Thursday, 17 October 2013

huge hole in my living room :-(

I really want my life to move forward. I want to push past the issues that have collected up as I've grown up and leave some people behind. I can only do that when I'm settled and have a steady income. I'm fed up of being let down. Why can't people just step up and do what they're supposed to.
I now have a huge ugly mess of a hole smack bang in the middle of the wall where the fireplace should be, right in our living room. Right before Christmas. It's a mess that my parents have made and left for someone else to sort out like kids playing with mud. Meanwhile my dad has bought another motorbike and is entertaining himself with it in the garage, and I am looking at a huge mess that I have to work out how to cover up in time for Christmas.

My closest family wont visit here.
I'm embarrassed to bring my friends here.
It took all my nerve to bring Mr Jones here.
It would take me less than eight minutes to leave here.

There is one feature in my family that ruins everything. One feature that pulls us all apart, that taints everything. My parents. Three of my brothers with their wives and kids live in the same street as us, there's a reason why they hardly if ever come and visit. Life sucks sometimes.

Wednesday, 9 October 2013

Dear Heart

Dear Heart
   Come back. Come back now I tell you,
I am mistress here. Come back and be with me,
alone and safe from harm
how can you watch me, watch you break
come back I say, before its too late
come back, come back, come back
don't break, let me shelter you
come back damn you!
don't break, don't break.
I'm sorry I told you not to come home
I was angry you'd been gone so long
just come back now, we'll be alright
don't make me march down there,
don't ask me to fight
come back, come back, don't break.

Tuesday, 8 October 2013

little bird poem

Don’t leave me, said the little bird

Do not break what has already been broken

Or let go of what was once lost

You took the shards left over

And I have not much left of my heart


Don’t rain upon my wings

And then bid me fly alone

My heart it beats so slowly now

So frightened of its own

Dark and dangerous place inside

Where one might die alone

Don’t leave me, said the little bird

Don’t set me free from your window


I shall fly back until my wings shred

And drift as ash does in the air

This little bird, when there’s no heart left

Will still fight for more

As I shall fight for us

Until my last feather falls.


Fallen angel. Last night.

The angel was already breathless. The hard strong pressure between her legs was tantalisingly soft, bare legs restlessly rubbing up the sheets she pushed the hand further down, thighs parting silently begging. He pulled her pants off roughly quicker than expected and suddenly She was conscious of the rapidly building heat deep inside her pussy where a finger or two jabbed furiously and brought force a warm wetness. No build up this time, hardly even a prelude to what was about to unfold. The angel was tossed over onto her knees, dragged back and poised like a rampant doe eager to be mounted. Those damp fingered hands moving up the back of her thighs, her legs wide resembling bambi on ice, a few deep breaths rasping with anticipation, blind to everything made the sensation of the devils hard persistant push behind her heart stopping. Then it forced entry and filled her mercilessly , hard, slow, hard, slow, fuck! Faster, hands rubbing over her shoulders down her back, spanning her hips, feeling like a woman, feeling the power of animal instinct she ground back encouraged by his hands pulling her back with strength and authority, one hand pulling teasingly on her hair, she came at the command of a biting pull on her locks and thighs still quivering reared up and let the power of her rider take her over the edge in quick succession of the last time crying out louder this time. It slowed down, she caught her breath, the angels breasts had spilt out over the top of her bodice and his hands slipped round to take advantage. It wasn't long before the pace picked up again, and her shoulders were gripped and tugged back sitting her up and she rocked back and forth eager for another turn of earth shattering pleasure. It was more intense this time, it worked its way up in bursts, then the devil stirring inside her core began to lose control, a few swear words in her ear egged her on and made her buzz and the sound of his ecstasy tipped the angel over the edge letting her come harder and better than before, he spilt into her at the same time and she fell shuddering down on the pillows and in a daze waited for him to dismount. Indifferent, unattached? ...the soft and lingering kisses on her back contradicting that idea. Thinking vaguely that being fucked like an animal with such raw and rough passion was the most detached and unemotional way to be together the angel sighed happily into the bunched up sheets, she loved every moment of it, she couldn't wait for more of the same. 

Monday, 7 October 2013

I do fucking everything myself!

I've looked after myself for a long time. I have been expected to look after myself for longer. I work part time while I'm studying at University. A university I had to get into on my own. I eat food that I buy with MY money, even down to the bread and butter on my toast and the milk in my tea. If I'm cold while sat in a jumper and a jacket I have to put money on the metre for electricity. I have to pay for the gas if I want to use the oven, the second hand oven that I paid for!

Everything I own even my laptop, my little table, my tiny box t.v all came either from my own pocket or from the mercy of my brothers. I have no license and no car because I cant afford it. I've never been abroad because I cant afford it. I think a luxury is buying a £12 pair of boots to keep my feet dry through the wet months when I travel 3 buses and 2 short walks to uni. I never get the odd £20 handed to me towards my university stuff, I don't get a couple of bags of food shopping put in the cupboards to tide me over. I got fuck all for my birthday this year. Last year a card when the day was almost over.

Christmas is a pointless misery of no expectations, and gotten used to disappointed hopes. I was twelve when my mother told me in December that there was no money for Christmas, and I dealt with it, I have dealt with it every year since. The year my parents said "What's the point in putting up the tree, don't bother" was the year I gave up hope on them. (The tree and the decorations are my favourite part, they should have known that) I could overlook everything else. My brothers have taken pity on me too many times and I'll be forever grateful that they've included me in their own separate families to save me from being alone, even the decent floor in my bedroom is there because my brother laid it down. This year will no doubt be the best year I can remember because it will be spent with someone who wants to spend it with me and he will be my salvation. I actually feel like I'm the heart and not the spare part this time.

I come home to a cold house, an almost empty fridge and matching shelves. (My fridge contents at the moment is an almost empty bottle of milk, 2 half tubs of butter, one of which I have bought, and half a bar of chocolate) the shelf has five items on one of which is cat food, no more details necessary.
The thing is I'm used to all this. I have dealt with standing on my own feet for years, I know if I want to put food in my mouth the money for it will first come from my purse. Everything I am, I have become on my own.

What I can't stand, what I cannot deal with is being treated with such careless, insensitive disrespect as if I owe the world to my parents and this house. As if I have been given the best and looked after when I've had fuck all for too sodding long to even try and pretend you have any right to say these things. "What about the times I drove you to those interviews?" YOU GOD DAMN TWAT! Is that really what you're saying to me? Are you really acting as if I owe you. I even paid for the petrol! Sorry for getting off my ass and getting a job! Unlike you! Sorry for buying my own washing powder! The cutlery you're using downstairs I bought! That kettle you make your drinks with every sodding day I paid for! You ungrateful scum. I would never have a child without being fully prepared to support and love and cherish them, and it doesn't matter how old they get you are a parent for life and you should be their support if and when they need it. You don't have a kid and the moment they're too old for benefits to reap in treat them like a burden when you do fuck all for me! I expect nothing! I stopped expecting when I was twelve years old. But a little respect, for your only daughter who gets nothing, a little respect would have been appreciated. The reason I don't bring food here anymore is because I don't hear the end of it until I give in and let you eat it! Now I have a place to be comfortable, to put a few things, to be quiet and peaceful and warm and loved and I wont give it up until I'm bodily thrown out, and you wonder why I never want to be home.

I don't expect an outsider to understand this post. There have only ever been two people that understood this. This what I live through. One left me. I'm waiting for the other one to as well, but he doesn't seem to be going anywhere. My writing is my salvation, but he's my dream.
(This is the fridge. I wasn't kidding.
See the 2 white labels on that left draw?...that's my name, because that's my butter, and I have to label it. Because its take take take here, and no sodding give what so ever. )

Wednesday, 2 October 2013


For myself, shopping for underwear isn't just about buying a necessary item to keep my womanly parts in check, it's more an addiction to a taste of luxury, a one stocking footed dip into the pool of confidence. Underwear gives me a thrill. For a lot of women I guess it's shoes? I hear that a lot, but I'm five foot, nine. I wear heals and I worry I'll be mistaken for being a transvestite, so my little drag on the cigarette chain of addictions is lingerie. Lingerie (a French word, and any historian knows the French have always been hyped up on sex. a bit like me at the moment )

Obviously it's not impossible to find a cheap set that's worth while, if you dig around and choose carefully a good looking ensemble can be achieved with a tenner. However...this doesn't quite give me the same kick. I like underwear shops. Stores dedicated to, and exclusively for what's worn behind closed doors. Gentle lighting, impeccable service that only comes in the shadow of money, sweet smelling essence of luxury.

It's the draws that really get my skin tingling, I like the soft sliding draws labelled with golden plates of numbers that hold each bra so conveniently. I've been measured half a dozen times, hell just for the fun of it! and I'm an odd size of 32 D. D sounds huge but no really, 32 is small around the underneath. Anywhere but a good quality store struggles to meet my size requirement. Underwear stores are the only shops I enjoy the 'fitting room' experience. Long sweeping mirrors, soft luscious curtains, glittering lights, and assistants that help pluck and slip any loose straps and wayward lace into place.

Scarlet red, ebony black lace, lipstick pink satin, slippery smooth nighties and see through almost not there chiffon. Push up balcony's, daring plunge, sweet miss daisy cotton. corsets, bodices, negligees, sheer body suits and transparent knickers. Crotchless.

I generally avoid where I can the formidable air filled padded push up. I just think it looks silly, more silly than dealing with what you've got. Look amazing, take your bra off and oh shit! your tits went with the bra onto the floor. I like bras that encase my breasts like a mans hands, I want them to embrace them and gently expose the real plumpness of being young. I prefer French panties to thongs but I'm not adverse to anything, I have a selection in my underwear cupboard (oh yes, that right, a cupboard, not a draw or a shelf, a full blown cupboard...I did say this was an addiction)

It's so rare that I feel confident in myself, in my looks, but when I buy good luxury underwear I feel good, I feel great! I stand in my stockings (I don't do tights) and whatever get up I have slipped myself into and I feel good, I have a good pair of tits and long legs have to be used for something. This is all I've got, my experience in the bedroom limited as its been and selected to Mr Jones, means that the underwear thing is my best asset as a woman. I'll wear anything. Cute cotton picking girl next door, to high class call girl.

I love the way that when you purchase something divine, as I have today, you have a naughty giggle and gossip with the counter girl as she lovingly wraps your items in pink tissue paper and seals it with a trademark, the scented sachet is sweet and womanly, a sprinkle of white flower petals in the bag, the swipe of a card and it's mine. My bank must find it curious on my statements when they read Asda own baked beans, and underneath that £50 Boux Avenue Lingerie, almost a double life that me and my undergarments share sometimes.

I leave my secret in its wrapping, I have a scorching hot bath and with the precision of a surgeon I shave everything-a new habit of mine, very Egyptian. Coat myself in bath oil, dry and curl and tousle my hair which has been coloured red and conditioned to a point of mirror shine quality (I'm a tad over indulgent on the health condition and cleanliness of my hair), I go through the makeup routine, matching my face to whatever I have waiting in that bag. Then its a Belle De Jour moment for me in the most flattering, and gorgeous items I own. I don't understand why someone would feel more confident with their clothes off than with them on but I do. I can walk around all day and feel insignificant and self conscious. Let me shake up a head of curls, strip off and slip some perfume down the valley of my breasts and suddenly I'm confident and I'm ready and by this point I've built it up so much all day that I'm desperate and raring to go. Standing in my underwear I like the way I look, probably because the focus is on my tits and everything else instead of my face. Its the feeling I'm addicted to, and the trail of events that follow. I only developed this habit of mine six or so months ago. The same time I discovered sex. The two go hand in hand. This is your fault Jones. You acquired a sex crazed girlfriend and I acquired an expensive addiction. Hmmm.

crying heart out

people often say "crying your heart out" and I love that expression, its perfectly accurate because when you cry so very hard about something truly devastating in terms of love you are literally trying to cry your heart out of yourself so that its not there anymore to cause you this grief.

My heater.

I've been in this house for an hour and already I've buckled to the cold, put a fiver on the electric metre and dug out my little heater. Memories of last year were rather vivid when I dusted the little machine off and plugged it in. I remember last year, it was the beginning of next month, huddled on the floor most nights on a blanket next to the warm air, crying. It's so bloody pathetic. That day we went and got this heater was the day we split up, the Keyholder he did a decent thing, guilty as hell I guess and drove me to purchase this so I wouldn't freeze, because it really was bloody cold, he dropped me at home and drove away and that was that. I opened it up and plugged it in and huddled there crying and sobbing my wretched heart out.

I'm feeling a little bit..... 'uncomfortable' that's the word. It's just that time of year, I love October, I love Halloween, but now its slightly tainted by the memory of last year. I've been doing rather well making new memories: life experiences that have been breath taking. The heaters already taking the chill from the room, it really is grand this little machine and we've been through so much together. That little whirling machine has seen me break down in a way no one in the world not even my dearest friends or even my mother have seen. That heater has been my only comfort in some long minutes of misery when I have truly, truly sobbed until my throat hurt. I'll never cry like that again.

I'll never be over it. No one ever really gets over pain. It wasn't love, it wasn't the friendship, it wasn't even the person or the company or any of that. It's the pain that I can't forget, the memory of it that will no doubt hold me back that little bit for the rest of my life. I'll never get over that pain, and I will write about it forever. It's the only way I can deal with it.