One night, years and years ago, a tribe of belly dancers were moving all succubus-like across the floor in the room of portraits. The movements of serpents and ferrets under a Lennon Moon. There was something about it that almost bordered upon obscene, and not that happy sort of obscenity, which one finds amusing to watch.
No, this was a bit vulgar...
It's a sad thing to say. Generally, I enjoy the sight of a good belly dancer. Even a few bad ones. Women I know lust after rockstars and film actors, I appreciate belly dancers. It's like that.
It wasn't the case that go around. I was queerly offended, even a little traumatized, but I was not sure why. For some reason, it seemed cheap and dirty. That was how I felt watching it.
I hid myself in alcove, with decent lighting, to transcribe what I saw on to bamboo paper. An artifact from an exotic land, wrapped in a leaf, which I'd gotten from some random shop along the way, so I could purge just that much more, when the muse grabbed me.
The first thing I spewed out was about the belly dancers, and how they seemed rather unlady-like. I had to get the words out. Try to make sense of it, though that moment of understanding has not yet come. I was offended by a tribe of belly dancers.
I don't think I've ever quite recovered...