For you, I can be perfect.
Filtered photos and flattering angles. Pedicured toes and waxed skin. Witty text exchanges and knowing glances.
I can be a dream.
In this room, I am curious lips and crafty hands. Supple breasts and 30 inch legs. A sensitive neck and an ass that jiggles just so when met with the right amount of force. A giver of pleasure and a taker of pain. Whispered inquiries about where you’d like it and how you want it.
With you, I can be a goddess. This room, a temple. We can stain the sheets with worship and disturb the neighbors with prayers until we’re overcome with glory and pass out, sweaty and spent.
Under this moonlight, in the safety of these walls, I can be divine.
On my way home, I will pick up what I discarded at the door. Fears and insecurities. Scars and mistakes. My carriage will be a pumpkin and my rags will reappear. I will retreat to my shack, haunted by ghosts that mock me with a highlight reel of dark nights agonizing over the ones who glimpsed beneath the mask. Ones who kissed my tears instead of denying their existence. Men left behind because I saw only my flaws in their eyes.
In the harsh light of day, I am human. But my mortality is not your concern. We exist only in this room, under this moonlight.
And in this room, I am immortal.