Monday Meets: Princess SO

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MUSE ME ONLY

by

Princess S.O.

The veins in his arm nearly popped through his skin just seconds after gripping the pole. In the same instance, his feet came up off the floor and he lifted his legs in a slow movement, fanning them out and kept lifting and turning in a slow aerial pirouette until he had twisted all the way around. His pointed toes hovered above the stage and left his body in such a contorted manner that he likely just killed himself. Poor soul. He could have at least let me paint him then fuck him before he’d committed pole suicide.

And then— as if my thoughts gave him new reason to live, those legs flew up into a series of movements that a smartass like me could only describe as part dance, part flip flop, part Olympic pole vault; leaving out all the eloquence and amazement that went along with what I was seeing. It was exciting for sure, but it didn’t excite-excite me. Not the way perhaps it was meant to. I wasn’t sure. I mean, were we supposed to get hard-ons while watching this? Because I didn’t see it. I was enthralled, yes— much in the same way as watching Mikhail Baryshnikov in a solo performance. Okay, for him, I did get hard. Go ahead and laugh about my ballet reference. But there was something astonishing about seeing that infamous Russian man leap up in the air with a triple axel twist that ended in a pinwheel kick before landing on his toes like he was a butterfly on steroids. Did I lose you with that one? Of course I did, because while I was talking about the amazing muscular body of one of the world’s most talented male ballet dancers in his ability to land as softly as an angel’s feather, you were busy yukking it up, playing macho man, and you missed the purpose of my visual. But I remember, some years ago, I was still a young boy when I accompanied my mother and father to the ballet. Quite ostensibly, it may have been the very moment when I experienced my first boyhood erection. An experience which started me down the path that soon led me to the self-realization that men turned me on far more than women did. For just when the symphony music kicked into its first bridge of the rhythmic theme, suddenly, this god in black tights and bare skin came leaping out from stage left. Champagne blonde hair flipped wildly around Baryshnikov’s face. Muscles bulging in his back, arms, and thighs that accentuated every flexed move, both smooth and snapping. Unlike the others, Mikhail was grace and godly packed corded muscles. Like the young man I was watching now, the experience was astounding. Yet, unlike the rest of Pole-Dancer’s audience, who wore lust-filled faces, it was not making me horny. Now, had the man been standing here before me with that gleaming smile of his? I’d have had a whole ’nother reaction. That tanned face, hair that was most likely a dark blonde or sandy brown— hard to tell since it was crew cut down to the scalp. His whiter-than-winter smile did something to me. Made me want to go all Tarzan on him, toss him over my shoulder and climb the highest tree and make mad monkey love with him. Ape sound effects and all. Okay, so not really— sex, yes— but minus the monkey effects.

The show ended when his feet came back to the stage, released the pole and shot his arms out with fingers splayed palm up. He surprised me when a professional dancer etiquette showed in him when he bowed, and then the lights went dark. Had I just watched him perform in the Cirque du Soleil, I would have certainly had a hard-on.

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color handstand

Xherdan Chantal is an artist still trying to find his place among the masters of color. He’s a rather independent soul, working at the New York Metropolitan Museum, who lends no time to pretending to be anything he’s not or be involved in anyway other than to stimulate his muse.

However, when a local pole dancer sneaks a shoulder-mount-to-flying-half-flag maneuver into his life, managing to seduce far more than Xherdan’s muse, he’s not sure how to put it all into perspective. Then again, painting is Xherdan’s artistic magic, not words. So, while poetic prose may have failed him, he still enjoys exploring this new sensation with loyal attention that sets Sreven above the rest of the world that’s only purpose is to feed his muse. What Xherdan was never expecting was for Sreven to become the living breath and motion of his muse.

But there’s just one fight a lover should never pick with an artist.

MM / Erotic Romance / Artist Theme / First Person

Word count: 56,213

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