• "If perfection is what you expect," She says, throwing open the door "You've come to the right place."

    And they all enter. Willingly, with smiles upon their faces. Knowing what to expect. Understanding what they'll gain. It's nothing but perfection. Pure and simple. Satisfaction is not nearly enough in her eyes. No. She must be perfect, must give them perfection before her day is done. She won't be out done. Out bested. In the end, that's all she has. A promise. A guarantee. Perfection.

    Her face is done up, lips shining in the moonlight, eyes dark and skin as smooth as satin. Her outfit is flawless, hanging to each curve of her carefully maintained body. Her legs soft and elongated with the help of heels two inches too high to even be considered remotely comfortable. Her jewelry makes her shine. It's all fake, of course. But who would know? No one cared. As far as they all cared, she could be naked, so long as the smile was on her face, the light in her eyes, and the door was open, they would enter. And take from her what they pleased, and leave, having experienced... perfection.

    I stood, on the inside. Clawing my way out. I was not perfect. I was far from it. Sitting plainly in a lumpy white shirt, tugging at the fat on my belly that she always managed to hide. I become painfully aware of such. I'm not as beautiful as her. Not as tall, not as lean. Not as, paragon. My hips far to narrow to have the same swing in them as she had. My legs to short to give the illusion that they never ended. My breasts to listless to move with each and every movement of my body. I did not promise perfection. I did not seek it. In fact, I did my best to run from it. To bury my head and push aside my memories until she was done. Until her perfection had come and gone, and I was able to regain myself. To claw myself free from the confines of her tawny skin, to wipe the make up off of her face, and sigh, once I was face to face with myself.

    While I lived, she slept. I became the chambermaid. I'd make the room, and when they came, I'd disappear, only to reappear and clean up the mess afterward. While I moved through the waking day, she dozed, her thoughts only remnants within me, only to spring forward once an opportunity presented it's self. Only to take over my body, to make my rags look amazing, to c**k her head to the side and smile that flawless smile. To invite them. To speak her motto. "If perfection is what you expect..."

    You've come to the right place.

    And while she lived, I forced myself into dreams. To repress myself from her thoughts. Her desires. I would hide deep within her, sacrificing my body to her, closing my eyes and disappearing until she came and took over. Took over myself and ran wild in the night. Free and beautiful and glowing with light. Exuding sexiness, confidence that I'd never have. She was beautiful, she was wonderful, she was perfection wrapped into mortal skin. A goddess that lived deep within me.

    Sometimes. During rare, brief moments. Fits of frustration of the events that my second self has gotten me into, I wish her away. I wish that she and I were not one. That this unknown spirit did not inhabit my body. That she would free herself from me, and take her perfection with her. I delude myself into thinking that I want her gone. That my life would be perfect if she were not here.

    But, then reality sinks in. I crave her. I crave her like she craves the nightlife, booze and c**k. I need her like I need air. Her presence is essential to my survival. I can only exist as the good side, as her light so long as she is my darkness. She is my sacrifice, to all things dark and carnal inside of me.

    And at times, I imagine that she wishes she could be free of me as well. That she wasn't held back during the day hours because of my responsible life. That she could be a wild child, full time, taking what she wanted, living as she pleased. That her perfection didn't only exist once the sun went down. That she could be wonderful full time, that her guarantee could be stated 24 hours a day. That she could come and go as she pleased, not having to make herself up until she's not even recognizable as me.

    But then, she must realize that she needs me. She can only exist in the dark the way she does because I exist in the light. She can only live freely, drink freely, ******** freely, because I am there to pick up the mess. To deal with the scattered clothes, hangovers and bruises in the morning. She can only live because I am there to deal with what she cannot. She's only fueled by her dark rage because of the fact that she is my sacrifice. And she can only exist as such. She craves my presence like I crave sweets, needs me like I need stability. She can only stand on rocky ground, taking the risks that she does because she knows that I have always set up a safety net, in case she falls.

    In the end, the fact remains, that she is my darkness, and I am her light. Yin and Yang. One cannot exist without the other. And so, once again, I hide myself within her, feeling her make up herself to something besides me. I've made up the bed, prepared for the mess. And she takes over, swallowing my consciousness.

    "If perfection is what you expect." She says smiling, throwing open the door, moving towards the bed I've made "You've come to the right place."