into the wall, needing them now, this moment, not content to wait? Do they want to be wooed or do they want to be taken? A rose sliding up the calf or the sound of cloth rending under my hands, with the threat of what I could do to them lurking there?

Whatever it is, that's what I give them. Their fantasy lover. What they've only dreamed of. And as their fantasy reaches it's fulfillment, I feed. I take what I need. What I want. In their pleasure, I find my succor.

But there are no partners. Both of us sated, I leave them there. Sometimes with a rose. A note. A kiss. Sometimes I just shrug into my clothes and leave.

Reality can never live up to the fantasy. It tends to be a lot uglier. It tends to leave them dead.


killingsoftly: (Default)

September 2007

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