Tag Archive: glamour


Hey guys!
Today’s post was written as a gift to me by someone I’ll call M.
Yes, I’m keeping his/her identity safe.
Loved it a lot and decided to share.


They’ve got it all wrong.
Trust me, I know.
They say the lady in red, but nothing says “SLUT” like a strapless little black dress.
I’ve got to dress the part, you know; live up to my reputation. Black platforms heels, black fishnet tights, black dress well above the knee, raven hair.
The only concession I give to your misguided assumptions is blood red lips. I walk into a room, this time a friend’s father’s 70th birthday and they turn. All of them, men, and women, even the ones who have one type of genital but covet another. They can sense what I am; I ooze it, like a pungent odor. No, not sex, or even sexuality. It’s something far more nauseating yet just as glamorous. A lack of moral is what they sense in me. They know I’d spread my legs for every single one of them, not necessarily one after the other. They can sense that I wouldn’t mind choking on a penis or two or ten, lapping up a vagina, probably won’t even swat away a mobile phone used as an amateur video camera. As I walk around the room, champagne flute wedged between my fore and middle finger, the responses I get from you all is priceless. The opportunists are drawing closer to me, finding ways to intersect my path, a quick and easy ice breaker. I avoid them, deftly turning at a tangent just before they can approach. The thrill of the hunt is everything to someone like me.
Some of you shrink away as I approach, the disgust on your faces intoxicates me, and I stray a little closer than I should, close enough for my perfume to make you swoon in spite of yourself. Pitiful, even with your hate, you can’t help how your body betrays you and lusts after the abomination that I am. I pick the most disgusted out of all of you, the slightly older woman, probably 40 in the dress that sweeps the floor as she walks. She’s been clucking all evening, whispering and pointing at my ass. I’ve seen her fingers tighten around the ugly square glass tumbler that holds her alcohol free cranberry juice as her eyes linger on the swell of my barely clad breasts. I could seduce her, she’s halfway there already, but where’s the fun in that? I scan the room for her teenage son and make my way towards him. He can’t be older than seventeen. I catch his eye; my lips spread in a suggestive smile. He smiles back and walks towards me as his mother’s face, the template for half of the room contorts into a mask of disgust. Good thing you rich people teach your children assertiveness really early. As you all suspect, I’ll be spreading my legs open for him tonight, if I want it bad enough, in the backseat of his mother’s car just outside this house. I don’t really care what you think, but if it makes you feel any better, “It’s not his fault, it’s all on me.”
Does it really matter how many men and women I fuck? Not unless they’re your husband, or boyfriend or best friend or girlfriend or wife. Oh, in that case, it does matter to you. Perhaps I should apologize, but what good would that do? I have already slept with them, and if the opportunity presents itself again now that I know, I’m not exactly sure I would refuse. So I’ll oblige you and do the next best thing. I’ll rescind my ‘Fuck You’ policy and explain myself.

Trust me, it’s really that simple. I like the thrill of sex, and the chase before it. I love the way you watch me walk, and I exaggerate the roll of my hips just for you. My skin only tingles when you touch it, but never much as when you peel my slutty dress off me. My only pleasures are the anticipation of a new lover and no strings attached sex and no I’m not giving either up, for anything. In your world where religion and ‘morality’ and everything else scream love and monogamy, I have become vilified for taking what I want and not being a hypocrite about it. What I’m not really sure of is this, is it because I fuck or because I am a woman? I could travel the gender equality route, but I’m a simpler girl. I just want to fuck undisturbed. No, I wasn’t molested by father as a little girl, I just love to fuck. No, my first boyfriend didn’t break my heart by sleeping with my best friend, I shattered his by sleeping with his brother, and I still love to fuck. I don’t have an Electra complex, no hormonal imbalance or disassociative disorders or need to reconnect with my inner child. Are you even listening to me? I just love to fuck. It honestly is that simple.
I know I haven’t really been that helpful, and my explanation doesn’t really give you anything you can use to understand and help me. I apologize for that. It’s hard to get through to you too, you never listen.

There is one way you can help me. A way so ridiculously simple, that you’ll probably smack yourself for not thinking of it first.
Here it is:
See, I said it was ridiculously simple. If you see me coming, turn away, distract yourself with something else. Cross the road if you have to; just stay out of my way. I could have said leave me alone, but that is passive. Staying out of my way is something you have to consciously do every day. Leaving me alone is not enough; you have to actively keep what you cherish out of my way. Your son, your husband, that girl you’re secretly admiring? Keep them out of my way, and if you can’t do that, teach them to leave me alone. Because if he/she so much as smiles suggestively at me, I’m going to end up in their bed and we will be back where we started. I know you don’t want that, so you know what you have to do. One more thing, when you lie in your bed alone at night and finally let yourself fantasize about that person around whom you had to suppress your animalistic urges to tear your clothes off and fuck shamelessly; remember me, I’m living your hidden ‘ugly’ fantasies. 
I am without remorse, what you call a slut.




