We are both dressed in nothing more than our fantasy, the darkest night and the brightest passion of two lost souls in a city of indifference. We are modern lovers, part plastic and rubber, part naked white flesh, part wild animals. Tied up in a kind of mental bondage. Our bodies are longing for intimacy and exploration. Our minds are set on giving and receiving.
We are at that moment, neither man nor woman, just predators and easy prey. The hotel room is lit up by the broken neon light sign entering through a window like through a camera lens. We are posing in the red-light district for ourselves in the mirror of our own eccentricity. We are mannequins, we are robots, naive like innocent children, and jet we are like prostitutes for pleasure.
Dressed to kill, all in competition with ourselves. Wearing stiletto high-heeled shoes, fully fashioned seamed stockings and metal suspenders, dangerous leather boots, and pink and purple furs. But, It's not a masquerade, not a school play, not a fashion shoot. No. It's a desperate cry for Love and compassion in a world of war and atrocities, injustice, or crimes of pandemics and of starvation. We are also starving, but for attention. We might be dressed for Love, but we are naked inside. Venerable. We are the fiction heroes, the last survivors; we are the human shields, the pink Love machines of the rainbow coalition. The Helmut Newton wannabe models. Doomsday boy and Domesday girl.
We throw ourselves into each other's nights like kamikaze pilots from a lost army of lovers. We are now embracing the universe and eternity. Our bodies convert into a spastic death dance, an epileptic love song, and the room is suddenly lit up by ten thousand volts of pure Love and sex.
This story is from the May 2022 edition of Lens Magazine.
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This story is from the May 2022 edition of Lens Magazine.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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