Primal Instinct

Excitement at a feat untried weighs deliciously on the air. Three women as yet uninitiated into the world of fantasy hover on the edges of it, like catalyst snowflakes to a crushing avalanche. They are as rare as Unicorns and the funny thing is they seem to forget how well those creatures weave magic.
The night breeze is silky against their skin as they laughingly link arms, personal style undiminished even at the daunting prospect of judgemental once-overs.
Let them stare, the fiery red-head muses. After all, she is no stranger to unwanted appraisals at the cost of being unique. She is glad she wore her leather cowboy boots. Or cowgirl. She grins mischeivously to herself.

They promenade along the city sidewalk until the yawning door is before them. Timidly they step back, pushing the leader of the pack to enter first as he laughingly acquiesces, remnants of ocean water and his last cigarette still clinging to his Parisian leather jacket.
The darkness swallows them whole and now they know there is no going back as they sign their names in the book, still huddled together, the thrill of potential wickedness pricking their skin as tendrils of pulsing music tickle their ears. Their leader snakes his way through the dark night club looking for all the world like a Rockstar with clutching groupies, no matter that he'd rather kiss the boy lurking at the edge of his female entourage.

The hazy blackness is suddenly shot through with lines of brilliant colors, glowing needles on a midnight quilt and the one in the cowboy boots marvels at the striking beauty. Shards of leftover diamonds glitter on her skin as she glides beneath the immense disco ball, noticing the light gives her best friend's skin an ethereal glow.
The bar is ahead and she follows her Rockstar, pretending she has done this more times than she can count, surprised at how comfortably she wears the color-stricken darkness. Yelling her drink of choice over the roar of the music, she is glad no one can see her blush as she tells a strange man she wants Sex on the Beach. Although she has tasted many flavors, she's never had a drink before. Never one to call her own, not really a fan of double straws and plastic cups. But tonight is a night of firsts and she smiles inwardly as she sips the naughty cocktail, congratulating herself for remembering that she likes the taste of this one.

City air welcomes them as her group takes respite on the cool patio, the beat of the music changing as the ivy-clad walls absorb the quiet murmurs of cozy couples. Laughingly they pose for numerous photos, blue lightening against the night sky as the camera captures new friends and old, the two women in heels giggling with the Unicorns as the Rockstar drags long on his fresh cigarette.
An arm raises in salutation as another group joins them, hasty introductions exchanged as conversations quickly ensue and the auburn-tressed virgin chides herself for the lingering glance she gives the dark-eyed devil in their midst. But now he has her in his grip and she can't escape, nor does she want to. She likes how free she feels and hardly thinks she can blame the vulgarity in her glass - even without the alcohol she often fights the dark side of her nature. A truer Gemini there never was.

She moves with the flow of their ever expanding crew, boys who love boys and the women who wish they didn't parading back to the luminescent dance floor. Fingers thread through hers and she can hardly tell who is guiding her as the beat pounds rhythm into her blood. She dances like no one is watching, drowning in a carefree ocean. She spies the Devil watching her, his gaze full of enticing temptations. Dark and light duel inside her, forces clashing like swords of steel, and she is faced with two choices. Snow rests on one shoulder while crimson stains the other and it isn't long before she feels the scarlet threads join the raging tapestry in her veins.
They move together, molten lava racing through her as she gasps at the sensuous prickle of his warm whiskers on her neck. Soft contours mold to hardened planes and she knows the dark is winning. She thinks he mentions demons and only grips him closer. He purrs against her ear as they swim in a flashing sea of lights, riding waves of electric passion, the residue of salty sweat tingling on their skin.

Soon, though, she feels the cold pierce of conscience and recluctantly breaks free of his tempestuous grasp. He is too dangerous. From the wall she watches her friends mingle with the crowd, exotic strangers to this new world and she thrills at the knowledge that men crave those women who are hard to catch. She is glad to be herself, an individual with many shining facets, two separate beings in one body and she wonders at her ability to adapt to her surroundings.
Maybe she shouldn't question it.

The dark is decadent, after all.

Who Knew Unicorns Could Dance?

Two weeks after my twenty-first birthday I was invited to a co-worker's birthday party. I Mapquested the address and arrived on time, swinging my Sentra into the dark parking lot. I glanced at the address again, not sure I was at the right place.
That's when I noticed the purple lights showingcasing Diamonds - the night club was smack in the middle of a deserted strip mall. At least three homeless people were scrounging in the dumpster and I was quite certain I was the whitest thing for at least fifty miles.
My key never left the ignition.
I have avoided clubs ever since, the horror of my first experience seared into my memory as I assumed all dance joints were the same.

