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Dominion

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I remember when Legion came out in theaters. I remember thinking, “Huh. Creepy, but probably lame.” Since there’s little on the tube during summer, Mark and I decided to try out SyFy’s Dominion. We’re glad we did.

Being Supernatural fans, we were instantly familiar with the premise and the identities of several of the angels featured in Dominion. We’re both really impressed with Michael and I can’t get over the fact that the actor is in his forties. I just can’t. While I can never get enough Giles, ASH’s Texan(?) accent throws me for a loop, but I can get past it. Probably.

The story is pretty standard good verses evil at this point and even has the “Chosen One” thing happening with the reluctant hero. Blah blah. Even with this potential drawback, we’re looking forward to seeing how it all plays out. It airs Thursdays on Syfy and since there is nothing else to do, watch it!

69,670 thoughts on “Dominion”

  5. Entry #675

    As the silks tighten in my grip, I breathe in deeply, letting the sharp smell of sweat and apparatus infuse me with a familiar sense of anticipation. This is my world, my realm. It’s the place where my body truly comes alive, every fiber humming with vitality and an unspoken promise of intimacy. Tonight, I relish the idea of engagement, not fearing the faint voyeuristic thrill shared by my audience. Each gasp, murmur, and stolen glance are receipts of my uncurtailed power.

    I am Helga, a 54-year-old aerial dancer from Frankfurt, a dancer whose age wears her like a comfortable but elegantly tailored coat??§?, one that whispers inveigling tales of lived adventures and timeless passion. Up here, I am not a woman in the throes of middle age, with a body weathered by aches and time. Instead, I am an elemental being, spinning and twirling. Each movement is a charged interaction, a deliberate silent dialogue weaving narratives of suspense, sensuality, and raw proficiency.

    Intimacy??“ a frequently misunderstood word??“ is a gift I offer my spectators. From the unabashed stretching of my limbs to the sultry contours of my form reflected in the wide-eyed stares translating into their collective consciousness, I am laid bare. And in this delicious exposure, I am empowered, I am seen, and I am alive. The aerial dance is a shared secret between performer and observer, filled with charged glances and stolen moments. And it is at once maddeningly frustrating and tantalizingly satisfying??“ an addictive game of show and hide.

    In the aftermath of each performance, I burrow away into my private solitude, mumbling the exotic rhythm of the night past. Accompanied by the hum of the city beyond my window, I descend into the depths of my favorite sex sites, but not in search of third-party gratification. No, my pursuits are more academic, more artistically fueled. I peruse these crimson portals as a sculptor would a gallery ??“ seeking inspiration, understanding the innumerable dimensions of desire, the manifold expressions of ecstasy. Each recorded scene is but a testament of intimate alchemy between bodies, a wild playground where inhibition is frowned upon, and the raw essence of human nature is celebrated.

    Nestling within the comfort of my own shadows, my heart beats to the pulsing, digital rhythm of the stories unfolding on the screen???®. I make no attempt to mask myself, for there’s no shame here, no judgment??“ only a mutual acknowledgment of our primal yearnings. In this ebony encounter, I am both a voyeur, and at times, a performer, sharing my own moonlit confession, painting with hushed sighs and bites of my lower lip. Here, among the anonymous watchers, the ???‘ symbol isn’t just a playful pictogram, it’s a badge of shared remembrances, of open conversations and unrepentant exploration.

    It is in this symphony of discovery and stark revelation that my flame continues to burn, casting light upon my fluid elegance and the sensuous siren call of my dance. For I am Helga, an artist, a performer, a woman, unabashedly embracing the complexity of my desires, perennially existing where the line between intimacy and voyeurism blurs, made exquisite by the performance and the confession.

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  48. Some nights the music pulses in me, some nights it washes over me like a cascading waterfall of sensations. Being a nightclub dancer, the dancefloor is my stage, my temple, my sanctuary. The atmosphere of the club, with its dazzling lights, pounding beats, and intoxicating scents, is a heady mix that sends sparks through my veins. It’s in these moments that I’ve found a distinct magic, a dance between intimacy and teasing that keeps my audience captivated. ??•?

    I remember this one instance, a regular who always found his way to the edge of the stage when I was performing. His eyes were full of not just desire but a kind of raw admiration that lured me; drew me closer, building a heady connection, our interactions as synchronized as the pulsating beat. He’d lean in, I’d lean back. He’d reach out, I’d coyly draw away. This dance, it wasn’t just the one happening on stage ??“ it was the dance of the eyes, the suggestive smiles, the irresistible game of proximity. It was hypnotic, tantalizing, and left us both breathlessly wanting more. Each shared look, each daring touch, they were intimate promises whispered into the night. I was the apple, just out of reach, left for him to click and enjoy. ????

    Then, there was this other regular, a woman with fiery hair and eyes so bright, they put the club lights to shame. To her, this wasn’t just about the visual tease, it was also about the whispered words, the enticing promises. She was a woman who thrived on words, using them like arrows, each one targeted and precise. To meet her halfway on this verbal foreplay, I’d gently whisper lyrics into her ear. Some nights, the words were soulful and deep; others, playful and provocative. As I danced, I’d see her eyes light up with anticipation, the shimmer in her eyes projecting an intimacy that added another layer of passion to our dance. Her words in reply would be a promise, a continuing tease that would have us both eagerly awaiting what the next performance would bring. ???†??’?

    This, my nightly performance, it’s a dance where the lines between intimacy and teasing blur, where the rhythm of seduction takes over and plays out its carnal symphony. As I let myself surrender to the beat, I find myself at the crossroads of an alluring tease and intimate connection. It’s a dance of desire, of yearning, of passion. The club pulsates around me, a microcosm of life where the most intimate emotions are worn on the sleeve, and teasing is part of the rhythm. As I step onto the dancefloor tonight, I know another journey awaits, another dance to embark on. And in this dance, I’m not just a performer, I’m an artist, weaving narratives of enticing moments through my movement, through the cadence of music, and the intimate connections I form. ??“? ???‘

    And believe me, as long as I am here, the dance will never end!

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