With love, your melancholy whore (Part 3)

Love is forever a contradictory industry. In Aphrodite's games: romanticism takes over: repetitive touches and kisses manifest into godly enjoyments, into a love-feast of Botticelli's Venus and Mars.

Yet, lust is Eden's poison, imposed on all lovers (or prostitutes) alike: caresses roughened; kisses bitten; hugs scraped into an overdosed pond of bondage, knitted by dullness's dance.

For me, love and lust are co-existing in an era of pain and bliss:

He stormed into the room of fantasies - expressionless, emotionless, like a dead fish awaiting its final breath, or a threatening lion in disguise of a lamb.

No matter how trendsetters transform Shinjuku into a montage of catwalks, or how neon lights shine like security guards amidst the dark, Shinjuku was never peaceful. Just like this man.

He teared my lingerie as a hungry tiger would do to its prey, staining my body with a mouth watering full of saliva on my breasts. Slowly licking, slowly corroding a vivacious moment in heaven into a torture from depths of Inferno as he shreds my skin into layers and layers of reddening mark. My skin is no longer visible, but only a pile of stains and wounds in his secret chambers.

He is Aphrodite's assassin, murdering games of artificial lust into ashes of dust. Attempting to appease me with tinges of wetness, he licks his way onto my stomach. No absolute sweetness, or gravity - just a puddle of saliva and his tattooed back turning perfumes on my skin into liquids of emptiness. There is not a trace of feelings, I am a slave in his coerced kingdom, solemnly serving my master.

I remained numb in his stance, or rather, led by his contagious intuitions in our empty adventure. Gradually, my hand massaged his back as a kitten trying to scratch walls, or splendor him with loveless kisses where tongues converge into a fashion of ripping waves of devour. This isn't an epic of satisfaction, but rather a quest of devours based on a simple bet of money.

His jaws stretched into my flesh, 'oh baby, let me see what you can do for a 10,000 yen.'

Oh, my brutal benefactor, how I wish our story would be an end.

Grasping, I was tied onto wires of bondage as he branded me his newest member of the lust squad, entering my body as Melopheme sings her melodies of agony and pain. Helpless, I surrendered to his rough kisses, as he thrusted his viruses of macabre into me. (as my hemorrhage of innocence washed into a bleed).

10,000 yen, in the name of unwilling lust.

Flick, love in the time of paradoxes.

***

He walked like auras of mysteries, this isn't his first temptation into our palace of secrets.

He hid like camouflaged vines, whispering his songs of secrecy.

'Angelina, he is a shy one.' Lucy said. (Perhaps, he has finally surrendered to his desires.)

No, my sweet manager, he wasn't quiet, nor was he trying to discover his masculinity, he simply needed a sanctuary for him to spill his chronicles of pain.

Sweet 2002: World Cup, booming economy. But it isn't well for him, he was on the brink of his wife's madness.

'I wasn't here just for some artificial love, promise you would keep a secret for me?'

'Of course.'

'My wife's a lunatic basking in her own sunken realities. I know, it seem so immoral to visit you, but I require a confidante!'

'Continue?'

'Our marriage was a short-lived fairy tale, she seemed so outgoing, so cute at first, yet that was the cover to her so-called sheer innocence. Romanticism soon withered into a hiatus for my Anna - the shopping mall is her new lover, it has completely drenched all her thoughts dried. Louis Vutton and Burberry were her Satans, tempting her to buy every single latest release in the shopping malls..'

He held my hand, touching it, delicately stroking, soon shattering fingerprints into pieces of broken beauty. It's a break from the hiatus of gentleness. But lust cannot await, such coyness evolves into a rhythmic trance of sensuality: the passionate fire steaming from his heart.

'The devils of shopping malls possessed her, from Louis Vutton handbags to sake in supermarket, she would still buy something from a mall, even a street. Our marriage dissolved into emptiness, we were locked in two worlds, she with her shopping craze, me enslaved in the office. We were like two beings coerced into living under the same roof. What is love? What is the meaning of marriage?

His rage turned into a vent, in the elegant language of lust:

He rubs onto my body, as if seeping his flesh into my bones. Soon his hands wander onto the pink nipples as he sucks it, in his quest for security, or escape? His shyness vanish as we are in Eden's Garden, laying on the bare grasses..

'Was consumerism the definition of a post-modern society, so bad that a shopping mall defines our love?' tears sprung from his eyes.

I found myself cooing him softly, like an infant in dire need of care. Yet..

progressively: touches become the merging of two lost individuals. His hands seep into my curls, so tightly, like finding his missing essences in life. I pour him with light kisses on the neck, perhaps..this exploration of bodies was the fantasy that I yearn for, for most clients are trapped in games of violent sensuality, where we are predators, showering each other with tearing caresses until we sinked into bitter reality of artificial love.

Perhaps so, dear. But let tenderness caress you tonight and forget about your wrecked romance, I say. Maybe you can relocate, or take her on a second honeymoon and tame her with essences of love in the countryside, or worst case, separate your precious for a while so she would understand the meaning of love.

'Perhaps so' he kissed my face, 'thank you for being my confidante tonight, you brought the rage in me, and yet pull me into reality.'

6 months later, he sent a photo of him and his wife in their second honeymoon, he took her to the Alps, and somehow, Swiss chocolates and skiing became her best friends.

For every prostitute, there must be a moment of lust in the time of pain and bliss..