I recently discovered my male Twin - read: soulmate if only he wasn't gay. Oh, the disappointments in life. He invited my girls and me out on a Friday night, promising wicked fun and plenty of gorgeous men for all of us. Jigna, Ashley, and I set about looking hot, forlornly surveying our closets and finding little in the way of "clubbing attire." In the end we chose what made us stand out, ironically all wearing varying shades of gray, laughing at our self-made titles: Indian Sex Kitten, Sultry Princess, and Fun-loving Flirt.

We made our way to Colin's house, discovering upon arrival that my Twin displayed black cowboy boots, a perfect match to the ones on my feet. Hmm, maybe I can Google a gay-reversal spell. He introduced us to his friends Alyson and Cydney and we all laughed as Alyson declared war against Colin's razor for mauling her shapely legs. She lost so much blood from the cuts that she could have been a traveling Red Cross. The clock struck ten and we piled in the car to head downtown, pathetic mimics of Bollywood dancers as we jammed to the Slumdog Millionaire score.

We swung by Chip's place, another of the lovely gays we met through Colin, and crowded into the living room as introductions were exchanged. Jeff and I did flight attendant fingers, the typical gesture upon meeting a new co-worker in "real" life.
Then I saw him.
Oh snap.
Tattoos, dark hair, sinful eyes - please let him be straight, please let him be straight, please let him be straight! I chanted inwardly. Thankfully my reverie was interrupted and my attentions diverted by a squeal from Jigna as the resident mini-dog tried to make chew toys of her fingers. We laughingly assured her he was no harm but I played the loyal friend and protected her from Fifi's canines.

Finally, our group ever-growing, we zipped through Atlanta until at last we arrived at Primal, a mere door on the side of a plain building. I was surprised until we stepped indoors - the place opened up on itself and we played Colin's entourage as he informed the staff with a flourish that he was on The List. The dance floor was suddenly before us and I finally stopped to notice what the rest of the fair sex was wearing. Shit. The entire disco-illuminated space was full of toothpicks in LBD's. Actually, make that Practically Invisible Little Black Dresses. Too bad I left mine at the back of my closet. Oh wait, I don't own a PILBD. Perhaps my dominatrix outfit would suffice - even then I'd be wearing more than three girls here put together. Added to mental checklist: polish my metal corset.

Colin's friend Justin tended bar as Colin ordered the first round of shots. Ashley and I being non drinkers - as in we've never downed at entire glass of alcohol in our twenty-two years - we tentatively anticipated what my Twin called a Space Pussy. Personally I think they should rename it Cat-In-Orbit and omit potential clientele embarrassment. A toast to the night and we all guzzled the pink liquid as cool fire coated my insides.
Interesting.
Jigna and I sipped our Sex on the Beach while Ashley nursed her weakened Appletini and we all posed for pictures on the patio. Our new friend Marcus was there, his broad smile Cheshire-like against his dark skin. We chatted about the wiles of KFC going healthy while I halfway flirted, resolving to take my Gaydar to the shop for a checkup as soon as possible. Josh mentioned his ex-girlfriend while he ahhed over Jigna's clothes, declaring we all must have gay men who shopped for us. I exchanged confused looks with my friends. I reeeaaaalllly need to get that Gaydar fixed.

We all made our way back to the dance floor to break it down as I pondered my state of consciousness. Am I drunk? I don't feel drunk. Then again, what exactly does drunk feel like? I'm pretty sure I'll remember it all in the morning and that's what counts, right? Then I laughed giddily as I almost tripped and I reconsidered my musings.
Usher yelled "Yeah" and I was transported back to Prom, thanking my stars that I was enjoying myself MUCH more this night. Most of the boys and girls got dirty, hips grinding and booties shaking as the loud beat pounded through the cement floor.

I took a breather and tried to ignore Devil boy, for upon discovering he was straight he may as well have pinned me to the wall with his wicked pitchfork, so strong was his hold over me. I mentioned to him that I liked bad boys. "Then you'd better stay away from me," he murmured temptingly. Damn him. Those dark ones always know what they are doing.
Ashley was swept away by a hottie with a body from West Virginia and Jigna chatted flirtatiously with a guy who called himself Bermuda. I thought I should warn her that she might get lost if she stayed around him too long. I stood there and stuck out my lip, abandoned by the gays, the Blood Bank and Cydney nowhere in sight, and swearing I'd never end up like the Asian wallflowers on the far side of the room, I grabbed the Devil's hand.
"Let's dance."

