The others love him. I think him a fool. Though, sheathed in black leather, his hands caressing the slender metal rod jammed deep between his thighs, he looks perhaps to be the god of Love.
His head haloed in coiled strands of darkness which allowed only pinpricks of light to penetrate. He sways, eyes closed, away then towards his three thousand devotees. And I … I stand at the foot of the stairs that lead to him.
A man, short, bald, bloated, jerks his chin towards the stage and I begin my ascent.
The other women had rushed him, trying desperately to reach the unreachable, to touch, if only for a moment, that which is untouchable. All had been quickly dispatched by his guards. I will not be so easily denied.
I drift purposefully across the stage, my hips leading, their sharp curved bones glistening above my low-slung leather pants. Orange Sunshine peaking lends aid to my quest, to this sacrifice which will become legend.
He is begging for another kiss. I reach behind and free the binding on my halter.
As I draw near his lips abandon their poetry. His arm encircles my waist; draws me tight against him. His lips find my exposed beasts without hesitation.
And there, in the drizzling acid reign, I surrender to a god reborn.
Knowing we will bend not only minds but laws, he slides his hand lower, grasping my hip. We sway towards the masses, my body draped back over his arm, his lips lingering on my breast.
He raises his head and for a single moment looks blindly out into the darkness, knowing our audience is there, sharing my offering with them, then returns to me, kissing from neck to belly, his lips ice, his tongue fire.
I now freely admit; Morrison was more man than god – but in that shimmering moment of ecstasy I found myself in the arms of immortality.
That night The Doors opened at The Shrine, and Dionysus feasted on the flesh of innocence.
