This is a piece I wrote a while back on a train in Auckland city. I thought I’d share it again because it relates to my previous post, Strippers Have Souls Too, which acts as an explanation of the extended metaphor; the woman, the warrior. I am not degrading myself. I am empowering and unchaining myself. Enjoy.
The fire in her eyes screams louder than any war cry. The drums are beating louder now as the men approach and our warrior is called to dethe stage. In platform heels she makes her way through the noise. She marks her territory in large, slow strides and the spotlight softly graces her curves, falling upon them like moonlight. A cold, steel pole is her weapon of choice. She places a steady hand along its length and spins, her body following. Her movements are fluid, yet her eyes remain strong, locking their hypnotic gaze onto the enemy. They circle in like bloodthirsty vultures, driven by their insane hunger for a taste of the fresh meat that is thrown before them on a silver plate.
The bass kicks in and she prepares herself for battle. She grips the pole and begins to climb, rising above her surroundings. When she reaches the highest point she releases her hands and draws her claws along her smooth thighs, which are all that keep her suspended. Above the stench of alcohol and the voices of the crowd she is powerful. She reminds herself that those are the voices of the species who once thought they could rule her. But oh, how the tables have turned. Nothing can touch her here but the music, which she gratefully kisses with lips stained in red war paint.
After levitating a moment in this blissful fantasy she knows it is time to come down. She controls her fall from the heavens with the grace of a swan and lands steadily again upon her stage. Applause and dollar bills cannot distract her from this trance. In this moment, she is a Goddess.
She continues this dance of passion and lust until the males can no longer handle the heat emitted from her fiery spirit. With a confident smirk she unleashes the secret weapon she has been savoring for this moment. Her dress falls to the ground, but her need for armor is unnecessary when the time comes to defeat these men, for they have already become weakened under her spell.
She is almost frozen in this moment, moving only her hands ever so slightly as she caresses her own beautiful body. Fierce and proud she stands, as if she were carved from stone, no, gold. Baring the stripes of a tigress who has performed the sacred task of bringing life to this earth; battle scars these men will never earn as she has. But there they are, along with her soul, exposed under the smoke and lights. Our warrior is fearless and empowered. Victory is hers.