Before I knew it we were practically one person, fused together from top to bottom as we swayed to the beat, and I suddenly started to panic.
Oh god, could I get pregnant? I was pretty sure this was safe, but dear gosh, there were countless demons mere inches from me. I feared their iron will might cause them to swim through four layers of clothing and there is no WAY I'm gonna have a kid. I've already told my parents that any child of mine will be left in a basket on their doorstep and they have my permission to christen it Moses, no matter the sex.
Although I knew I was overreacting, the thought of a kid made my head swim - or maybe it was the liquor, but I'm just saying - and I reluctantly broke free as Chip and Russell made a seqway in and I joined them in their dance. Our entire group was there, Cydney and Alyson right at home on top of the box, and we shook it till the lights came on. Colin loudly congratulated us for closing down the club.

We wound down the night in Russell's retro studio on Tenth Street, his giant white headboard the coolest thing I've ever seen. Kathy Griffin droned on the plasma television as a drunken Jeff and Josh begged me to belt out Broadway - perhaps if I had had as much to drink as THEM I'd have been warbling like a Mimi on crack. We gathered our things to go and bid everyone farewell, promising to join them all again soon. Surprisingly the boy I deemed Devilish ensured that my girlfriends and I made a safe arrival to my car, a real-life Ying Yang, good and bad in the perfect recipe.

I fell into bed back at the apartment, glancing at the clock before I drifted off.
5 am.
I giggled. It had definitely been a night to remember.

Frayed

He touches her skin with a lover’s intent, but sparkles fail to glitter. She wills them into existence; she begs the shiver to swim in her veins. Realization sinks like lead into the well of her sorrow, ever expanding ripples in the grey waters until tears sting the backs of her eyes. She holds them there as she stifles a gasp and she wonders if he can taste the forced fervor in her kiss.
Time and again it happens this way and she hates herself for lying. Her lips never speak untruths but her heart fails to leap and therein lies the real deception.

He says the fated words, three icicles shattering on the pavement of her soul. She wishes she could glue them back together as if he never said them, wishes she could return the pieces in their original purity, but there isn’t time for that. She knows what is expected of her – and who does she really have to blame but herself? She knows he doesn’t see through her. He doesn’t want to. And so she mimics his romantic admission, melted ice becoming black rivers in her blood.

Her heart hardly beats at the thought of him; in fact, it seems to flutter more ardently as she ponders her potential freedom, like a bird trapped inside basement rafters on a sunny day. She is losing herself as the days drag on. She dies a little more each time his eyes brighten when he sees her.
She is sure she is defective in some way – when he holds her she burns with indecision, overheated in the circle of his arms. She is floating in a sea of safety, and the only handhold is the ladder to complacency.
She knows she would rather drown.

And so she ends it, just as she always knew it would. She asks him if he ever suspected their demise and he answers no. There is nothing but sincerity behind his glassy eyes and she resists the urge to gag at the pain she knows she is putting him through.
He won’t hate her though she begs for it. The well of her tears has finally overflowed and she feels it is bottomless, so endlessly do they fall. He thanks her for respecting him. If only he knew. The salt water rivers on his face cut canyons in her heart and she aches to know she is the cause of his agony. He is so good, so kind, loyal, and honest.
She doesn’t deserve to be happy for hurting him this way. She isn’t sure if it is worth wanting fire on her skin when she fears his heart will forever remain frozen.

His one request is that she continues as his friend, for that is what they have become, is it not? She ponders his plea, and later begs advice from objective listeners.
No, they tell her. Be wise. You will only hurt him more.
She knows they speak truth and yet she is selfish, she wants to have her cake and eat it too and damn them all, she agrees. She trusts his declaration that it will carry on as a mere friendship, that he won’t beg her back nor accept her repeal should she feel so inclined to offer it.
And so she leaves the black ribbons of heartache uncut, the edges as yet unraveled, and she prays they will stay that way. But loose ends left to tarry in the wind often meet a tattered demise. She forgets she already knew that. She longs for a flame, shimmering heat to melt the frayed boundaries of her heart, numb, unfeeling hardness left behind. He stands before her now, and they both know this is the true finale. He asks her to reconsider.
But she has made her decision and there is no going back, though she stings all over at the thought of him with another. She is surprised she hasn’t yet suffocated in the black tar of selfishness nestled where her heart should be. Maybe that is her punishment. To long for death, to ache for a respite from the scalpel through her gut and never receive it.

He struggles to keep his composure as she turns to walk away. For his sake he can’t know she is barely held together, like an ice cube in August, and it is only a matter of time before she disappears completely.
The echo of his words is chiseled on her soul.
“Goodbye, my love.”
She watches him through the window as he slowly fades from sight, the defeated slump of his shoulders forever imprinted on her memory. She whispers to the universe to give him the woman of his dreams, pledging her own perfect match as a sacrifice for his happiness. Raindrops run across the glass pane, colors blurring together, the dripping scene something Monet would paint.

She realizes it’s only her tears.

Lions and Tigers and Pilots, oh my!

