I blessed the heat as I strode, tempted to pause for a second and marvel at the sun’s duality in this place. For though I was clad from head to toe, I felt no discomfort in the dry glare. But there was much to admire here, and if one paused their life to acknowledge each, they would not live. Was that not why I came? To live?

And yet the last few weeks had felt like the world had stopped. The cars continued their parade below me in an unceasing band of incandescent, halogen, and LED light. The neon threads connecting the sprawling concrete paradise from mountain to sea.

This beauty was often enough to give me pause, to think, to consider. But this time, my ponderous gaze had been roving, wondering about a particular piece of these threads, spinning its way through my refuge as casually as could be. And yet that casual approach made it all the more potent for me to witness.

The questions running through my mind had begun a long time ago. And like fine wine, it only became more intoxicating to realize how effortless it would be to relieve me of this compulsory puzzle.

Tonight, I had a shot at changing the playing field. Whether it tilted even more or whether I would strike gold, I had no clue.

Still deep in my thoughts I got my gear together. As I began to get dressed, a rush of confidence hit me as the leather clung to my skin. My custom shoulder strap with picks matched perfectly.

Then another wave hit me. I blushed hard recalling what was going through my had at the time, how long I had sifted over some of the tidbits that steadily were flung my way, reeled for a second in front of the mirror as I zipped my boots up, and though my long gloves were fingerless the shaking was bad enough my arm slipped from its place on the sink. She would be smiling right now. “Poor Angel doesn’t know what she wants, or who she wants to be, does she?”. I could just hear it. That somewhat deep, playful voice hiding a seriousness, telling me simultaneously just how amused She was and just fucked I was. The medley of a gentle acknowledgement of my adorability mixed with a confirmation that I had once again put the metaphorical boot in my mouth.

It had been a long time since I saw her beautiful form, and the last time I came close to doing so she had sheathed it from me. The internal conflict between confidence and that seductive dark liquor of cuckoldry. Did I want the door to the fancy restaurant held open for me and my leash tugged over to sit down? Flowers given at the start of the date? She knows how to wear the pants. Or did I want to be locked up in a cage while someone else got that treatment, desperately awaiting Her return?

I didn't want that. I wanted to be forced to do it, I wanted her to do it to me because she knew I didn't want it. But I also wanted to be the person sitting there at the table. And I wanted the collar. And I was completely confused.

The passion of being her star, and the dark desire to be her desperate loser hungering after her fought in my head the entire afternoon.

I stumbled a bit, laughed it off and suddenly noticed I’d walked over a pen. I picked it up, running my fingers over it, and felt a wave of confidence rush over me.

After all, the pen is one of the most powerful inventions ever made. The trash can full of a thousand crumpled castaways attested to that, because in my case, by the door, there rested the results.

The perfect melody. Lyrics that washed over your heart like the voices of the Greeks in their arenas, or an angelic fire that pierced the shadows people sheathe their own light in.

The pen can bring forth the inner joy of any who hearken, and I had made my opus. Cascading counterpoints that guided the listener through mountains of tension and valleys of release. Meandering through rivers of comfort before being thrust onto rocks and bared for all to see.

And when I arrived and began setting up with the other guys, it was almost like riding a bike. The cables getting tossed back and forth, the soundchecks, the racks. I was filled with tension but I was free. Tonight, I would know.

We started out with our usual routine as doors opened and we had yet to begin our set, playing snippets of things people called out for, fucking around with the guitar and the keys, and all the while readying my voice away from the mics. I was lucky I’d only be singing one song.

It was one that had to be mine, though.

And as I was absently strumming Hotel California, the door swung open again. I kept playing, my arms barely noticeably stiffening, my posture straightening ever so slightly, my thick long tresses of hair a shield as I looked at the entrant.

It was one of the regular fans, out with her date. I was grateful. I had fans. That was new. But still my shoulders sagged a bit as I continued to riff around.

Finally it was time to start. I strapped on my primary axe and pedaled everything, waiting on my drummer to count. It was like a bell rang off. Instantly my worries melted. I placed one knee on the monitor, the neck of my guitar resting on my leather, my hair flung down in front of my face, posing for the photo pit and starting to juice up the crowd. Behind that shield of hair my eyes still darted during the last few seconds of house lighting, searching.

And then I was blinded by the stage lights. Everything turned white and I started to play. Each stroke of my pick, each run across the stage, each bout of headbanging letting out a little of the emotional pressure. But as a small rock might block the flow of gas entirely, leaving an entire building cold, so too was my heart prevented from unleashing itself and living in the moment.

Until I looked up again.

The white light still blinded me, but in the midst of the glow there was a slight black silhouette, radiating darkness and seeming to encroach and overpower the burning hot beams shining on my face. It stood still, the outline of hair on each side perfectly even, running down to angular, sharp shoulders, sides tapering into a formed, defined middle before aggressively flaring out again. And then, a cut. The flaring terminated and two pillars of dark radiance resting on sharp spikes completed the profile of this darkness.

