I like to pretend that I am a rock star.
A rock star who wears black vinyl platform combat boots. A revealing tight top. Azure blue or sparkling moss green eye paint. No lipstick. Just the transparent spit that may gloss my lips.
A rock star who sings and plays electrifying guitar.
Or perhaps bashes on the drums. Hard. And. Fast.
One or the other instrument.
But usually the guitar.
Because the guitar. Is sexy. Loud. Passionate. And furious.
And it looks mighty fine straddling your body.
I imagine I am Poe. Or Hope Sandoval of Mazzy Star. Or Shirley Manson of Garbage.
Voices that pierce through heaven and hell.
Or I may just be part of the all-male band.
And I am the one with the ferocious guitar.
I churn out the fiery notes while he is growling his song.
And I command power.
I lick up your adoration and desire.
I command tears.
I force you to listen with or without your permission.
And you love every moment of it.
Because I know I do when...I listen to you.