Chapter 1: The Gaze of Desire

I find myself smiling at men to deflect their curious stares.

As I peer into the inner workings of men, I see beyond the photographs of their children and the keepsakes they've collected. I understand their desires, and they sense that I can fulfill them. They regard me as the guardian of hidden pleasures—pleasures that seem unearned.

This notion of deserving is where I get tangled up. My ability to judge character has never been strong, which begs the question of why they allow me the role of observer. These men are both powerful and superficial, weary yet watchful, like the cardboard figures of a royal guard.

When I notice the way men look at me—recognizing that I have transitioned from girlhood—I muster all my courage to smile. It takes everything I have. I force a smile that is perhaps too broad, pretending to be naive. I allow men to share their longings with me, yet I dance around their words, ensuring that none of it truly connects with me.

There's a photograph of my father lifting me onto his knees, gazing at me with that smile that only infants can elicit. In his eyes, there’s a glimmer of hope, as if he believes I might be the one who brings him joy. All his previous children had their sparkle fade away, leaving his hands aged and weary.

The absence of other pictures of us speaks volumes. It seems that my own light faded as well. Consequently, I’ve become adept at navigating the expectations of men—men who wish to adorn me in elegant black lace, only to flee when I begin to unravel my truths. I lay bare my soul, yet an emptiness within me sends them retreating.

No one should witness such vulnerability, so I conceal myself behind charming smiles and carefree locks.

In my youth, I reveled in flirtations with men who could have been my father. I was certain I could lose myself in them, but they had far more to lose. Their lustful gazes mirrored their inevitable downfall, and I allowed them to plunge headfirst into my world.

Men in their forties would shiver with excitement upon learning my age was merely eighteen—sometimes, I wasn’t even that. A harmless fib, I thought. They remained indifferent, while I was too young to realize the importance of caring. My overwhelming desire was to ensnare them, to lead them into a world of fantasy.

I was the kind of girl who would bend provocatively, then feign innocence when the men around me gazed intently, clearing their throats. When my teacher's face flushed, I formed a small 'o' with my lips. Did I say something inappropriate? But deep down, I knew I was the one in control, even if he believed he was manipulating me. A decent man, yet even the virtuous can succumb to temptation.

Reflecting on my youth, I ponder my present self.

Ultimately, I halt just before fully embodying the illusion. I prefer to linger in men’s thoughts without letting them get too close. Some women will indulge any touch for a price, but with me, they’re already depleting their wallets.

They leave their spouses.

They betray their daughters.

And here I am, ensconced in my own frosty fortress, momentarily satisfied.

However, what could I possibly charge them? What holds more value than a father’s affection for his children? I don’t have the answer. I never experienced that love.

This is the moment where I confess my wrongdoings. I recognize that my fabrications won't patch the tears in my stockings. Yet, I’m not sure I want those tears fixed. If you were to take me out, buy me a new outfit, and dress me anew, I might not recognize who I’ve become.

If you were to mend all my flaws, I would be so distanced from my true self that I wouldn’t even know who I was anymore. What’s the point of fixing life if it ceases to be authentically yours?

Thus, I take a tiny piece of chocolate between my crimson-polished fingers and dip it into my coffee, Italian-style. I am a woman of many identities, seamlessly adapting to various cultures. This afternoon, I will savor my coffee, finish my writing, and tonight, I will cast my net once more. I am a creator of illusions—a woman who embodies your dreams yet remains an enigma.

I exist because my father shaped me so.

Thank you for reading. I craft narratives—fiction, psychological insights, movie critiques, and poetry. The third and final installment of my fantasy series, The Warhound Trilogy, is now available. Explore the entire collection for just ten dollars.

Chapter 2: The Illusion of Connection

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