With Love, your melancholy whore (Part I)

I caressed the layers of your blonde crisps, as your tanned hands trace lines over my silken skin of scars. You thrusted your kisses over my nude breasts, as I messaged the textures of your back. Blissful, true love.1

I should look upon you as my savior, who enslaved me from chains of lascivious tortures, where voyeurs grope at my nakedness like euphoria. But, should this be the case, when I adore myself as the ultimate seductress, even though society sees me as a degradable dreg?2

Maybe, I should take the pills, and kill myself in your secluded haven of overdosed lust.3

I was once the Queen of Kabuki, the siren of pleasure quarters in Shinjuku. It was 1990, sweet, paradoxic 1990: when I was tangled in life's labyrinths of unpredictabilities - my aunt, who raised me died while eating a chocolate fondue with me.4

A stroke. They said, a natural death.5

They claimed, it was the happiest moment of her life. I recalled, the incident was birth of my black heart. She was everything. I swallowed 8 sleeping pills before reaching 20, waiting to be in death's arms. Hollow, I was living model of premature death.6

Broke, the quest for frustration diffused in the sparkling signs of Aphrodite's Palace. 7

'From now on, you are Angelina.' - Lucy, the manager lectured me as she dressed me in the corset of allure, along with sultry red lips and gold-tinted eyes: a replica of Manet's Olympia.8

'See him, and think that he is your missing piece of jigsaw puzzle, please him as if you are the heavenly droplets of trance music - charm them, infatuate them to the degree they crave for your feverish ecstasies.' - that was, the montage of your violation, the beginning of my addiction to lust. 9

Reader, perhaps you perceive prostitution as a coerced act. But I was the minority, who hunt for lust, and metamorphose into the temptress herself.10

For pleasure is a paradoxical art, often euphoric, but tainted with marks of guilt.11

Fast Forward:12

He came. The black Armani is too foreign to belong in Shinjuku's mixed patchwork of first tier shopping, and prostitution's utopia. Anxious, my heart rips itself into dilemmas between loveless lust and loss of pure virginity.13

'Angelina, ma cherie?' he whispered in his suave French.14

His hazel eyes warmed my anxious eyes, as if a reassuring glance for his forthcoming pleasure. 15

'You will be my masterpiece tonight, you are the whore that I will make a euphoric rain bath out of.' He murmured as his hands massaged my reddened cheeks, and slowly, the striped Armani and patterned kimono fell onto the floor.16

It was a night of rough strifes: a cyclical, often heightening process that made me lust's slave. His tongue dived into the depths of my mouth, exploring into every inch. Gradually, his lips teared the shreds of my skin as it wandered to my breasts, licking my stiffened nipples for artistic inspiration.17

As if..we were lovers, drenched in romanticism's essences, forever trapped in Aphrodite's gates of love/lust. He was the artist with a heart of wild ambition: Romanesque columns and impressionistic art seem to never appease him, he took all his money, sold his home and went to Tokyo, in hopes that oriental exotica would be his muse. 18

I was the swimsuit model for Chanel, who have never tasted meaning of life. Perhaps my life was so ideal: a Grecian body, runways and commercials one after another, with a list of admirers. How I met you, darling, is an ordinary tale of Kitchen sink drama.19

I was rushing for painkillers in a supermarket, it was a nightmare with a headache just an hour before Chanel's runway. 20

'Do you know where the Gravol pills are?' He tapped my shoulder, eyes wandering with a sense of helplessness. 21

That conversation soon turned into romance's grandeur, after his pop art and psychedelic art defined Japan's icons: cliche candle-lit dinners of steak and wine; showers of roses and even luxurious gifts of Jacuzzi eventually.22

'Angelina, will you marry me?' 23

I was exposed to his tanned muscles and rain bath of kisses, his Grecian lips lingered on my stomach, and soon, it was a ritualistic trance of paradoxical pain as he entered my heated treasure.24

Gasping, his lips silenced screams: 'ma cherie, don't scream, you are the most beautiful whore that I have ever encounted, that have given me pleasures from heaven. Let me return a cadeau of appreciation, please.'25

The merging of two bodies became a poison paradise of seduction, of perfumed skins and touches, as if love expressed without words. We broke into a sweat from Venus's melodies, it was as if..as if he is really my lover, and that was our honeymoon.26

We broke into a sweat. Two hours later, he finished my potrait. 27

'Angelina, I knew you wouldn't have expected me to base my submission for art exhibition on you, when we were here for pleasure, but you are the most passionate, expressive prostitute that I have ever encountered, thank you for invoking my inspiration again.' He kissed me on the lips.28

In a split second, the Armani suit has merged with the darkened streets of Shinjuku.29

Perhaps, such pleasure was purely business: I earned over 5000 yen, he found his muse for his art exhibition. Perhaps, love?30

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