Lesbian vampire girls in corsets suck face, blood, hickeys and drinks

Ahh yes, it was uplifted breasts and desire. Like I said I can do an hour a week or so, and this week, it is corsets and getting dressed up, going out on the town and spreading my wings, literally. Of course, with a recent medical report of anemia I needed to get a transfusion. Who says that it has to be painful? First I put Linda in a thrall of desire. Then I went for the blood and the velvet covered boobies. Linda is doing her, “Nice but I hope you finish this before the drinks get here..” not quite going with the whole moment...yet.

You can see an elderly couple behind us. One can only wonder what they were thinking, luckily I overheard what they were saying (remember I had a fever, and not just blood fever, so I may be a wee off).

Guy: “What IS that girl doing to the other in public?”

Woman: “Oh don’t notice them, those are just a couple of lesbian vampires. Or is it one vampire and her lesbian lover, I can never get that straight.”

Guy: “(Huff) Well, I never, I thought this was a respectable establishment.”

Women: “Oh Bill, get with the Millenium, I mean you didn’t mind the apartment Edith and I kept on the side.”

Guy raising his chin and getting stiff: “Well that was different, I mean it was the war and all…..Oh my twisted druthers, what are they doing now.”

Woman: “Stop staring Bill, is it just a little blood sucking, I don’t see how that is much different than the transfusions I get on Wednesday. They are obviously having a nice night out, just get back to your appetizer and let them have some fun before returning to the coffin."

Earlier I had gotten dressed up including using MAKE UP (Yes, I went lipstick lesbian, want to make an issue of it? On the bed? The floor? How about the in the whirlpool?), giving me the hopefully ‘cherry cordial chocolate kiss’ (nice on the outside but better to lick to the center) look.

But by this time our drinks had arrived. We found this place near us which has rockin’ drinks, big margaritas. They have a Hawaiian margarita (Cheryl had it) which tastes likes the Big Island tastes, the heat giving wafts of sweet pineapple and mango, the sweet honey, and the blue of the tide pools. Yum.

I have to admit that the lust was upon me, lesbian vampire that I am. I mean, earlier I was here, this poster girl for Big Sisters, I mean you would let this nice woman with her necklace of Morticia on Ivory, and black wings take your tween and teen out to an nice uplifting nighttime playtime? We could go walking in cemeteries, or if they were old enough we could watch films like...The Hunger (with David Bowie). But later, overcome with blood and unnamed lusts I have transformed. Not exactly the poster child for Big Sister now.

Linda and I came here earlier, notice the different corset and lace shrug.
We then found about the monster drinks on the weekend and destiny was created. Yes, I happen to be one of those people who find certain drinks to be aphrodisiacs, in a major way. I finally won Linda over to the moment, probably by saying something wildly inappropriate. I have always wanted to do that whole arm sweep to clear the table top and then leaping atop Linda, YUM. What? That is supposed to be done at home? Oh. Well I guess that is why I see it in movies and not often in restaurants. But Linda was giving me a glow. Yes, sex IS in the mind, and the partner, and booze, lots o booze helps too, who needs feeling below the sternum, right?

I think it best we finish with a nice innocent picture. See, this is me just being nice and cute. I do want to point out that for women, with the stress of Xmas and hosting, that masturbation is known to help with migraines, insomnia and stress. So PLEASE do yourself a favor and masturbate this Xmas season. That ends the public service announcement.

The last boxing class was this week until the new year. I have been having problems where I gain weight even though I eat one meal a day and work out like crazy, burn, literally with fever, and have a heart rate which indicates I am jogging. It is driving me crazy. But the lab results from this week might show some of the problem which is that I progressed some more in my anemia, lower Hemocrit, Red Blood Cells as well Hemoglobin PLUS even though on synthroid it looks at least part of me is dead. My free T4, which is what is used to turn food in the blood into energy instead of just storing it as fat, is below the limits, making me functionally hypothyroidism, so we are increasing the synthroid and seeing a doctor.

Beyond drinking alcohol and giving Linda hickeys, we also did postcards. Linda, Cheryl and I got together and got some postcards matched, stickered, stamped and finished, more than I thought as 48 finished postcards have already been posted. So the 38 from last week was even more, though it exhausted us a bit (a lot).

We had some nice donations, like these postcards. And here are pictures of HELL, yes, that is the gateway to Hell, or perhaps some OTHER ancient and famous institution, I can’t remember, but either way that is pretty goth. Also many vampires in this place, except like zombies, they feed on brains.

