EATEN ALIVE

Men always think they can outwit women, but what they don’t understand is that every selfish, playboy act they commit, we remember and replicate, but better. The disposable nature men present ends now. The tables are turning. We are coming to take back what you started.

The smell of desperation is one we are all too familiar with. Walking into the bar knowing there are very few things standing between you and your prey lights up excitement within you. You don’t want it to be easy, you need a bit of a challenge— someone who previously has also caught their own prey in this very bar. Spotting them is the simple part, but reeling them in is where it gets a little tougher. The games begin.

startsIt with seizing theirattention:aflip maybeofthehair,acasualglance, eventhesubtleapplication twice,oflipgloss.Catchtheireyeonce—maybe smooth-talking,andyou’llhavethemhooked.Fromthereit’s laughterandtheoccasionalgrazingofthe arm.Itdoesn’ttakemuchbeforethey'relockedin,thinkingthey off—haveyouwrappedaroundtheirfinger.Knowingtheirticks,whatgetsthem that’sthepremierepieceofthiswholecharade.Maybeit’sthedamselindiswanttressact,ormaybeit'sthethoughtofholdingthepower;eitherway,theylikeitandthey more.Fluffingtheiregoisthenexttactictowardsthekill—makethemfeeldesired.Menwill doanythingaslongastheyfeelliketheonesincharge.Freedrinks,dinner—playyourcardsrightanditcan allbeyours.They’retooblindedbytheirimpulsestorealizetherughasalreadybeensweptoutfromunderthem .

lasts one night. Eventually, they will get over the pain they’ll inevitably feel tomorrow, but for now, you bring them euphoria— they return the feeling by falling into your web. Joy is a funny thing because it feels infinite in one moment and fleeting in the next. It’s the ultimate power— to be able to hold and control someone's elation. Soon man's biggest fear will become a reality— they're no longer in charge and they don’t even know it yet.

You move gracefully and confidently, pulling them in closer, tighter— suffocating them with lust and desire. It’s all about subtlety—being casual yet forward, confident yet shy. You walk the line of contrasting emotions to keep them on their toes just long enough to stay entranced.

And once they’ve given us what we want, *snap* it all turns off. Every feeling that we once had, a moment we shared— gone in an instant. No longer are you the damsel, the fluffer or the one fawning over their every move. You’re cold, egotistical, and confident, walking out as if you never walked in. You leave them with the feeling of being crushed, as they have with so many before you. It’s not the morning they expected to have, in fact, you’ll probably have them reeling for days. Somehow the thought of that might even be better than the look on their face as you make your way out the door. It may seem cruel, but it’s part of life.

I can see what you’re thinking now: “She’s horrible. She has no regard for human emotion. She’s a monster. How could she do such a thing?”

Take off the rose-colored glasses and see our acts for what they really are— replications of the deeds committed against us by the people we now perpetrate. The man-eater is not the problem, it’s the men who have jaded her to be this way. They created her. Karma’s a bitch.

Objects and their names are inherently intertwined. One cannot exist without the other, and with that, it is the name, rather than the thing itself, that gives objects their power. Their meaning. It is only after an object is given a name, a story, a purpose—something to live for, that it comes into fruition as a thing. Thingdom is not guaranteed but is rather a privilege only given to those deemed worthy.

I pray on names. Seduce their meanings, draw them in, make them feel safe, loved, cared for— fulfilling their god-ordained purposes as creators of the contemporary dimension. In a twist of fate I suckle each individual letter’s glorious nectar until nothing remains. There leaves not a moment for betrayal; wouldn’t want to spoil the fruit.

Now, do not think me a monster. There are many other creatures of the night who do the same as I with far less thought— their names are unimportant. I like to think I perform my deeds with a bit more grace. It is a dance, see? An exchange of sorts. You, a disgruntled soul searching for ecstasy. Me, able to give you what you seek. But perhaps in a different form.

The question I ask you is: Do you deserve bliss? Or even contentment? And if you say yes, think again. I see you. I know you do not deserve it. There are only a handful who truly deserve euphoria and you do not fit the bill. You give me your name and I hold it in my hand with the care you have always hoped someone would. I love your name, your soul, your “person” and I will lift you up high enough to dance with the gods. And you will be happy. For a time.