The Spades Museum

Power. Status. Sex.

The trinity of human desire, and the pillars of control.

I’ve spent years watching how far people will go to attain these things, and the things they will do to keep them.

The lies they will tell.

The masks they will wear to hide the demons they invoke.

Every night, I unlock the doors to this museum.

And every night, I struggle to decide who’s more amusing to watch—the buyers or the art that’s on display.

I cater to the world’s most powerful women.

Their diamonds dance brighter than their souls. Their tongues spill with pleasantries meant to hide the demons they truly are.

Look at them…

Wealthy, white, and pristine in appearance.

But beneath their lace and their pearls, they are rabid. Hungry and desperate for something raw enough to cut through their boredom and soulless existence.

Their sadism is not loud and vulgar.

No…it’s much more elegant. Methodical and polished with centuries of privilege.

The nerve of them to call it “refined taste.”

I skip the bullshit and call it what it is—evil dressed in silk.

And the black men that’s on display? The “Spades” that these women refer to them as?

They stand naked under the spotlights.

Their bodies glisten with oil—sculpted and carved by a history of struggle and resilience.

Their eyes tell stories that none of these women care to hear, not truly anyway.

Some of them harden at the touch of a stranger’s hand. Their muscles twitch beneath the weight of foreign desire.

Arousal mingled with shame.

Because power is intoxicating—even when it is used against you.

They’re told to stand tall. Told to display their strength and their beauty.

And yet, every breath they take is a quiet act of submission.

Ownership in its most delicate form.

“Is this one for sale?” a woman might ask as her fingers trails down one of the men’s chest. Her nails pressing into his skin as if she’s testing the softness of fine leather.

Another will whisper to her companion “Look at the lines of his body.” to which she’ll reply “Yes, and the sharpness of his jaw along with the fullness of those lips…”

As if he were a piece of marble.

As if he had no pulse.

But I know better.

I see his heart racing beneath his ribs. I hear the quickening of his breath when their fingers graze his flesh.

Some of them hope to be touched.

Hope for pleasure.

Hope to be purchased.

They ignore the invisible veal between themselves and their freedom.

They tell themselves that being wanted, being desired—is enough.

The truth is, that it isn’t.

But desire makes a fool of us all.

And so they continue to stand on display.

Waiting for the stranger’s hands.

Waiting for foreign voices.

Waiting to be bought just to complete their sense of feeling desired.

It’s all a Devil’s dance.

A transaction of lust and leverage.

And I, the curator, am the one who orchestrates it all.

This, is The Spade Museum.