Bastet

Watch her.

She's everything you can't have, and you know it. As she moves, your gaze never strays, never leaves the sight of her perfect walk. The word sinuous was created just for her, you know? Sinuous. Say it to yourself, go on. The S; it's your indrawn breath, watching her. Ssssss... Taste that? It's her scent, riding the airwaves, and it's on your tongue. Bless those waves. They make it possible for her to dance, to slide, to sway with her music. To sway you with her music. Ssssss...

Where were we? Sin. That's what she is, and you know it. Sin and sweat. Sweat and sex. Sex and... something else. What is it? You know? That special something that slithers and shakes, that rides your spine and spins your soul. It's everything you can't have, because she has it already, and she knows how to use it. Watch her. Her body is the S that you breathe and she rides the airwaves with it. She swims the music and is as sleek and beautiful as a dolphin. Her flesh is that smooth. Her scent is that sharp, like the salt bite of the ocean that produces longing. Her eyes? Fathomless.

Sinuous. Keep saying it. Sin, U... what are you? You're a toy, and you know it.  She plays with you. She plays for you. She plays on you. She's a virtuoso; you're a badly tuned guitar. She barres you, she frets you. No matter how many of your strings she snaps, you still want her hands upon your neck. Strings? You're her puppet. Her dance makes you dance. You jerk in twitchy lock-step toward her and give her the control. She loves to play with her toy. You're her clown; you make her laugh. You're her ball; she throws you away and you bounce right back. You're her idiot flesh yo-yo; those strings again. She tilts her G-string, she snaps your G-string and you rocket right back to her waiting hand.

Sin. You. Us.  Don't dare breathe it louder, it's meant to be a silent prayer. Of course it's a prayer. Don't you worship her? Watch her. She's on that stage, up above you, where your gods are meant to be. Perhaps they're watching, perhaps not. And if they hear you, perhaps it's better if they don't. For what can you offer her? Your heart? Please. She doesn't need another. Your soul? She's got that. Your mind? Ahh, perhaps...

Close your eyes. Think it. Only think it. Sin. You. Us. In the private night behind your eyelids, you dance together. The oldest dance, the oldest rhythm. Cats know it. Their flowing bonelessness. Their silent tread. Their silk and speed and weave. Cats are the dance that smoke only pretends to be. The feline grace, the lioness shuffle, the very sound of it hypnotizes. Sin. You. Us.  Curving letters in sleep, the S of the cat is sexuality, is mystery, is woman. Like this woman above you, sizzling and hissing her cat-quickness for the music. Watch her, and you can almost understand the secret...

But the riddle slips away as the song ends. Suddenly, you're just another man in the crowd of men, wanting her. Sin everywhere. No you, no us. That word is walking away, going back to wherever the gods go. You wave her over with a green offering. You ask for her name and she gives you only what she is called. Don't mistake the two. True names have power, and she reminds you that you're powerless.

She takes the offering and bestows her Cheshire favor upon you, then she is gone. Like smoke and mirrors. You'll never know how she does it, but you'll never stop trying. Because you're an idiot, you'll try to catch the trick, every time. When she reappears, like a rabbit in a hat. Like a cat in a hat. Sinuous. Every time. You know it.

Watch her.

I been spellbound, falling in trance

I been spellbound, falling in trance

You gimme the shivers

-- "Somewhere Down the Crazy River", Robbie Robertson