Dusk is snuffing out the light as we climb into the car.
There’s that deep emptiness in his eyes again. I touch his arm, kiss his cheek and let my hand find warmth between his legs. He fidgets with his belt, unzips his pants and lets them fall around his ankles. I please him with lips and hand the entire ride back to locked doors. We arrive at the dungeon too soon. Football, sex and cuddling to sleep meet the night.
Monday morning Falcon is still in my bed. Darkness finds him returning for more football, sex and cuddling. We are back to our normal ways. Tuesday morning I bring Falcon his final explosion with the Rising Phoenix before dropping him, in my flames, to meet the desert as ash.
I wonder what new friend I’ll seduce this coming Sunday.
Falcon, my lost Pharos, has been fermenting under the stale red dust of the desert, where I so carelessly dropped him from flight. I seem to have lost the fire in my loins with his absence. My heart hasn’t felt lust in the cold harshness of winter. Did my passion fall with him?
I’m searching the confinement of my mind to find sexy, seductive thoughts that might help stir the fire. My fire! Maybe a pair of stockings, corset and war paint would help me get back naughty – the desire to seduce. I seem so frigid. Is that what happens when we stop lusting? I need inspiration, yet the normal vices don’t seem to be working. Have I become a broken courtesan?
What I do doesn’t define me; however, what I am has become a moral battle diluting my sensuality. I desire a more traditional relationship. One man, one love, mornings of forever and the sounds of home echoing through my aging bones. I’d like to feel the soft fingers of love stroking my skin.
Casual sex once enjoyed now seems empty. There is no sensation in the rush of a new lover. I’ve grown weary fulfilling the sexual kinks of strangers. The excitement of human sexual response has lost its intrigue. I’ve become “just” another boring body. The magic that was me has become too tarnished to shine. I’m dull… Unfulfilled…
Losing mojo isn’t supposed to happen to a bred courtesan. My entire heritage is disintegrating before my eyes, my future is also fading. Does my work really make a difference? I guess life hasn’t been quite as colorful since Samantha’s passing. I haven’t had the same spark since that cold day in December. My charismatic spirit passed with her.
There has to be a wise soul somewhere to help regain my passions. Maybe an anonymous, romantic pen pal would light a spark. I’m in desperate need of a writing muse.