The darkness I had thrown myself against like a hapless sailor, the darkness I had embraced, the darkness I had fought, the darkness I had lost.

The darkness who knew. Who held the answers, who let me ponder.

I rose to the microphone and began belting, my fingers shaking as they raced across the fretboard, forgetting all propriety as I jumped into the mosh during a riff, ran up and stood on a monitor as the music swelled, laid down on the floor as my solo descended into ponderous despair.

The shadow had seated themselves, it seemed, but I could feel the intensity of sharply intelligent eyes searching me.

Were they amused by a dorky grin that always came? Moved by the tears streaming down my face?

I had no clue. I only knew that I had to keep playing.

I had reached the impossible moment.

For the end, the last display of cathartic guitar virtuosity, I placed all my chips on the table.

I jumped down into the mosh again, but kept walking towards the bar. Striding until I saw a flame of shiny purple illuminated by the spotlight tracking me. The purple luster was cut sharply and triangularly by an elegant jacket with its own slight sheen.

I stopped in front of the shadow, and I took a deep breath. I felt my wings fold out in acknowledgement, I knelt and began my solo. And as I reached into my heart I looked into the eyes. There was no longer any shadow.

It was simply Her.

The comfort, albeit cold, of mystique and information deficit was much less effective face to face. She was beautiful, she was perfect, she was elegant, she had become everything she wished.

And I had ..overcome but I had not conquered. I had risen, but I had not found completion.

The embodiment of success and dreams come true watched as an imperfect angelic minstrel wove a tapestry of admiration, care, respect, and affection.

Perfectly painted, and sharp, nails grazed the front of my corset as I lost myself in Her gaze. I looked down, and saw a hundred dollar bill wedged there.

Many would have taken offense, but I knew at the time the meaning of the gesture.

There was a fork in the road. There were no longer a million options, there were two. She smiled at me, her black lips forming an inscrutable but amused grin, her eyes intently watching me as I continued to play.

As the crescendo of my catharsis wound down to the end of the song, I rose, bowing and returning to the stage.

There were only two paths now

I was exhilarated, and terrified, as one often is when a dream becomes inches away from reality. And I was frightened, because a darker dream, one of witnessing and wanting, was equally likely. Rejection, at this point, would be an easier fear to handle. We were way past that now.

It was possible that after the show, we would leave, and I would be casual, calm, somewhat aloof but in that cute dorky way, as the perfectly cared for hand and nails grasped my calloused fingers, as we strode through the districts and streets of Los Angeles, showing Her everything the city hides away for those it takes under its wing.

The haunts of the lost souls and the divergents

The literal haunts of ghosts long dead

The grandness of the Pier, the history of the Biltmore.

And oh how perfectly would She fit in the Gallery bar, a veritable mobster in appearance, sipping whiskey in her elegant suit, a dazed and dazzled arm candy beside Her anxious to please and excitedly sharing all the history She would care to know, and my own history and stories that would make Her smile and laugh.

It was also possible that I would be equally enthralled, but as a witness to her success, happiness, and life. That I would be cared for, that I would be looked after, but that I would be confronted, trained, and eventually resign myself to the fact that those who She deemed in need of such things were by nature not those would stride hand in hand at night, enjoying each others’ bliss and contentment.

It would be my responsibility to ensure that She and any She chose would have as smooth a life, as relaxed and enjoyable a life as possible. I would witness it, and never live it. I would work for it, but never experience it.

I strove to show my strength, blending it with vulnerability as I covered everything from Mama by Genesis to Reign of Terror by Rhapsody. I sang “Take What The Heavens Create” with conviction in my voice, I let my walls down and my wings spread as I embarked on my old EP. I was hoping, praying, and striving for that radiance to be seen. For the string upon which my fate now hung, by my own begging, by my own inistence, by my own devices, was swinging at last.

She needed to see that I had the courage of my convictions and the confidence to be my own person.

That I had grown into something beautiful, and that more than anything it was my wish to share that with Her.

And that no matter her choice, I finally knew.

No matter Her choice I would remain beautiful. And I would belong to Her. The folding of my wings at her feet, the branding of Her name on my feathers, the Archangel that left Heaven to seek solace, grace, beauty and love in a far away cave.

The Archangel that sat by the obsidian throne.

The Archangel that bled in a chalice and added scarlet divine essence to the perfectly painted sable lips.

The Archangel who made offerings and offered herself because she knew, recognized, and accepted she was more worthy of praise, more deserving of fealty, more fitting to worship than any other.

And in the end that night, there should never have been any doubt. That She should decide my fate? She has proven Her aptitude, She has earned that right. But I was damn determined to fight for the best way to be under Her boot.