Years from now, the expression on the Poet King's face when he entered the Hall will still be burned into our memories.
Picture this: twenty of us girls (and I use the term loosely), all trim and in the prime of our youth and all that crap. We had modified our uniforms into something that barely even resembled clothing. All singing that song, fingers beckoning, eyes beckoning, writhing over each other and on the floor and ... well, we put the stairs and banisters to good use as well. We didn't hesitate to use each other as poles, sliding our hands under each other's clothes as we lip-synced our ecstasy with winks and licks and teasing slaps on flesh.
All the while, he stood there, still as a statue (and reportedly grateful for the volume of his robes), turning progressively redder and redder, breaking into a little bit of a sweat.
He applauded politely when it was over, stumbled over some form of gratitude for our performance when it was over, and we didn't see him for a while.
Katherine Cruxradia, Elete Xaillyndesse
I Touch Myself - The Divinyls
