Their bodies made of space and stars .
I was the sole public, and they danced for me, and I have never seen anything like it.
The first was very slow. Extraordinarily sensual. Her hips moved tantalisingly to the mellow music.
However, the most sexual part, of her performance, was the cleaning.
Have you ever seen a pole dancer, polishing the metal pole?
She uses a completely ordinary paper tissue, but the way that she uses it, oh .
She wraps her hand around it and the pole, and than slowly , very slowly, slides the hand to the base of the protrusion. Her legs do not bend, no, her head dives down , it dissapeers together with the back , behind her bottom, a very deliberately pouting bottom on top of miles of legs and killer stilletoes, and that enormously round, sex laden ass, stares at you, quite deliberately.
Yes, gulp. Her ass is out launched at You. Me.
She slides the hand and the perfectly ordinary hanker chief up and down that pole in the most provocative and least ordinary manner. So all you can do is, gasp. Look out falsely, politely away. Than, revert your eyes, fascinated, greedy eyes. Cant'not look, there is a female ass, with all the round volumes and extravagant shadows in the middle, pointing at you, All that is separating it, and you is a little lace , somewhere in the naughty shadows.
And, she hasen't even started dancing.
Oh come on, It really was just cleaning? There is no one there to be watching her, only other dancers, and I, a female. What's that to her?
And than.
She dances.
I can't draw her.
I hide in to my coffee mesmerised, doo be doo, here I am with a friend , just drinking coffee, its true, no one could disproove it.
But I keep watching.
More girls arrive to work.
Outside is still sunshine. They enter, into the darkness, velvet safe darkness, with little magic lights, like when faries pass you, and they start rejecting their vestiments, armour, ordinariness, in the changing room. They throw off all the armour, rhino skin, the belonging to others, the wife ness, the daughterness, the girlfriend ness, and than all that is left is they,
a she.
Like in that Russan tale ,where swans throw off feathers, and prove to be nude women underneath.
These throw off their ordinary women, and
swans emerge.
One by one they take the stage.
And I start painting.
I don't know how to paint .
They are beautiful, I am speechless, and my paint doesn't know how to event try to describe them.
They are sexy, and erotic, and sensual and so strong, performing the most incredible moves, to the music, and aimed at me.
I can't see the colours in the dark, but I make the paint wet, and feel for shadows in the palette, and paint somwthing inbetween the energy and the movements, but nither. They are too fast. Alien star ships. Ufos. Did I just see that? I am more dazzed by the speed and movement than my hand can follow.
One by one the girls dance.
They climb the pole,
and slide
and writhe,
and open their legs,
and bend that ass always pointing it at me,
and she spins, and falls,
and slides up side down,
and I have no intention of goin away.
I'm on a completely new continent sitting with the chief of the tribe.
Cannibals of course, every and each, one of them. Everyone knows that back home, they are man eaters.
Yet here I am. Privileged to be allowed among exotic beings. Far away form home, around the tribal flame, with the amazons dancing for me, showing me the best they can be, their dance.
The empress, patronises my work, my being there you see, they haven't boiled me in the cauldron with carrots yet, no, the empress sits, on the couch, next to me, in her red bikini and see trough platform stilettoes, drinking coffee, quite civilised .
The girls sweat, move to the rhythm, return wet, drenched, and flop around me, decadently.
Would it not carry you away? Would you not wish to stay in summerland, where hours pass like seconds? Would you not come back again, for a drink, for a look, for a time not to think?
I painted them all. Hello Monsieur Lautrec, Monsiour Degas, voila I have arrived too, to the bar after dark, and I understand. Each century has its seductive ,forbidden dance, the cancan, the ballet, the dances in the pagan temples and forests thousands of years ago. I painted until the paper run out, and than on the backs of other paintings.
And when there was no paper left, and hours had passed by, and dancers had all danced more than once ,and it was time to have breakfast, they said, oh let us dress you up now.
We women, have those expected common prejudices, men too, but there among the deshabilled females, powdered with darkness, mystery, neon lights I felt like my power grew. Not when I entered. I was wary to enter even. As the full moon grew, so this my confidence, and wish to dance, the backbone straightened , the body absorbed some of the sensuality, when I walked I could feel it. The girls undid my big flowery dress and put my torso in a black corset, my feet into tall lacqured stiletoes a strewn with diamonds. The kind I would never have looked at before. The kind I must have.
Did you know I have miles and miles of legs? Oh yes I have the kind of legs that ordinary mortals have to look up to, to see the ends of, somewhere in the clouds, in the land of giants and goddesses, the kind you can't touch. ? When I wear there magic shoes.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.
I awoke the husband somewhere at am, he must have been worried, where I was, that late, having left to paint in the afternoon, tea time, and having awoken him up so late, he might have been, a little annoyed, but once he opened the door, of the house, and saw ,the new person standing there, was it something in the eyes, in the posture, in the stilettoes? He suddenly was awake, and looked happy to be awoken even, I could say. His eyes, mad in love mad mad eyes. What the heck happened?
I did leave the house to paint that day. I left the house to paint a goddesses. She was going to let me paint her meditate, and but instead she took me to paint her dancing.
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