Also, after I sold the manga on ebay I was able to get some of the pictures and postcards I had found in Hawaii (I got them in the Thanksgiving sale - free shipping!), that includes this picture of the woman doing ‘the dance of the turtle’ – whew, fan me down, I am having that heat issue again. Or as Linda says, “She looks very…uh…fit and LIMBER.” Oh yeah!

“Are you LIMBER?” I asked Linda since she takes all these fitness courses at work and can do these positions with odd names like ‘the plank’ or ‘the seal’ and I thought it time to have a home work out, as it were. Um, yes, postcards, keep the focus! So here is the arctic fox and the dance of the turtle. We also did themes of books and asia/Japan, sometimes we did they together. Without Linda and Cheryl there is no way I would be able to do all the matching, stamping and stickering I do; there wouldn’t be a postcard project. Yes, I do a lot, and I write each one, source, buy and organize postcards, stickers and the rest but also we get great gifts from around the world to the postcard project (I am not the postcard project, I am the horny vampire – so gifts to the postcard project are ones I sort and use but are separate to me). Right now the project is at about 3,480 or so (2000 for the year about).

I had ordered a month or so ago some new year cards from Japan, as during new year people send each other new year greetings in postcards. And the postcards are all stamped with numbers and then on New Year’s Day the TV station reads which numbers wins gifts, from toasters and cell phones, to Playstations, Rice Cookers, and Cars. So not only does it pay to send lots of postcards (and GET lots of postcards) because then someone among you and your friends will win a prize (this is after coming back from a shrine to put in money, clap two/three times and make a prayer, then write a wish on paper and tie it to the nearby tree - New Years Visit). I wish I could do the same (the prizes, feel free to write wishes and tie them to trees), but I am not a national government. But I was able to send out about 18-20 new year postcards, most for this year directly from Japan. However, because they are not ‘franked’ (stamped) by the Japanese Postal System, you can’t win a prize beyond the postcard. Sorry.

And that was my weekend. Cool, yeah?

lesbian cutters, goth cutters, lesbian goth cutters (self harm)

Right now, Linda has hidden all the knives, but tomorrow I will find them. Lets talk lesbian goth cutters, or goth cutters, or self harmers. Some days, I don’t like being around norms (normal people; niave, normal people), or those who lie about their fucked-up nature. I don’t like having to be judged for things that just are. I have, when paralyzed, and could only use one thumb, tapped out on the metal railing, S.O.S. ….S.O.S….S.O.S….S.O.S. The care worker didn’t get it then and when I got forth with skeletons dancing as earrings the norms don’t get it either.

This, cutting and fucked-up, isn’t about dying, this transcends dying, if you can believe that. I told Linda as I went into my third day without food that if I could avoid the workers and her for another few days, I could probably be the first terminal anorexic. Because anorexic isn’t about starving yourself to death, it is about control, or having some sort of control; emotional, something, in a situation or place where there is none for you. And so is cutting; control over the body, control over the blood, control over something. And it is about pain: the internal released, the external to hold.

There are times and types of pain that cannot be articulated in simplicity. Maybe some people are just born a little too emphatic, a little too open, a little too sensitive, a little too something. I started cutting somewhere between 4 and 5; I used the carving knife on my belly. My parents still have that carving knife; it has a stag horn handle.

I asked Linda why she thinks I cut and she said it was control and pain. That the more lost I become, the more used, the more beaten down, the more I need to take it out on someone, or something, but there is really only one object deserving of and endless variety of degradation and treatment: me.

There is also safety and beauty. That’s what Goth is in a way, being a person who appreciates the beauty in something that others see as forbidden or tasteless: blood, death, decay, mortality. The last time I cut, my circulation had retracted so much that I couldn’t bleed. That made me feel very wrong. I mean, when my skin has split open and I can make a smile with it, there should be blood, right? It was funny, but not beautiful, so I dress in spider corsets and kink boots.

I remember just entering college this woman telling people that I liked torturing children because I read the books of Edward Gorey. She was quite angry because I found them funny; I found them beautiful. Was I a cutter because I was a lesbian? No. Was I a cutter because I became a very young fuck bunny for host of people? No, though I can’t say it helps. I will free myself to speak of being lesbian, or at least of that inclination (as much as any woman in a wheelchair can be a sexual object – the great neutermobile!). I will one day know that the men who used the body and broke my mind in many pieces are NOT coming back. I don’t know how I will get there from here, but I will. But I will always be a cutter. It is written upon me, into me, my addiction.

