Vanity and Perception

originally posted January 19, 2007

I suppose I am vain. Not in a conventional, self-absorbed sense, but vain nonetheless. I have already told the auburn girl, Joy, who I also refer to as 'Sandal,' that I expect her to put her hair up and off of her neck tomorrow evening. The collar on her throat will be visible and a few curls allowed to escape the coif and rest on the hollows of her collarbone. She is a tall female, though not lanky, well-proportioned with a good ass. A good ass is important. The up-do is a good look for such a woman, a good look for her. She wears coral lip paint on occasion. I will allow that as well.
The others, too, I will expect to look their best. It is not an evening for them to sell their bodies, nor to entice future sales - though that is no doubt an unpreventable occurence. It is an evening for the things I own, the chattels in my possession, to look their very best. Many of them are whores, property acquired in a fortuitous companionship that I once had. I have, regardless of the circumstance, become fond of them. People of higher caste and station than myself will attend this play; Scribes, Builders, Warriors and the like. Perhaps Physicians, certainly a wealthy Merchant or two. Should they be inclined to notice an Evona or a Portia, a Nirah or an Emily, or even a Six Girl, they might think to themselves, "Lovely bit of fluff the Poet owns there. She looks familiar, does she not?" without realizing, of course, that the very girl they are remarking upon might be one that was kicked away or turned from with disdain as she peddled herself in the Markets and Stadiums, in the alleys and streets of the city.
Perhaps I will do a bit of shopping this afternoon.
I saw the Story Teller's future love slave last night. I thought it might be nice if the next time he called her to his side, she ran to him properly, as a woman should run. Elise, by my command, illustrated to her the way a girl runs. She, then, too by my command, emulated Elise to the best of her ability. It was not a bad run. Certainly, it had inklings of femininity. She requires a beating or two, and perhaps a stiff raping while bound closely. She will, then, and only then, run properly. As a girl. Though I like the Story Teller, and have come to regard him as a friend, this is not a chore I took upon myself to complete. Let it be him that is the first to make her squeal like an ensnared tarsk and then find herself rutting and moaning like a heated she-larl. I merely told her to run along. She did so. Perhaps he will notice the change, however minor, as it is a significant one in my opinion.