I had gotten to know her when I was indisposed. Taken. In love. It was therefore easy to observe her from an outsider’s perspective. Thank God for that. Otherwise, I might have fallen victim to her whims. This femme-fatale, this seductress, this Venus Fly Trap of a woman. I have an interest in people, more so out of a voyeurism than a belief in the human project. I like to understand how they operate, how they tic. She was a case study; a woman about whom men love to write, but one which doesn’t seem to exist on this mortal plane. Menelaus remained ever suspicious of Helen, despite starting a great war for her. Was she really taken hostage independent of her own wishes? Could as powerful a woman as her be subjugated?
Nelly was tall and thin. She could’ve modelled, and she knew it. When I met her, she was younger, in her late teens, covered with pimples which have, years later, long since been dealt with. Contrary to popular belief, I consider adult acne to be a positive trait. It is an indicator of a hormonal surplus, of an increased libido. I myself have had troubles with spots, much later in development than one should. Now, In her twenties, no such embellishment remains on Nelly’s face, a hint of what once was visible only in a series of endearing freckles on the bridge of her nose and cheeks. She has short dark hair, deep purple which she has cut to resemble Faye Valentine from the hit 90s anime Cowboy Bebop. She has doe eyes in the most literal sense possible. One look into those dark brown irises could make the most barbaric of men swear to live only in service of protecting her, for the rest of his days. Do not be fooled, dear reader, this woman is no prey animal. She is a vicious predator, a huntress.
Nelly understands the power she has, she understands what she is capable of, and she feigns ignorance time and time again. I’ve watched her do it to countless men. It’s contained even in the way she holds a simple conversation. She will stand with her visage not thirty centimeters from yours, hold both your hands tightly within hers and stare directly into your soul, whilst telling you about something menial, boring and trite. It doesn’t matter what she speaks of, for you are not listening. How could you? All you can think about are those deep brown spheres which gaze into your very being. What possibilities do they contain? What could she be thinking about? Could she, nay, would she dare feel the same things that you do? The answer, my sweet audience, will forever and always be a resounding NO! Not only does she not feel the intimate connection you have dreamt up, but she is well aware of what it is you are imagining, and she will wield her power over you until you are but a withered corpse, useless to her whims. For a woman such as her is merciless, unforgiving and ceaseless. That is the wellspring of energy which supplies her. Would you clip her wings and destroy her beauty? No? There is nothing to do, then, but await your master’s orders.
You may think I exaggerate. You may think no such mortal woman could possibly exist. But I have seen the proof, time and time again. It starts with a young man of good taste. He is almost always slow, stupid or otherwise lesser intellectually, but he has some sort of exquisite palate which makes him stand out. Usually, he is a dark and brooding person, a nonchalant male who orders his clothing from online Japanese fashion brands and who consumes the latest crazes in production focused rap music (typically performed by a metrosexual white guy). Though he has closer mental faculties to a barn animal than a fully fledged and ensouled human being, his fashion sense and social connections lend him success and power over those such women he regularly interacts with. Recently, Nelly has even dared to set her sights upon men who have achieved adjacency to fame and popularity, men who are ‘tapped-in’ to the ebbs and flows of youth culture in Montreal and Toronto. Needless to say, she is climbing the social ladder without obstacles. I do not pity the men she attracts to her orbit, for they always end the same way. They are overconfident in their Don Juan like natures, and they suspect this beautiful nymph desires them. She is breathtaking and mysterious; she always leaves her intentions up in the air. Their brash assurance that she is but another one of their many conquests slowly develops into an obsession with the purple haired girl. Surely, she will become one of their waifish love interests, for it is obvious from her actions that she is submitting to their masculine prowess. But Nelly is much more intelligent than she lets on and, like any great woman, she seizes power from the bottom, such that those above her are left unaware of their marionette strings. She reaches behind their backs, above their heads and guides their actions with a twist of her wrist, whilst they are none the wiser. This culminates in the men of interest becoming transfixed on finally actualizing the illusions of sexual tension she puppets them by, to such a degree that they are left a bumbling insecure mess, literally crying in her arms, begging for the slightest hint of affection in her uncaring gaze. By then, it is too late, they are of no use to her, and they are discarded. This leads to the male becoming a social outcast, as the bulk of his herd have already become Nelly’s orbiters and have unwittingly accepted her command that the subject is ‘creepy’ and therefore must be ostracized. The high queen Helen is merciless; great violence is committed in her name.
I thank my lucky stars that I was not born a dullard. Otherwise, I would have certainly ended up like the countless men who have fallen before her. You see, my spectators, I have recently been placed in a position of vulnerability. I have undergone great heartbreak, an end to a relationship more potent than any love I have experienced before. One week after this devastating development, the day before yesterday, to be exact, I attended a large social gathering. It was a party, in celebration of a mutual friend’s graduation. This friend was, coincidentally, one of the only men to have been fed through Nelly’s meat grinder who emerged relatively unscathed. I knew, however, that given my precarious position and supersensitive nature, the same would not be true of me.