Talk about cutting, about using the swift downward stroke with one hand, knife in the forefinger and thumb, and that burn, the white hot burn of blood from a German knife, running down, and another stroke and another, leaving a trail of blood as I wander in MY woods, hoping that I find my way home. Hansel and Gretel left bread crumbs which were eaten by birds. Blood doesn’t bring birds. And there is someTHING about me, a THING, which brings out the predator in some people, some men. You don’t want to go in my woods: unless you are one of us. The Fucked Up.

Things I worry about: Loss of Control – I worry a lot that I will lose control and do things to people, be a person who throws things, who attacks outward, and so I attack inward. I worry that I will lose control of attacking inward and cutting won’t be enough. Because sometimes when the crazy red demon is out, it doesn’t want to go back, it wants more, more and I worry that I will break my fingers, or put my arm through a glass window just to see what happens.

Actually I didn’t tell the truth, exactly, because of what happened to me, becoming the object, the therapists say, of violence, but seemed a lot like the object of pain and sex and fear all mixed together. I was obsessed, secretly terrified these men would come back. And so I learned every possible way to kill someone with one arm. So that way, no matter what they did, they would surely let one arm free and then, throat and nose strike, palm strike, fingers into the eyes. I practiced in my head, in my body. So THAT is what I fear most, that I will lose control and kill people. Not that there has ever been any evidence that I will, or even have that dispossession. One “expert” in abuse told me that I was ‘incapable’ of hurting people in that way. But I fear it.

And there is the roiling boil of the mind. The triggers everywhere, it brings you to the point of insanity, you speak of things in a monotone. It is then that cutting must be careful, so that you touch the scars, the healing scars dozens, hundreds of times a day to remember where you are, that you are here. That you have made it through another minute or hour or day. You want to know where I went missing.....I was deep in the woods.

And if you have known pain, or whatever it is that separates you from the norm; for some reason the humor is a little altered. The beauty is altered. And maybe there are perfectly normal people who just like to dress goth, and don’t want to dress up in a way that says, “I am sex and I am death in one.” Actually, that would be a relief, maybe dressing is like cutting, saying, that if you see the sex, if you fuck the body, then beast will be loose. Or maybe it is saying just that: I am already dead, and what you lust is a corpse. There is no evil, nothing that you can do that makes a corpse provocative that isn't funny, isn't grotesque.

Or maybe it is nicer than that; just saying, “I know what I am, and society doesn’t have it.” Or know that there is something far, far worse than death, and so, that makes death, something to play with, to dress as, to play at because it is far safer than the deep dark woods inside.

And just because you ACTUALLY happen to be dying does not magically cure this. Therapy helps, sometimes. I was told that what has been written on me, cut on me, is not who I am. I don’t know if I believe that; but I half believe, which is more than before. But what I have written myself, well that is S.O.S., and yet, when I write about this, people say it makes them disgusted, or angry, or sad. Well, I’m not exactly leaping around in joy when I cut, you know. I cut, so that I can sleep, so that I am HERE, instead of trapped in my mind THERE.

I used to cut because I was in a program where every class I had to get an A, and I was teaching and each class I taught was evaluated many times, and each time had to be perfect. That was enough, but there was so much more, like the fact I was homeless, or that the evaluator described himself as “A touchy-feelly guy and if you don’t like that, well tough, that’s just the way I am, and I’m the person who passes or fails you.” So he touched what he wanted when he wanted. And so, to get up each day, and go in and shower and get dressed in the restroom, and face the day, and the evaluations, and the rest I cut.

These days, I don’t cut that often, once or twice in a couple years. Because I am better? Well no, but I am better at hanging on, at not putting myself into situations like that, at standing up for myself. But sometimes things pile one atop another, sometimes things happen, things out of our control, very much out of our control that bring us back there, deep in the woods, following the blood trail.

Cutting makes me feel better. Cutting tells me that I am worse. Cutting tells me who and WHAT I am. I need to see the blood. Yes, I am a beast from horror films, the shambling THING, there is something WRONG with me. I am wrong. Sometimes I cut to stop from knowing what others feel. Sometimes I cut to stop feeling at all. Sometimes I cut so I can feel SOMETHING. If you are like me, you know all of this already, and if you aren’t I don’t know any way to stop you looking at me like that.