My name does not matter; nothing matters except for him. I don't even know him. I haven't even spoken to him. But… His gaze is warm on me, searing through me like torpedoes or silver bullets. I just want him to see me. Not look at me- see me. It's as if that's what I live for.
When a man looks at me and flourishes in my radiance, I take him to my room… But in ensuing passion, when I am entangled in that haughty man, he does float into mind and captivate my loins entirely. I want to test him. I want to take him to the limits and then slowly… bring… him… back… down.
But does he want me? Does he want a deflating balloon of a hussy that coughs up her insides after tasting clouds? Does he want a girl with a nasty disease? Does he want a dirty courtesan?
Oh how I hate that title. I hate it, but then at the same time… I devour it. What am I doing with such a beautiful name, like a feverous dancer of sheets, when I do such unruly acts? Each night I am tested. Each and every night that I give it up to another seeking male, wanting a little sexual zeal in his life; I am hardened. I gain experience and moves… But never is this emergent love I feel muffled. It just prolongs this infernal journey of unfurnished pining.
When the men leave me on the bed, with the stained sheets tangles around my legs and chest, and the beading sweat slowly pooling in the valleys above my clavicles, I watch them close the door. I wonder why it is that I can give it up so many times and still have enough to keep… giving up; passing out like candy into grubby little children's hands. Why can they not, simply, give some of it back? Do they wish to suck me dry? Drain me like the Nile during the time of thickest harvest?
But most of all… Most prominent in this series of wants and desires… Is… Would he give some back?
XXX
The moon is a waxing crescent tonight, with a smile of blackness all along its left side. And it's bright, emitting some immortal glow that seems so illuminate the entire courtyard of the Moulin Rouge. "Red Windmill", that means, for in the middle of the ventral anterior is just that- a titanic X of wood and steel and lights, in a fixed position, bearing the name. I've been up there before, on the roof, just behind the axel, where the night sky seems so near, and the ground so far away. I used to go up there constantly before I inherited the Elephant; my home. My domicile… My bawdy-room.
As of now, I am standing on the roof of my Elephant, one hand on the right ear, where the gold paint has been worn away by touch, by so many women's hands holding on. This used to be a place for wealthy "patrons" to "fulfill their needs". But that tradition is long been washed away… By rain, by snow… By hail. By time. Now I only ascend the stairs when I am alone, without a guest, and watch him, from across the street, on my gaudy monster-house, through his window.
He's a writer but I don't know what he writes. He might transcribe, or, for all I know, he may just punch in the keys out of boredom. Still, there he is, every night, sitting by the window in his simple brown tunic-shirt, just… Typing. He has beautiful hands, as I've seen, and they are as pale as Proxima Centari, as pale as special Swiss cheeses from rich men, and lily blossoms newly opened in the middle of a stagnant lake. I imagine how they would feel caressing me.
Some say he is… bohemian. An odd word, bohemian, sometimes mistaken as a resident of Bohemia, or a rarely spoken Czechoslovakian language. And instead, no, it is not that vocabulary, but instead a strangely allotted term used to describe those that live free. A word that also defines me, who is the complete opposite of this; a woman that is forever bound and chained by her job; a woman that is guaranteed a taste of the waters of trepidation if ever she take a step outside her life.
That is why I love him. And, yes, I love him. I've grown to love him as I've watched him, and now I love him entirely, in my soul, where everything seems deep and insistent. I love his silhouette, one of the only things I know of him for sure, like I love darkness, as it creeps through my windows, preparing to lift me and carry me away, to a place of exhaustion. Exhaustion I earned wrongly. Exhaustion I earned in a sinful way. And for that sin, every night I pay, as I stand atop my home and watch him… want him… Crave him. A craving that is not returned… A craving that is only greeted by indifference… For he does not know of my existence, or more, my love…
XXX