Like a shark smelling blood in the water, the purple haired fae locked on to me for the entire function. I must admit it was refreshing to be able to flirt without guilt, to know that I was able to play the game as well as most. I began to think that perhaps this breakup was for the best, that I was in fact capable of falling in love with a beautiful woman once more, that lightning could strike twice. That is, I thought all this before violently shaking these feelings off and giving myself a few quick slaps to the face. Remember what kind of beast you are dealing with here. We ended up reclining together on an uncomfortable yellow couch. The cushions were much too hard, and it was covered in red stains. Nelly had draped her supple long legs over my lap, and she wasn’t wearing any coverings over her pretty feet. Her skin was pale and porcelain, her soles were smooth and soft, without blemishes, and her toenails were trimmed and painted white. She had on a red plaid skirt, so short one hoped a single gust of wind would expose her to the world, though lucky events such as this never seem to occur around a man like me. She was also sporting a white sailor’s top with pink accents, her outfit obviously calling to the anime schoolgirl waifu’s she so often emulated.
She was, in classic Nelly fashion, feigning a level of intoxication which she could not have been. I knew this because I had supplied her with what little alcohol she had drank that evening, a small mickey of licorice flavoured liqueur, which I had gracefully given up as I was in no emotional state to become inebriated. Despite this, she was repeating to me a sentence I had heard her utter time and time again: I’ve literally never been this drunk before.
Another strategy she had attempted to utilize was that of hinting at plans of seduction below the surface, without directly acknowledging them. She noticed me glancing at her sublime toes, and without skipping a beat, said: I’ve heard all about your foot thing.
She giggled. I’ve been told to appeal to it.
Told? By whom? Who could be giving this woman seduction advice on the subject of myself? These questions held no important answers. Perhaps it was mentioned offhand, however it is even more likely that she had just come up with a fabrication on the spot. The query was posed only to inflict the image of Nelly's seduction upon my subconscious. This succubus was quick witted, but I was faster. I saw through her various schemes. Still, I couldn’t help but enjoy myself. She held my face with her tiny hand, and, though meaningless to her, the warmth felt reassuring. It felt as if there was still hope left in my pathetic love life.
Last night I had a strange dream. I was standing on a long, flat road, which stretched in both directions further than the eye could see. On either side of the black tar surface was a dark, dense forest. I was holding a thin leash, one you’d use to walk a small dog, though it stretched down the street significantly longer than one would expect. The scene was illuminated by a single weak streetlamp, which bent at a ninety-degree angle and hung overhead, equidistant between me and a silhouette I could faintly make out, which the leash was attached to. As it stalked over the yellow dotted line in my direction, I realised with excitement what it was. Nelly was crawling towards me on all fours, completely nude save for a pair of tacky white cat ears on her crown and a black collar around her throat, which the leash was attached to and which was adorned with a small bell. Her body was nearly translucent given how pale she was, with the exception of her knees and palms, which shone red and painful thanks to the asphalt.
The bell rang out rhythmically as she moved closer and closer, and it thus became easier to distinguish the smaller details. Her mid sized breasts swayed with every ‘step’ and came to a point in a pair of delicate pink nipples. Her stomach was flat, her waist near-nonexistent, and her entire body was completely hairless. Hairless apart from a white tail which oscillated between her thighs with every shift of her lithe torse. Wait, a tail!? A tail only leads to further questioning. To one specific question, one all consuming, heart pumping, flagrantly arousing question. Where was this tail attached? She had no clothes to clip the tail on to. As my cranium was flooded with heat and images of various crevices, the street lamp flickered, and the scene changed.
The same street, the same girl, only this time she was no longer wearing a collar. She was situated directly under the streetlamp, and as such the gruesome sight in front of my eyes was as clearly lit as possible. Nelly was in the process of devouring a gazelle. She had torn open its ribcage and was grabbing chunks of organ meat and shovelling them into her gaping maw as if she hadn’t eaten in days. With each careless bite blood squirted in all directions, until her chin and torso were covered in splashes of crimson. I watched as the red fluid dripped from her face, down her shapely chest, around her curves, and finally pooled between her thin legs. I realised I was still holding the leash, only this time it was connected to a collar around my own throat. Suddenly, her head shot up, and she looked straight at me. Nelly’s mouth didn’t move, but I could still hear her voice ring out with an echo: I’m hungry, I’m so very hungry. Won’t you help me? Please help me!
She bolted towards me with the grace of a panther and lunged. I felt her nails dig into my shoulder as if they were the claws of a lioness. She sat on top of me, and I landed flat on my back. Her petite behind was parked on my stomach, and I could feel heat emanating from it. She had her cheeks full of flesh, they were puffed up like a chipmunk’s. Even in a situation like this the purple haired girl was adorable. She opened her mouth and stuck out a long red tongue. Longer than any tongue I had ever seen. A torrent of blood and saliva flowed from between her pretty lips, choking me.
Just as my lungs were filling with fluid, I awoke, gasping for air. Thankfully, I am a staunch materialist. I believe dreams to be nothing more than a collection of random images, flowing across your subconscious as your brain reorganizes itself for a new day. There was nothing contained in that dream with any meaning behind it, and therefore I have nothing to worry about. What a relief.