The Gentlemen's Masquerade

Welcome to an exclusive club where masks are currency and names are forgotten. Here, I do not chase victories. I chase the echo of something real.

Invitation Only.

Masks Required. No Way Back.

Welcome, gentlemen.

Fasten your masks: silk, bone, gold.

Leave your names at the door.

Leave your crowns, your guilt, your folded regrets.

Here, I undress,

not for applause,

not for mercy,

but because I have forgotten how to be ashamed.

The air aches with Chanel No. 5, crushed gardenias, and whiskey too smooth to be real.

No cards. No dice.

No cheap illusions like Vegas.

Only the soft violence of sunlight slicing open secrets you thought you buried.

I stand barefoot, facing away,

small, reckless, and golden.

A body carved by innocence and sin alike.

A woman without a name.

Not your wife.

Not your whore.

Not your cure.

You may believe I am waiting to be saved.

You may think you can catch me.

You may think you can keep me.

You may think many things.

Men always do.

But the ones who know —

the broken kings, the quiet wolves —

they see:

I am wildness wearing a woman’s body.

I am ruin wrapped in a smile.

I am the prayer you whisper when no one is listening.

I will not love your mask.

I will not love your power.

I wait for the man who dares to burn,

to be nothing

and everything.

Here, your Panerai sweeps too quickly.

Your Bentley key feels heavy in your pocket.

Your Brioni suit wilts under the sun.

And the mirror shows not the man you sell to the world,

but the man you could be, if you dare to bleed for it.

We do not crave money.

We do not crave sex.

We do not crave victory.

We crave to be seen,

raw, savage, trembling,

and still wanted.

So finish your drink.

Forget the mask.

Step into the sun.

The doors are locked.

The sun is watching.

And I am waiting,

not for a savior,

but for someone

to stand beside me.

Choose wisely.

There are no second chances

at The Gentlemen’s Masquerade.