The Queen of the Crescent Bed

In the darkness of the night it was all shimmering and shiny.
There was a crescent shaped bed with gold silk covers and embroidered throws.
It was queenly, the ambience and the moonlight. The bed gyrated slowly almost in a drunken delight. And as soon as his footsteps fell upon the tinker of the bling, a thousand glowing lamps suspended their heads from the hook of the sky.

He cleared his throat and loosened his tie. Like a goddess she appeared from behind the flowing drapes. Dressed in her famous crimson robe that had gold thread work, embroidering the story of her life to the minutest detail. Rosey cheeks, full red lips and dark cascading hair. Her beauty was captivating. Her charm inescapable. He stood there watching her as the music began to fill up the place. And as he smiled, she took it as a sign. Dropped her robe to reveal her black lace garter and the scarlet corset. Jazz music was her favourite and it always brought out her best moves. She moved like a diva, she shimmered like a star. She took his hand and made him climb the fourteen stairs to the Crescent Bed and then began her act, in the blanket of the balmy night.
With the bed gyrating in mid-air, they moved rhythmically to all that jazz. The gold of her eye-shadow sparkled around, her powdery blush sprinkled down. It was like magic bursting out.

Then the glowing lamps turned into fire crackers, magnificent upon the sky. They made love till the moonlight was shy. Her heavenly aura fused with his masculine cologne and it smelled like love all around. So while she lay within his tender embrace, catching time in the net of her lashes, she sang softly ta-da-la-la-ta-da-da-da. But there it was, her crimson robe upon the invisible soil, the dark floor. She noticed the curse was awake. Just around the corner of her breast pocket the gold thread worked upon a new tale. That was her story. Colour, in the dull of monotony. A tramp by profession, an angel by desire.

Just, by the way.

Girl: Okay, so what if I was an old woman. 88, wrinkled, very very sick, scanty gray hair and even fewer teeth?
Boy: (Thinking)
Girl: What if I was a man? Potbellied and content.
Boy: (Sniffles)
Girl: Maybe a hooker in a vibrant attire, with big full lips?
Boy: (Shrugs)
Girl: A young girl who could be so much but is nothing more than lonely?
Boy: (Knits eyebrows)
Girl: A killjoy. Just a very very bitter man?
Boy: (Shifts in his place)
Girl: What if, I was a stranger?
(Bit of a pause)
Boy: (Sighs and smiles.) You are but what you are now, and all of this in a lifetime. If this was a puzzle, I would never solve it. It is in our nature to be impregnated by multiplicity. It is, who is in the lead at a given point of time, that matters. The stranger, the hooker, the old lady or the killjoy, your essence is permeable. Dynamic like a kaleidoscope.
Your essence must be felt and rejoiced. Not killed in a grotesque attempt to capture it. Tic-toc, tic-toc and its time for another lead.