It's almost funny the way they feel me out - not to be confused with feeling me up, which, incidentally, is another of their tactics, but I will get to that. They are all so predictable, each no different than the last. As prey in the world of flying predators, I have grown accustomed to the stealth - or lack thereof - with which these pilots stalk.

It begins with a flash of pearly whites - or sometimes slightly browns - in my direction. After the third implication-laden grin I grow suspicious. The smile I wore on our initial meeting becomes a mere sticker on my face, plastered there for all to see, albeit few recognize that it's actually fake. My eyes sheath dangerous daggers, but like most animals at the top of the food chain, they feel invincible, and fail to note the danger belied in my clover stare.

Mistaking my faux-grin for an actual smile they attempt a PG joke, one bordering on slightly inappropriate. After which, of course, they snicker together as if no one gets it but them, reminding me of horny middle school boys. As is typical in the airline industry, there are many "pretty young things" out there, my crew usually consisting of at least one of them. And that one typically laughs loudest at the simpering one-liner, a flick of her hair or an "omg, that's SOOO funny" accompanying her high-pitched giggle.
If I do laugh it is out of politeness and the deflection of potential drama, but it rarely grows past a grunted "ha." If I'm in a supremely good mood - as in, I just won the $200 million lottery, I may give an extra "ha." If the wise-crack goes beyond a simple innuendo, I don't care if I become an instant billionaireness - I ain't laughin'. A lightbulb seems to go off if there is another female to guffaw at their lame attempt at standup comedy and the attackers retreat for a while, their attention spent on a captive audience. I thank God for my brief respite.

Like a cat and mouse, though, they return to play with their food, seemingly unable to keep their paws off me. Often it is an "accidental" brush of their fingertips across my back, the beginnings of a very dangerous game. Almost without a conscious effort my shoulders go rigid and I stay frozen until their mealy hand leaves, doubting that the callous hunters notice any difference. Unlike their friends in the wild they are terrible predators, only attuned to the most blatant signals. No wonder men never bothered flirting with the Amazon Women - they wouldn't have survived.
Some have the nerve to freely place their hands about my waist or in the small of my back as they "move me out of their way." Hey, I know, how about you Google the phrase "EXCUSE ME?" Then again, most of them are too lazy to even fly the plane, more often than not pushing the Easy Button and setting everything to autopilot. Of COURSE they can't be bothered with pretenses. Although it coud be that they are just too ancient to understand modern English, resorting to motion-infused grunts and cave-man paintings on the galley walls to communicate their needs.

A once over with their weasly eyes is often followed by the typical wink they employ when an outright cat-call must be tamed. I offer them the subtle jaw-clench. Or perhaps not so subtle. At times it feels like I'm biting through metal so dedicated am I in my endeavor to prove that body language and non-verbal cues are ninety percent of communication. I can hardly blame them for failing to understand. Obviously their vocabulary is very limited - sex, sex, and oh yeah, more sex. They probably think the Jaw Clench is one of the 265 Flirtatious Moves screaming from the cover of the current Cosmo mag.

Nights at the bar are definitely NOT the highlights of my trips, but hours on a plane is often cause for a raging appetite and so I go for the chips and salsa if nothing else. Being late is something I loathe with my very core, but if it ensures that the seats on both sides of the perching vultures are filled, I would gladly wait an eternity. As glasses are emptied and bellies slosh with poison, the real games begin.
I get a feeling right before it happens. Often it is reminiscent of sickness, like the hints of nausea before the virus hits full force. The fifty-year-old Captain, who sports a shiny bald spot with greasy leftover salt and pepper strands and a beer belly too large for a maternity top, makes his way to my place, wheezing his alcohol laden laugh in my direction. I'm waiting for the day I pass out from holding my breath. Note to self: stock up on smelling salts.
They often try their pathetic talent of beating around the burning loins bush, seeking refuge in innuendoes meant to evoke nervous laughter from the intended victim. I don't even take out my plastic grin, instead I merely strike right below the belt - "Yeah, Grandpa, I'll be sure to remember that next time we fly together!"
Brow furrows as realization dawns, and then, thank the heavens above, it becomes increasingly uncomfortable as he finally takes his long awaited cue and exits stage right.
I am saved. Awkward silence lingers for a few moments as the rejected auditioner returns to his seat, looking for all the world like a Dunce complete with pointy hat. At least, that's what I picture when I look at him. Inevitably my insides start to hurt from screaming with surpressed laughter.

Soon enough the conversation picks back up where it left off before the One Man Show; I gladly sink unnoticed into the background, people-watching, gears turning, my elders unknowingly showcasing valuable life lessons to the pulsing refills of beer on draft and the acrid sting of cigarette smoke.
Silently I thank them.