Narcissa

Sometimes, my ego just gets in the way. I mean, I become the supreme narcissist—the queen of self-love—more exactly, the empress of self-lust... I, am the bitch who excites me most...

Take the other night at the club... my friends were there... and as always, they were sweet enough-how could my friends not be?! But, I only had eyes for me... Now, lets be clear, I'm no beauty—at least not in the classic sense; but, I do know how to handle myself... I can create excitement... I walk into a room and heads DO turn... i HAVE stopped traffic on more than one occasion... i AM a stunner... 'stun' as in 'to stop,'... 'to make stand still'... 'to freeze'... yeah, I'm stunning... but that's ego too...

Anyway, the other night, at the club... my eyes were for... me... Short, tight, black... I've been described as such, even in four-inch stilettos, but this was the outfit: short, tight, black... It was simple enough... still, it turned heads... people stopped talking when I walked in... I 'arrested' conversation...

My folks waved me over... found room for me in a corner of the bar... across from a floor to ceiling mirror—my undoing... Like cameras... I've yet to come across a mirror that I didn't like... and that didn't seem to LOVE ME... especially when I was dressed for it... And, I was dressed for it...

I ordered... chatted... then turned out from the bar as if I were letting all the bois and grlz know I was available... only I knew... I was only available to me... 'Bitch'...

I caught my eye in the mirror... and 'we' began to 'dance'... not literally... just the eye-play...

I stood... made my way the entire length of the club—destination: the Ladies' Room. The stroll, a modified cat-walk... none of that hard, bobble-headed bitch-prancing; just a smooth, feline strut through all the mirrors the world can hold—at least, that this world can hold... My image in every last one of them...

Mmmmmmm... the Ladies' Room. A veritable den of inequity here. And we all were there—every size, shape, and hue—all, it seems, stilettoed... all beautiful... all genders arrayed... all... awaiting 'Her' entrance. That would be me... hehehe...

Now the 'mirrors' were their eyes. Some cut me to quick. Some said, 'Who is this bitch...?' Others said, 'Who IS this bitch...?' I got to the glass, caught the vision and murmurred, 'WHO IS THIS BITCH?'

I pouted into the mirror; my lips growing redder and slicker; lipstick and gloss playing over them like the best of cocks. My tongue darting over them involuntarily—oblivious to my 'background': a 'cast of thousands'—more like ten at the most—it was a large powder room, not a dance floor. I, with them, primped and preened. My last act was to roll the hem of that ever too short, too tight, ubiquitous black dress over my hips—in the presence of all—and adjust my tuck... Yes, I wanted them all to know that this cutie was packin'... you never can know who you might meet in the Ladies' Room, or on the 'voyage' to and from...

***

I guess it's this: it's the transformation... you've never met my other persona... never will... That is, you never will and know it... Where I'm femme, he's total male... No. No... not the macho, testosterone addicted, hard-dicked skirt chasing type—truth is, if I were dating, I'd be dating him—me... LOL... Nope, it's just that like Sydian, he knows how to handle himself... strict COO... in charge...

So when the change occurs... one can only stare... and stare... and stare some more...

What seems amazing is that there is no 'betrayal' here... even with my preferred short, nappi head, I am the 'perfect' piece... not as in ass, but as in art; sculpture; painting; poetry... there's just enough boi there to be a girl... A kick-ass, huni...

'Mirror, mirror... ' I'm badder than the Snow White queen... the mirror obeys my command... it requests of me—not me of it... I'm secure now in this look... though, admittedly, it took time...

Every time I put on this face I'm amazed... and excited... By the time I get to this mouth... when it's done—lacquered and glossed, pouting like only a black grl can—I'm so hard that I can't get a thong on... there's no tuck to all this... so it's either 'play' or 'stay'... Well, I'm out ain't I? If that answers your question... But when I catch myself in that glass, the strain is painful and the heat tremendous... but then, what we won't do for love...?

I stare and I can hardly believe it's me... That cutie across the floor is someone else, right? That brazen little bitch with all that tongue on those too full, too bright, too red lips, she can't be flirting with me...

The mirror make me flow from the floor up... from the stilettos of the knee-boots to the tight muscles of my thighs, up under that too short skirt, around that tight ass and over a tighter stomach on up to the 36's I've purchased for occasions exactly like these... the quicksilver from heels to head makes me giddy... 'Just who the fuck is she?' So... I've got to stare...

And stare I do... I'll turn back to the bar... blow a few kisses at admirers; give a few real pecks to those I know and love... re-join the conversation... but... I'll still glance over my shoulder to see if she's still there—leaning against the bar, that tight bubble of an ass thrust out... inviting someone to smack it... no one dares...

I do know this, however: at the very least, SHE will be leaving with me... Not such a bad deal when you truly love yourself... Not bad at all...

Self-indulgence can be all it's cracked up to be... and more... You've just got to dress the part...