If This Album Were a Boook: Victoria Monét’s Jaguar II

Jul 3
3 min read

There are stories… and then there are odysseys. The kind that purrs when you touch them. That slide into your consciousness like silk sheets on a warm body. That demand your attention—not with a bang, but with a smirk. And Jaguar II? Oh honey, she’s a novella cloaked in mystery, marinated in funk, and wearing the scent of danger like perfume behind her ears.

If this album were a book, she’d sit in the “Forbidden but Fabulous” section of the library—the one hidden behind a velvet curtain and only accessible if you know the password (spoiler: it’s “monétized”). This isn’t just sci-fi. This is sci-feel—a genre reserved for intergalactic temptresses who write their own endings and never apologize for the way they look in gold lamé.

✦ The Heroine:

Meet Oria Vega, a cosmic shapeshifter with hips that emit their own gravitational field. By day, she’s decoding secret frequencies of feminine power lost in the soundwaves of the universe. By night, she’s dancing through stardust in boots made of meteorite leather and lace. Oria doesn’t fight villains—she seduces them into becoming allies. She doesn’t run from danger—she purrs at it. She doesn’t wait for permission—she creates a new planet.

Her origin story? A mix of heartbreak and glitter, of slow-burning desire and something spilled in a jazz lounge under neon moons. Think Octavia Butler but dipped in rose gold and harmonized with Prince at his most erotic and electric.

✦ The Theme:

It’s not just about sex. It’s about sovereignty. It’s about rhythm as ritual. It’s about being the main character in your own erotic universe—whether you’re orbiting love or simply taking a victory lap around your own glow-up.

There’s tenderness wrapped in dominion. There’s funk laced with fate. There’s a sacredness to sweat here—a sensual revolution disguised as a groove.

✦ Visual Aesthetic:

The cover? A chrome pink fever dream—a shade so iridescent it practically hums. An embossed jaguar paw in mirrored foil dares you to touch it. And when you do? It heats with your body temperature. Open the book and every page smells like warm amber and skin. There are illustrations that move—like the old-school holographics—but sexier. Each chapter shimmers under candlelight, each paragraph dances when you read it aloud.

There’s a tiny velvet pocket inside the front cover. Inside? A gold QR code that says: “PRESS ME IF YOU DARE.”

You will. And oh—will you dare.

✦ Persona Ensemble:

The Cosmic Siren – Think Sade meets Sailor Moon. She writes love letters on vinyl records and has a PhD in eye contact.
The Time-Traveler DJ – A mixologist of melodies who wears 1970s sunglasses and speaks in velvet. He spins records that unlock past lives and future orgasms.
The Priestess of Bass – Her voice cracks open your third eye. She speaks in riddles and rides jaguars across moonbeams.
You, the Reader – Somewhere between a voyeur and a co-conspirator, flipping pages with flushed cheeks, asking yourself: “Am I allowed to feel this powerful?” (Spoiler: Yes, darling. You are.)

✦ The Plot:

Not a linear story, but an orbit. Each chapter is a mood. A memory. A moan. There’s no villain—just the fear of being seen. And Oria? She annihilates it with a wink.

From steamy slow-burn ballrooms on Jupiter to smoky boudoirs under Saturn’s rings, Jaguar II spins like a record and reads like a secret. One that begs: What if pleasure was the protest? What if softness was your sword? What if funk was your freedom?

✦ In the End:

The book doesn’t close—it fades into a loop. Like the final note of your favorite song that echoes in your bones long after the music stops. You’re not the same when you finish. You’re looser. Lighter. Louder.And maybe, just maybe, a little more in love with your own divinity.

If this album were a book?

It would be the one you read with the lights low, a record spinning, and nothing on but perfume. It wouldn’t sit on your shelf. It would sit on your altar.

Because Jaguar II is not just an album. It’s an awakening. And you, darling, were meant to feel every page.

April Sheris

(as told with a martini in hand and glitter on my heels)