Archive for the Relationships Category

Beware the False Prophets (Of a Lost Generation)

Posted in Love, Men, prophecies, Prose, Relationships, religion, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 3, 2011 by alisonadventures





You are lost, scared, confused. It is late. Your friends have abandoned you at the  latest  party, leaving you alone for darkened kiss on a dance floor. The music pounds inside your head, brains screaming for a moments peace as you grab your head to try and soothe away the agony, but it is of no use, your hands are hot, sweaty like the rest of you, feverish frenzy of dancing, hormones and alcohol, manic activity as you dance alone to the beat of a tribal pop tune.

It is then, it is always then when He finds you.

Is he the spiky blonde with the clear aqua eyes, tattoos of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics etched into his arms and chest, white kimono top and piercings?

Is he the tall black gentleman caller, leather trench coat and tinted glasses, muscled chest and slow smile that reveals sharp pointed fangs?

Is he the aged film executive in Vivienne Westwood, who believes spirits haunt his sleep and lives in a converted boys orphanage?

He takes many forms but in one thing He is constant. He always comes when you are most alone, most afraid, most angry and most self-destructive. He always offers you a drink, a drug, an escape, a promise.

A meaning to the universe, and a reason that you are here, that you met Him, tonight. There is always a reason. You were meant to fight with your boyfriend, you were destined to go to that club where he just so happened to be there. You knew you were meant to find something, someone, that night. Him.

He enchants you with talk of magic, of chaos theory, of chakras and world travel, of tai chi in Beijing, of healing, of energy and how everything is one. In his world, you are beautiful, you are fully connected to the earth and air and sky and him, forming a perfect circle, never alone.

He seduces you with passionate rhetoric on vampirism, how he is a dark and dirty creature of the night. He whirls you around on the dance floor, he invites you to Paris, to fabulous balls, to his flat after the party.

He flatters you with compliments, showers you with gifts and praise. You are stunning, gorgeous, thin, lovely, better than Her, always better. You are talented and perfect and interesting and what I wouldn’t give to be with a girl like You. You deserve champagne, cocaine, ecstasy and designer clothes, Chanel and Dior and dinner at Nobu, cocktails at The Mandarin.

And yes, you are taken in. You want the religion, the magic, the feel that maybe he really is healing you with his energy, your aura is glowing, purple and red and green. The sushi and sake and fish oil pills, the valerian root to help you sleep, the paintings and travel that he offers you, the way that he seems to worship you when he looks into your eyes.

Or else you want the travel, the seduction, the sex. The feel whirl of  the dance, the feel of his fangs biting into your neck, your lips. The sensation and the pleasure, the decadence of knowing you are forsaken but uncaring, eager only to embark in the next event, the next feeling, the next embrace. You don’t want to be healed by the light, but luxuriate in darkness. Lust.

Maybe you crave the leather, the silk, the feel of expensive clothes draped on your body, the perfume and diamonds making you feel like you are worth something, for that day, for that minute. Worthless girls don’t walk around in clothes worth more than most monthly rents, worthless girls don’t sip candy-coloured drinks and nibble delicately at appetizers, the white powder suppressing your appetitive, helping you to fit into your size 0 jeans. Opulence.

It is so easy to slip away, losing yourself completely in their world. They have chosen You because you are different, unlike most girls, beautiful and valuable in your own right.

You are the ultimate actress, changing yourself completely as they mentor you, in universal consciousness or metaphysics, physic vampirism or how to improve you, make you a star.

They are always intelligent, well spoken. Stacks of books and films and theories and debates. They do not simply want money or sex, not always. They want to seduce your mind, your soul. They see you, attractive but sad, a lost girl or boy with no family, dressed up but alone. They are only to happy to provide the escape that you seek.

And sometimes you see through the bullshit, the smokescreens and the lies. Sometimes when it is late and you are sober, somehow, and they push you and grab you and force your mouth to theirs, their ugly hands pushing up your dress, and you are screaming inside. And this is wrong, so wrong, and you don’t want this, yes you want the fame or salvation or whatever they have promised you but not this, anything but this.

But something inside of you freezes, grows cold and hard as a stone, and you cant do it, you are too weak and scared to fight, still tipsy on his promises and you know, you just know that he wont stop.

It is better to submit than be violated.

And  then comes the day when you walk away.

Night. 6AM at the strangers flat. Morning, now. You are with your partner but he is weak, wasted on the wine and champagne. You are half-asleep, lying on his bed, also drunk. The vampire is smart. He has not been drinking. He strips naked and flexes his chest, coming onto your lover first.  He kisses his lips, runs his nails down his body as  your boyfriend looks at you,  and you silently mouth “no”. He tries to protest but submits, in the end, and see him and think of you, how you have been used and drawn into the fantasies of so many other false prophets.

Not again. Never again.

But the vampire is clever, as they always are. He licks you, caresses you, draws you into pleasure but for once your mind is stronger than your body and you leap off the bed. He grabs your arm, restraining you and you are scared, and think, for the briefest moment, of submitting once again. But something in you snaps and you wrench your arm free, throw open the door and sprint down the stairs.

New Year. New Start.

You are outside, shivering and furious, angry and cold. You are naked underneath your coat, feathered shoes clutched in your hands. You are still drunk and lost, but proud, so proud that for once you had the strength to resist, the courage to walk away.

And then you hear the footsteps behind you.

It is your lover. He has left the vampire and his pleasures and ran instead to follow you, tears and makeup streaked down his face, eyes silently begging for forgiveness for not protecting you, not sheltering you.

But he is here and he has come back for you, and together you find a  lighted pathway leading home.

