As I finish the manuscript for final editing I’m simmering with sensual energy. I’ve awakened the kundalini energy and it’s devouring me.
I feel as if I’ve jumped out of an airplane, no parachute. If the awakened sexual dragon doesn’t hold me, I’ll fall. If magic doesn’t come out, the wings do not manifest out of my bones, tearing through my skin, mid-flight, and quickly, I’ll splash on the pavement way below and it’s quickly approaching.
But you know what? Sparks of magic are coming, the wind is kind of bearing me, giving indications that maybe, just maybe, I may have been a bit less insane than I thought, at the moment of the jump.
There were some dances recently, particularly with a Spanish man, so much younger, and yet, so powerful in sensuality. Bloody Latin blood. The spell turned against the caster, hard to say who was spelling who.
At the end of the night he killed me, I killed him. I missed a step I would never have missed on normal circumstances, I was lost in his eyes and smile. Bloody Latin smile.
He passed his fingers lightly on the palm of my hands, during the dancing. That’s not normally done. Never before.
He used the dirtiest tricks, trapped my neck in turn twists, my leg between his, traced every single movement across my arms, my waist, my neck, my shoulders. He trapped my gaze, and I didn’t shy away, never.
I felt him getting happier in between us. He had to create some space between our bodies at a point, for some turns for a while until he got some control back.
There is one thing an older dancer like me has is spades: experience to follow every lead, so whatever movement he was thinking of leading, I was already following, except for the one I missed for being lost in the smile and beautiful greenish eyes.
There is one thing a single, older, dancer doesn’t have at all: shame. No shame to get closer, no sense of proprietness, no shyness, no uncomfortableness, no embarrassment of the effects she may cause (instead a certain sense of pride and reality that there are consequences to certain actions).
We danced the first time and I thought it would be the only one, with so many pretty little things on the dance floor for him to chose from. But he kept coming back to me… and for five glorious songs through the night we tortured each other to the point of ignition.
I was leaving, one feet still clad in dance shoes, one changed into walking shoes when he stopped me begging for a last song.
So I changed back, the shoe into dance shoes.
We had a few accords of the slow song, it was excruciating pleasure. A rebelion of senses. Tantalising beyond endurance. Then the song ended before it started.
‘One more, one more’ we begged each other.
‘Otherwise it wasn’t even worth changing the shoes’ I said.
‘I think it was worth it’ he said.
The warmth burning me agreed.
The next song wasn’t slow.
‘I like the other song better’ he said.
The music came and went too quickly. And then, I left. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again and what will happen if I do. If anything.
He is burnt in my mind. His heat is keeping me afloat, mid-air.
But it’s precarious, very. He is an illusion, maybe a figment of my imagination, maybe a being from another dimension that crossed over but once.
What am I to do with all this draconic energy? How am I going to survive?
Aphrodite-Reads 