I really should be paying @edgothboy for giving me leave to use his stories…yeah right! 😛 ENJOY!


I like the sunshine. It makes the leaves greener and the streaming water warm as it rushes over my feet and tickles my toes. It seemed like spring would never end and all that rain just made the roads muddy and me ma wouldn’t let me come out and play. But its finally summer. No school, no annoying pigtails cuz I burnt off my hair with the lighter again. Ma was so mad, I thought she was gonna cut it off but instead she braided them into pigtails and made me wear them to school everyday. But that’s over now.

I love everything here, the little pebbles from the brook that feels like a robin’s egg when I put them under my tongue, the Elm tree with the swing I made all by myself from an old tyre and me pa’s sailor rope, the pretty carpet of grass that stays green even in winter. *sigh*. It’s so beautiful here. I just wish ma would believe me when I tell her we could live here forever. She goes “Pah, Nessa. I’ve never been the kinda lass to run away from her problems and I wont be starting now. Now off with ya!” and shoos me off. Mommas never know what’s good for ’em.

Nobody’s but me’s been here in a long time, at least that’s what they tell me and I think they aren’t lying. I’m not supposed to talk about them but I told Seamus and they didn’t seem to mind. I wish he’d stop being a chicken and come see it, just for a little while. But he still hasn’t yet. The day I asked him, He said his mam won’t let him, that she doesn’t think the dark woods is a good place for children to play, and then he said he said his ma doesn’t think my meadow is real. I sure told him off. Just cause older people say stuff isnt real doesn’t make it so, look at Guy Fawkes. They think he isn’t real, yet every year we celebrate him. Pah!

Papa’s coming here soon though. He’s asked ma where I’m always running off to, says a twelve year old girl should have her head in her books and not in the ‘clouds’. But ma’s never told him cos she knows he’d freak out. Maybe even curse me out like he does to ma whenever she forgets to iron his shirts or make him pudding pie at 2am, even though he knows she works 16 hours cos he won’t get a second job. I want him to come, look for me, find me. Maybe I’ll be sure he cares if he does.

OUCH! He bit me again, harder this time. It’s not how you think, he didn’t mean to. Barbie fed the last time and Pa was home all day yesterday so Ken didn’t have anything. Poor thing, he’s so hungry. Their names aren’t really Ken or Barbie, they are way older than that. They just let me call them that cos they’re so tiny and perfect. He’s feeding from my right thigh, Barbie fed from the left last time and it still aches but I don’t their teeth leave perfect little hickeys. Once, the slaggy seniors saw one on my neck after gym class a while back and called me slut for getting ‘head’, whatever that means.

Pa’s here, I’d recognise the way he walks from anywhere. All the other pixies are scattered in the trees and in the lake waiting for Pa. They want to show him how to be a better man to ma and a better pa to me. I thought Ken would never agree to help me, show Pa the beauty of this place and how it can change you. I’m so happy, Pa’ll change and we’ll all be happy, and it all be perfect again…


Tn’ashleiyak flits on his tiny wings and kisses the emancipated child on the lips and the glamour washes over her once more. She limps to the dry husk of the long barren Elm tree and slumps behind it, the force of her fall opening a number of the little scabs of freshly healed bites. He summons Arenilahe and the other pixies, and they gather like a malevolent cloud. A concerned father with a cocked handgun marches their way, preternatural instinct and concern guiding him through the darkness in the direction of his dying child.

“No more shall we ration ourselves to the meagre portions our loyal acolyte offers, Tonight we feast!” Tn’ashleiyak screams in Elvish and bares little scalpel teeth, glittering white and sharp enough to split hairs and spreads little fingers tipped with talons. The others follow suit and together they swarm.

In the darkness infernal shrieking can be heard, interjected with the sound of gunshots. The neighbours sit in their living rooms, the din of their televisions unable to suppress the evidence of the horror that lurks in the shadows of postcards of their picturesque Irish hamlet. He’s an idiot, they say to themselves, she’d been in the woods for almost two weeks, as good as dead. They cross themselves and pray what they hear isn’t what they think it is. All at once the keening stops and one final muffled shot rings out. Silence…

Just as they are all about to heave in relief, a lone voice, saying one word, reverbrates through the silence and their flimsy walls and pierces their cowardly hearts.


%d bloggers like this: