The other night @ a goth dive I kind of fell in love twice.
A beautiful dancer in a catho-lick schoolgirl outfit (could have easily been an SG) was dancing on a platform high atop the bar. Cut-off see-through stockings, gauze, black, rubbing up against and caressing her milky thighs as she was dancing in time to cheesy 80s hits, and some goth 80s kuts, soft industrial faves from back in the days when dress-up was all life was about--playing dress up--
Though she, alas, was not stripping, I felt as though I had been. So obviously gawking, smiling. In adoration not unlike when I take my trips to the Vedanta temples. Living, breathing postmodern goddess in her natural surroundings, born to be adored...
Her driver-protector was a peach. Adorable. Such my type. Sleepy Eeyore eyes and a smile that spoke to me of Spring, a sigh in between his breaths. A take it how it comes type gent. He seemed as though he wanted to be spoken to, attended to--'course I read a lot into things. It was, maybe, me who wanted such things--
By then I'd had 2 Vampire's Kiss drinks (or was it 3?) and I cuddled up against him at the bar while I waited for the bartender to over-charge me yet again.
"How much for a vampire's kiss?" you ask 'em. Out in the main bar they always say 4 bucks, 4.50, 5....inside, it's usually 6....7.... I don't think they know how much they'll over-charge you until they open their traps.
And I DO mean traps.
So, the driver-protector...I can't remember what our opening lines were to one another, but he looks like homeboy from Screaming Trees. Or kinda like Matthew Sweet--
and I do mean SWEET...
As I leaned into him, accident at first but then so comfortably on-purpose, driver-protector didn't flinch. I knew that he was bone-sober. I was glad to find this temporary cushion in the rather hard-bar-sitch...
Tall, long shaggy hair, cute, affable face, long black t-shirt on. Sweetboys, I always love the sweet boys.
I was in a drunken daze. "Lovely," I said. "Does she have a tip jar?"
"She does," says driver-protector. (we hear the sound of her smacking her ass, or was it thighs? in the background) "But you can give it to her if you want."
I wave a dollar at her (cheap, I know).
"Where do you want to put it?" she asks.
Blushing, I'm sure, I tuck it in her gauze stocking, she gives me this beaming little girl smile. It's delicious.
I'm waiting for the barkeep to pay me some attention.
Patrons smoosh me up against the driver-protector, more so. His body is so soft, still, lanky.
"Are you her boyfriend?"
"No," he says, then launches into a story of his crush on said luscious dancer. They're best friends, and he's trying to get over her. She won't let him in.
It's always about breaking hearts and not meaning to. She doesn't have that feeling for him.
"You're the best," I tell him, "Kind of boy for her...you are her protector...."
"I know," is a small part of his litany, continuing....he goes on with it, smiling all the while, soft sad vibrations in his eyes--
And in that moment I want to hold him. Slip him my digits. Kiss his soft, sweet forehead. Cool his face in this hot, sweaty bar with my soft vampire's kiss breath...
Eventually I'm paid attention to. Bartender overcharges me 6.50. He probably makes price equations based on drunkenness.
I'm always wishing I could be that hot girl that the boiz fall in love with, and that I could bend over the bar, this time to my driver-protector, not asking for the cash, nor for protection, though I do adore him for his sentry-stance...
Just bending over for his kiss.
Bending over to tell him, "okay--yes."
In real life, however, I took my drink, wished him sincere good luck, and set my controls for the heart of desire to his frequency.
So much of this is about desire. About breaking hearts. Not meaning to.
-Be.
A beautiful dancer in a catho-lick schoolgirl outfit (could have easily been an SG) was dancing on a platform high atop the bar. Cut-off see-through stockings, gauze, black, rubbing up against and caressing her milky thighs as she was dancing in time to cheesy 80s hits, and some goth 80s kuts, soft industrial faves from back in the days when dress-up was all life was about--playing dress up--
Though she, alas, was not stripping, I felt as though I had been. So obviously gawking, smiling. In adoration not unlike when I take my trips to the Vedanta temples. Living, breathing postmodern goddess in her natural surroundings, born to be adored...
Her driver-protector was a peach. Adorable. Such my type. Sleepy Eeyore eyes and a smile that spoke to me of Spring, a sigh in between his breaths. A take it how it comes type gent. He seemed as though he wanted to be spoken to, attended to--'course I read a lot into things. It was, maybe, me who wanted such things--
By then I'd had 2 Vampire's Kiss drinks (or was it 3?) and I cuddled up against him at the bar while I waited for the bartender to over-charge me yet again.
"How much for a vampire's kiss?" you ask 'em. Out in the main bar they always say 4 bucks, 4.50, 5....inside, it's usually 6....7.... I don't think they know how much they'll over-charge you until they open their traps.
And I DO mean traps.
So, the driver-protector...I can't remember what our opening lines were to one another, but he looks like homeboy from Screaming Trees. Or kinda like Matthew Sweet--
and I do mean SWEET...
As I leaned into him, accident at first but then so comfortably on-purpose, driver-protector didn't flinch. I knew that he was bone-sober. I was glad to find this temporary cushion in the rather hard-bar-sitch...
Tall, long shaggy hair, cute, affable face, long black t-shirt on. Sweetboys, I always love the sweet boys.
I was in a drunken daze. "Lovely," I said. "Does she have a tip jar?"
"She does," says driver-protector. (we hear the sound of her smacking her ass, or was it thighs? in the background) "But you can give it to her if you want."
I wave a dollar at her (cheap, I know).
"Where do you want to put it?" she asks.
Blushing, I'm sure, I tuck it in her gauze stocking, she gives me this beaming little girl smile. It's delicious.
I'm waiting for the barkeep to pay me some attention.
Patrons smoosh me up against the driver-protector, more so. His body is so soft, still, lanky.
"Are you her boyfriend?"
"No," he says, then launches into a story of his crush on said luscious dancer. They're best friends, and he's trying to get over her. She won't let him in.
It's always about breaking hearts and not meaning to. She doesn't have that feeling for him.
"You're the best," I tell him, "Kind of boy for her...you are her protector...."
"I know," is a small part of his litany, continuing....he goes on with it, smiling all the while, soft sad vibrations in his eyes--
And in that moment I want to hold him. Slip him my digits. Kiss his soft, sweet forehead. Cool his face in this hot, sweaty bar with my soft vampire's kiss breath...
Eventually I'm paid attention to. Bartender overcharges me 6.50. He probably makes price equations based on drunkenness.
I'm always wishing I could be that hot girl that the boiz fall in love with, and that I could bend over the bar, this time to my driver-protector, not asking for the cash, nor for protection, though I do adore him for his sentry-stance...
Just bending over for his kiss.
Bending over to tell him, "okay--yes."
In real life, however, I took my drink, wished him sincere good luck, and set my controls for the heart of desire to his frequency.
So much of this is about desire. About breaking hearts. Not meaning to.
-Be.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
Maybe I will find a crush. (((lots o pretty dancers at this club for sure)))
I think that you write so well
I can't write worth shiznit.. that's why my posts are always so short.