The entire night he holds you close, whispering his love, how he cares more for you than himself, that he would do anything for you. And you clutch him tightly, seeking solace and warmth in his arms. Falling asleep with your head on his chest, listening to the sure and steady beating of his heart.

And for all their glitz and glamour, all the prophecies and promises in the world could not live up to the strength of your love.

I don’t hate you.

Posted in Love, Men, Prose, Relationships on November 9, 2010 by alisonadventures

About two men

It was the passion that drew me.

The smouldering look in your dark brown eyes. How your hands would brush oh so gently over my body, breasts tingling, icy waves of pleasure at your barest touch.

The tormenting tease as I was tied to a pole, subjected to the stares and judgements of strangers, whipped harshly by black leather, cooled by the black silken glove.

I was your slave, your object, your plaything. I drawn into your power. You owned me in mind, in body, in spirit. I was an extension of you.


The sweetest surrender was to give myself to you totally. You calmed my jittery nerves, made me know everything was going to be ok. With you my stress melted away leaving me calm, whole. When you whipped me it built inside of me like waves, spilling out in cries and moans like an orgasm but higher, pain at its peak, the purest form of pleasure.

Our affair was brief, but the closest I have ever experienced. I had given myself so totally to you. When you left me I was devastated, myself once more, empty without your love, your assurances, your control.


Thin girl scared girl panicky girl bones girl dead girl

Like a rough cloth doll I repaired myself, stitch by stitch, patching myself up where you had torn me, stuffing back the raw woollen cotton leaking out.  The smile a bit too thick, thread a bit too red but I made it. I survived.

Pick yourself up, wipe off the dust, put on the corsets and top hats and makeup, go for cocktails with the dashing young gentleman and maybe you don’t instantly fall for him and maybe your too much yourself with him, never letting the stony walls down. Maybe he never sees the real you, small and pink and raw.  And maybe he isn’t your other half, the missing part where you soul bonds with another’s like they have never parted. Maybe.

But he is real and he good and he is devoted. His smile sheds warmth and he makes you laugh. Maybe this is good, this is real this is healthy. Maybe.

It was the intensity that drew me.

Your slate blue eyes compelled me, sucked me into your world. We were surrounded by others but with you I was alone, together in our own separate galaxy. Just the look in your eyes when you glanced at me made the warmth rise to my cheeks, made me intensely aware of my appearance, my speech, my bearings. Like a schoolgirl with a crush, I was never at ease around you.

You spoke of travel, of business, of pleasure. Completely self employed, the world was your oyster. I envied your lifestyle, craved it for myself.
You were a magician, hypnotizing minds and perceptions, shifting others thoughts to fuel your own desires. I wanted to assist you, tour with you, be with you and apart from you. I wanted you I wanted to be you.

With you it was the passion, the energy, the lust. It was the ambition and the hours of conversation, the build up before the fire, words fanning the flame. It was the shared interests, the music, the sweat, jagerbombs fuelling our adrenaline rush. I did not submit to you but matched you, word for word, thurst for thrust. Supernova.

We were the stars of the future, rising faster and faster. Destined to crash and burn.

You used me.

Promised me the world, then walked away.

You enchained me, swept me away with promises, and I surrendered to the sweet release of your power.

You spoke of great cities, tours, performances. Lost ideas, drawings, plans that faded gently with the morning light.

I gave myself to you and you ended it without a backwards glance. It was just me, me with my text books falling to the floor of the brick campus courtyard, phone clutched desperately to my face as the tears streamed down my cheeks.

Broken. Shattered. All by myself. Myself. Myself.

I left everything for you. Relationships, friends, duty, self-respect. Everything to feel your touch as your possessed me. Everything for the solid warmth of your arms around me, falling asleep safe holding you.
Did our conversations mean nothing to you? Hours spent in each others company, the plans, the hopes, the dreams, was it all just a game to you? Were you scared? Did you become frightened by our intensity, how quickly we became one?  How I must have  looked I gazed entranced into your eyes, the expression on your face after your image had shed, the rockstar poser gone, all witticism and pretensions vanished and it was just you, stripped bare, lying naked next to me.
Maybe it was too much for you to handle, maybe you couldn’t quite surrender the way I did, desperate for the fire, the meaning, the one to rock my world and make me forget the banality of my own existence, my own suffering, my own pain.
Was it I who was the fire, and you the worshipper who left before you could get burned?
Betrayer. Asshole. Wanker. Fucker. Twat.

These are the words my girlfriends use for you,  these are the things I thought when you left me, hurt and bleeding and empty. These are the things I still feel, at first, when some unseen image of your enters unwelcome into my mind, when I find your Tshirt or mirror in my apartment and the hurt, held in check by loosly woven threads, gushes out of the floodgates of my mind.
The pain comes in spasms as strong as the pleasure did before it, the tears racking me like waves as I yearn to despise you, damn you and denounce you.
But I cannot.
How can I hate you without poisoning the things we did together? Our embraces, the events we went to together, enhanced by the feeling of you enjoying it with me, the wild parties and music and alcohol transformed into something higher, something purer because I was experiencing it all with you.
I was giddy with the intoxication of your hand in mind. I was drunk on your praise, on the promises, on the fantasy of being with you.
The beauty of the collar that never was, the trip that never happened, the performance that shall remain in sketches and smoke, ideas and ideals crumbling slowly over time, gathering dust, forgotten by you perhaps but not by me.
Are the bittersweet memories of all that never was made even more beautiful by the fact that they shall  remain ever unfulfilled?

Am I a fool, a romantic idiot clinging to the times we shared, times you so casually brushed aside?


But to me they were real. They were exiting and thrilling and heartbreaking and dangerous but dammit they happened.

I will not forget.

And I cannot hate you.