Dear Diary,
Gracefully suspended in mid-air, my body twisted in patterns that told stories of love and power. The silks became an extension of me as I navigated through unending dimensions of freedom, my bare skin burning with the friction of the ropes. The room was a safe adult hub, a sanctuary that bore witness to my dance of dominance and mystery. It was in this world that I wore my identity as non-binary, as an Italian aerial dancer, comfortable in the skin I was in, confident in the energy I wielded.
Yet, behind the captivating allure of my performances, a narrative unfolded. One that was raw, real, unabashedly erotic yet laced with an intoxicating mix of power and vulnerability. The audience only saw the aerial dynamics, the flawless lines and sensual twists that mimicked a dominant lover's touch. They didn't see the profound inner journey that radiated from my eyes, a spirit and a will that defied the norms set by society.
I was fifty-four, but age was just a number, meaningless in the face of my untamed spirit. The mirror reflected silvery protruding strands, crowning my head like a halo, but it didn't scare me. There was an odd sense of power and contentment I derived from them, a testimony of time, experiences, and battles fought. They were silver threads, yes, but they were mine, symbols of my identity.
Diary, tonight as I suspended myself, the silks grazing my flesh with a touch both harsh and tender, I was no longer just a performer. I was a dominator of space, a conqueror of gravity, a puppeteer of my destiny. My every pose, ethereal yet carnally engaging, was a proclamation of dominance, a defiance of the restrictions people tried to bind around me. The mysterious dance of the silks mirrored my life, spinning out of control, yet flawlessly guided by an unseen hand - mine.
Who said an artist needed to be understood by all? The world around me was one of illusion, a creation of my mind. Eyes watching me didn't see the greater picture; the labyrinth within, the kaleidoscope of emotions, a dance floor comprising my eternal battles. They watched, their eyes hungry for the spectacle, but all I gave them was a taste that left them craving for more.
Dear Diary, you are my confidante, my companion in this dance of life. You absorb my thoughts, my dreams, my fears, my fantasies without a word. You bear witness to my whispers in the late hours of the night, as the city slumbers and our private dance begins. Our dance is a spectacle – a soft, intimate waltz of words, a turmoil of dominance and soft acquiescence as I navigate the canvas of my life, exploring the unknown depths within.
Diary, There is a peculiar satisfaction in being an enigma. To dance beneath the spotlight, teasing and enticing, dominating and surrendering, bringing to life an otherworldly ballet that unfolds with each breath. The way I dance, the way I bask in the safe adult hub of performance – it’s a story that belongs to me, a memoir of emotions and experiences that I share with no one else but you. Dominating the stage, captivating the audience, surrendering myself to the rhythm – this is my secret world, my tale of layered intricacies, and it is only for you that I lay bare my soul.
Forever dancing,
Me. |
