Call me Dentata

(fiction)

I am become death, the destroyer of... oh fuck the pretense, I'm just hungry.

I'm ghosting the Caligula, affecting that slightly bored, slightly vacant look all the poseurs seem to be wearing these days because "Like, it's SO cool to be pretentiously self-aware! It's all post-modern, and stuff!"

I often fantasize about drowning them in an inch of water. Does that make me a bad person? Deliberate shallowness brings out the beast in me.

I digress.

Shallow often equals pretty, though, and there are so many pretty, pretty people here, writhing sensuously to a rhythm so blatantly erotic that the backbeat alone gets a double-X rating, moving and dancing and squirming and sweating...

Sweat, the salty marinade of flesh. Salty, sticky sweat, running down their hot thighs like it'd been squirted there by a baster, pooling in secret places and getting hot, so very hot, like a pot roast straight from the oven...

I seem to have bitten my tongue. Does this count as masturbation?

There are so many ways to approach this situation, but my patience is thin and in no mood for games. Sometimes, the direct approach works best.

I find my pretty little morsel in the middle of the dance floor. All eyes were upon him... but the crowd parts for me, minnows scattering in the wake of the great white in their midst. The women know I'm a predator, pretty toy boy, why don't you?

His eyes answer: he knows. He knows, and he loves it.

I invade his space, getting so close that he can smell the conditioner in my hair. I strike "the pose": hip cocked, eyebrow arched, eyelids heavy and mouth turned into smiling snarl.

"I want to suck you," I murmur, eyes burning with desire. He returns the gaze.

He's my McDonald's Stupid Meal.

Fun fact: the penis contains not one, but two arteries.

Oh the shark has pretty teeth dear,
And she shows them pearly white

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