Shadows

The Den is strangely quiet tonight, quiet enough that I find myself with the luxury of being able to sprawl here on the furs before the roaring fire and stare at this page of blank rence. The shadows cast upon it by the flames intrigue me and the facing page is, while not what I might call art, a true reflection of those dancing shadows. There are no sharp angles or straight lines in shadow I find. Everything is fluid, shifting, overlapping and all too easily the charcoal sketch could bleed into one grey mass had I not stopped the stylus.

I feel a bit like that sketch right now. What used to be clear and distinct lines are fading, blurring and the desire to redraw them straight and clean is just not there. Look twice and the lines change three times and I find it frustrating. When the fuck did I become the woman who ebbed and flowed without questioning every angle and line? When did change sneak up on me and begin the transformation that I am still not sure I am even capable of?

The pole.

If I am honest with myself that was the genesis of it really. He knew it scared me, but he accepted intimidation as my word. I thought I could evade the whole matter with a press back of hips and that simple word. Kings how I underestimated him. The brass was so cold at first, but he was not. He could have simply told me to go to it, to touch it, but he did not. He stayed with me. His voice guided me and somewhere along the way he was no longer touching me and the brass was no longer cold and it was....amazing. Scary, thrilling, exposing, arousing, so many other feelings that I cannot even put to words but they were there. They linger still.

I see the looks. I am not blind. Mixed hues seek hers and I can even admit it, here at the least, that those looks arouse something in me akin to anger. Oh not at her, she does not understand. I might even, in her stead, have my own share of looks to throw. I just wish sometimes that I could pause the world long enough to...to what?

Maybe to lash out, to give voice to that hollow core where all is silent when that voice is gone? It seems so useless for her to worry, for either of them to worry, not for one ihn. I know all too well the realities of things. I am a plaything, a pretty posable placeholder for certain desires to be slaked upon. I serve, in my own way, as a decadent dessert. That is all. Mind you, I enjoy it, cherish it even, because when all is said and done, even the prettiest and most pliable of dolls are placed back on the shelf. There is safety on the shelf, respite even.

That either would worry is....laughable. I am like a shadow really. There and gone again, a dark sweep across a page, decadent and even pretty but of no substance when the fires are low. I know this. I accept this. I...sometimes think I am coming to hate this.

Fuck it. No. I am so not going to slide into some damned well of self pity. Not. going. to. happen. I am stronger than that and frankly, why am I even letting myself give voice to this nonesense? See? This is why I hate journaling and yes I hope you are reading this. Just let me be what I am. To be more is just......

So anyway. I went shopping for more fabric. It is a very pale green this time and I think Skirt will look good in it. I enjoy designing the silks, it has been too long since I was indulged in such creativity. Oh, and I made flyers for the Den. I passed them out to the local Inns in hopes that they will offer them to male guests. It may be good for business and more coin is always a good thing. An easy thing. A clear, linear direct thing. That, I understand.