Today’s prompt is Sin. Something popped into my mind right away, but I’m on a time constraint today so I didn’t get to develop it as far as I would have liked. However, I’m not going to stress myself out about a daily writing exercise. If I get more, I’ll edit it. If not, I’ll let it stand and move on.
This is most certainly getting easier!
Ugly as sin. I don’t know why this is a saying. It doesn’t make any sense. If sin was ugly, no one would want it. It wouldn’t be tempting or fun or appealing. Sin isn’t ugly. It’s gorgeous, beautiful, alluring. It beckons sweetly. It asks nicely. Sin is syrupy, sugary sweet and warm and welcoming. How else is it going to trap you in its arms and never let you go?
Sin is me. I don’t mean that I’m sinful. Or that I’ve sinned. Nothing to confess here. I mean… I am Sin.
Sinn, actually. It’s my stage name. I named myself after something most people avoid, so as not to get into trouble.
I most certainly am trouble. And that’s exactly why they seek me out.
By day, I am honest and gentle and studious and kind. I open doors for strangers. I let elderly men and women have my seat on the bus. If someone has a question, I like to be the one to answer it. I write my grandmother every Sunday and call my mother every Tuesday and mentor middle school girls every Saturday afternoon. I am every bit of good and light that a person could imagine to be in one human being. I have to be. Because by night, it’s an entirely different story.
At night, my innocent pony tail becomes a long, shiny mane of seduction. The gentle curve of my sweet day time face is slashed with a brush of crimson. My lashes are long and curl at the tip, enabling them to bat at unsuspecting patrons. They are my siren song, waving doomed sailors to their graves. However symbolic, they will likely die at my feet. My lips, normally adorned with nothing but a tinted gloss, are a deep, dark sinful burgundy. On the rare occasion that I smile, it’s not a wide, friendly, open gesture. It is brief, pensive and secretive. I’m not here to make you happy. Not in that way, anyway.
My daytime uniform of classic slacks and blouses, form fitting jeans and t-shirts or leggings and boots fall to the wayside. All Sinn needs is leather, lace, silk, satin, vinyl. Corsets. Lingerie. Fishnet stockings. Tall, thin, stiletto heels. Thigh high boots with a pointy tip—all the better for driving my foot into the crotch of a man who is “adventurous” enough to enjoy that kind of thing.
A stage, wide and expansive that offers plenty of room to entice, seduce, capture my prey. And a pole. A shiny, metal pole that runs from the floor to the ceiling, smack dab at center stage. I like to think that it generates and conducts electricity. From me to the pole, from the pole through the floor and out to the audience and back again.
Night after night, I become the hair the lips, the eyes, the costume, the PERSONA that is Sinn. I become the long awaited, anticipated, wanted, needed, dreamt about, hoped for.
Maybe that’s why sin is so dangerous. It isn’t ugly at all.