Feeling the blood run inside

"Her body felt slinky and gorgeous, writhing in time with the music. She was slick and dangerous, a snake weaving her way across the dance floor. The power of her own sexuality was like a drug, drawing her deeper into the folds of her movements. She could feel bodies brushing against her and didn't care if they were male or female. There was no identity, only the drive to move. Here she was an arm against a side, there a hip against a thigh. It was divine.

She could feel him waiting, a still spot in the corner of her mind. He was stone and earth, hard lines and angles. She couldn't resist slithering closer, always circling, stalking him through the bodies. He was watching and so she danced all the more slowly, every motion a torture of flowing limbs and aching muscles. Darkness and denim flashed, alternating with her shifting hips. He hated her. He loved her. More importantly he wanted her, and that was what she needed. She called him like the moon calling to the seas, her pull inevitable, bringing him into the same spaces as often as possible."

~On Desire, by Robyn Lefkowitz

I need to go dancing again. My beast is pacing in the cage behind my eyes. I can feel her, waiting, watching for the chance to slip out. I find her in the pounding bass. I can work her there between the bodies. She can wear herself down, dull her claws on the floors, scream her throat raw and when I stagger home, exhausted beyond exhaustion, I'll find peaceful sleep of moonlight and pomegranates.

I say she, but I am a beast under all my pretty layers of culture and society. I am animalistic in my heart of hearts, a leopard stalking alleycats. Perhaps living so long as an animal instilled this in me, but for whatever reason I have deepseated primal urges that I have to vent every so often and I am long overdo. There is a restlessness in me that can't be sated with anything but blood, sweat, and tears. It needs pain, and anger; fear is unknown in this part of me.

For the longest time I would bleed it away in long, jagged testaments to the truth of the flesh. I paid blood sacrifice to my dark goddess. When that wasn't enough I would roam under moonlight in the cold. I slept on gravestones to soak in the numbness. I bathed in the chill air of winter to cool the flames. I even fought strangers to get the bruises I so craved.

When I got older I would fuck it away with angry sex. I'd hand some poor worshipper his dream and fuck him, but leave if he looked for more. The scratches quieted the beast; I was content with bruises and aching. Then even that became useless, because I fell in love and it meant something more than pacification so I would dance instead. Real dancing, from the days of drum circles, is about blood, and sex, and destruction.

I need to go dancing.