Girl in Black
You see their kind… time and time again.
The trembling hands. The practiced confidence. The eyes measuring you from a comfortable distance… trying to decide whether you are beautiful, tragic, exotic, or simply convenient.
And there you are again.
Bangs in your blind eyes. Black dress. Black tights. Black boots. Black choker. Black scarf. Black everything.
Girl in black. A creature built entirely from silhouettes.
The atmosphere was never made for people like you. Not the restaurants. Not the hotels. Not the bright rooms where successful men speak loudly about successful things.
You enter them anyway. A invited intruder. A curiosity. A decorative skinny creature. Judging by the way I’m presented all the time, I must be at least good-looking.
You give everyone the same smile. The same fantasy they want
It’s always your first time.
It’s always their turn to introduce whatever they want.
Do any of them believe you… girl in black?
Some let themselves be captivated… the fantasy of corrupting you… imagining they are the first to touch what has never been touched before.
Poor fools. Sweet fools. They never learn.
The men always look different at first. Different jobs. Different stories. Different neighborhoods.
They all carry themselves like men who belong.
And perhaps that is why you keep following them. Because belonging has always looked beautiful from a distance.
They admire your legs. Your smile. Your unexpected politeness and etiquette. The way you occupy space while appearing to elegant enough for it. Good doll.
And eventually… their attention settles upon the thing you spend every morning trying not to think about.
The contradiction. The flaw. The factory error.
The monster hidden beneath lace and careful presentation.
The thing you pray nobody notices. The thing they always notice. The thing they are looking.
You’re a fetish girl in black. One you can show off at the salon and wear in the bedroom.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself many things.
That being wanted is close enough…
That being chosen is close enough to belonging.
That use and affection are cousins.
The lies grow elegant with repetition.
Traitorous body.
Allied body.
Always so dedicated to pettiness… to their squeeze.
It collaborates in the story. It hurts her when they thrust.
It moans when she wants silence.
But you close your eyes.
Feel the punishment you so richly deserve.
And for one night… sleep relieved of your sins.
Intruder. Strange. Abnormal. Exotic.
Good to look at. Legs that never end. Such a slim body. I like how you seem easy to break.
Their words… words you’ve already heard. Words you collect like rosary beads… each one a small death, a small comfort.
Do their faces look different to you… girl in black?
No.
They all blend together into one. A mass of fur, hard eyes, eager lips.
They all kiss you the same way. Tongues anxious, breath sour. You rarely find a kiss good enough to enjoy.
Their hands are all large… firm… hard to hold… easy to restrain you with.
They are all old… at least over thirty-five. You prefer it this way.
Looking at a face so different from yours… either relieves you… or makes you tremble.
The last one wasn’t any different from the others.
A popular guy. He knows the restaurant owner. Introduces you personally. Calls the waiters by name. I knew every person who entered the saloon, I knew the menu by heart.
A man in control. A man of charisma. You think you are pretty enough to be shown off to his equals.
Black dress. Black overcoat. Black tights. Black choker. Black scarf. Black boots.
I’m your girl in black.
Who smiles and shakes hands.
If a hug is requested… you wait for his permission.
Good dog.
He tells you about his travels. About work. About his days in Belgium. How he knows people. His network is vast.
You nod. You drink. You have class.
Good girl.
The phrase arrives uninvited. As if obedience were a profession. As if submission were a talent. As if disappearing into someone else’s expectations were a virtue.
When he gets tired of showing you off… he takes you away in a taxi.
Expensive… in Brazil, at least.
Large, luxurious motel. Greek names. Rooms named after gods.
Your room is bigger than your house.
It has a swimming pool. A sauna. A waterfall.
An indoor garden.
And a naked man for you to serve.
Small bikini. Tight bikini. Well-dressed. Mistake thoroughly punished until it disappears.
He offers you drinks.
Choose whatever you want, except champagne, I don’t like it.
You are not drunk enough. So you go for the strongest thing you can find.
He does not touch you. He just looks.
He puts you in hot water. With the push of a button… opens the roof… shows you the night sky.
He orders dinner. Chooses what you will eat.
You drink from crystal glasses. Following all the etiquette you know. A well-trained doll. She knows which knife to use.
And then… back in the hot water… a light hand pulls off the top of your bikini.
You pretend not to notice. Letting it slip.
Everything is performance. Every step. Every breath. You dance to the music that plays. You follow the rules.
And he likes what he sees. To the point of touching.
He squeezes you. Kisses you. Licks you. His hands slide down to your lower parts.
You get scared. You hold his hand.
Your terror lives there. Your eyes fill with fear.
Please no.
But no words come out.
He grabs your hair. You shrink back. You tremble.
Are you saying you want it? Or that you are scared?
He is paying for everything. You don’t know anything.
Then he baptizes you. Submerges your head in the water. Leaves you there for a while… exploring every inch of you.
When he pulls you out… he picks you up… sits you down outside the pool… on the cold floor under the night sky.
You shiver. You tremble.
And he has his fun… with his mouth… on the monster that is in you.
He breaks you.
You lie down on the wet floor… and see the stars. Cold water seeping into your skin. The sky indifferent above. The roof open like a wound.
He carries you to bed. Lays you on your stomach. And enters.
Flesh on flesh. Fitting and sliding in. No protection.
You shouldn’t do this kind of thing, girl in black.
You have the condom in your purse. But you don’t even move. Admit it.
The fit is better than ever.
After the initial excitement… he asks:
Do you have something?
And you stammer… not that I know of.
He seems to feel a slight disgust. Decides not to take that part anymore.
He grabs you by the hair. Fucks your mouth until he’s finished.
He covers you. Bathes you in it. Leaves you on the bed… breathing heavily… and goes back to the pool.
Used. Dirty. Tired. Broken. Punished.
You sleep so well. With such relief. With such tenderness.
Broken thing.
The strange part is not the danger. Not the risk. Not the shame.
The strange part is the relief.
The humiliating relief. The brief suspension of responsibility. The feeling that somebody else has taken control of the narrative… however temporarily.
That somebody else has decided what you are. What you are worth. What you deserve.
And for a few hours… you no longer have to carry those questions yourself.
Used. Tired. Quiet.
The city continues outside. Cars moving through wet streets. Bars closing. Neon lights fading into dawn.
The world remains indifferent.
And yet you sleep. Not happily. Not peacefully. Just deeply.
As if exhaustion itself were a form of mercy.
Girl in black… do you live too fast? Or do you exist with such limited time that speed is the only prayer you know?
Drink quickly. Use whatever they give you.
The atmosphere was never made for people like you.
And yet… night after night… you enter anyway.
He wakes up shortly after, tells her to get ready, it’s time to leave. You put on your clothes, wash your face, and are offered coffee and chocolate at reception.
The taxi arrives. The night is ending. The performance survives.
You get home, get naked, and throw yourself on the bed…
Tomorrow… there will be another table. Another conversation. Another room. Another baptism. Another breaking.
The details will change. The script rarely does.
Same smile. Same fantasy. Same girl in black.
Always the same. Always relieved when it’s over.
Because relief… even broken relief… is still relief.