(no subject)
I wake up listening to music left running from the night before. The band is probably something like Rage Against the Machine or Refused, but I am too half asleep to tell. Then I groan as the pain suddenly hits me. Four wine bottles, a litre of vodka, a plastic cider bottle (all empty), an ashtray overflowing with stubbed out cigarettes and joints, and a mirror with the remains of a heavy cocaine session remind me of last nights events. My head throbs angrily and my stomach is doing back flips. I have to suppress the urge to vomit.
Seeing my beautiful boyfriend lead beside me, sprawled like a fallen angel, staring at me as I slowly wake up, makes me feel warm and gooey inside, like my organs are a melted milk chocolate mess. As I eye my boyfriend, slender arms entwined with mine, hairless legs splayed absently, I know that he is perfect.
His name is Drew. And he is fucking perfection. (of course he’s fucking perfection, he’s fucking me!) He is a carbon copy of Drew from Namedropper, but the calmness described in the book is not a part of real Drew‘s character. He gets angry ridiculously easily, and we spend a lot of our time having huge, passionate fights. The police are frequently called to our flat by interfering neighbours to calm these spats. Longish blue black hair, pale skin, so white it is almost luminous and arms criss-crossed with scars, freshly healed cuts and burns are his attributes. My arms look the same, although there aren’t as many new cuts, because I am slowly attempting to stop the habit. Our arms lay across one another in unison. The two pairs of bony wrists seem to speak silently to each other in their secret language. It is an unspoken agreement that self harm is what we do and this is how we deal with the overwhelming, evil bitch that is life.
I reach over to the cluttered bedside table and roll a cigarette. I light it, inhaling deeply as Drew looks over and grabs the cigarette from me, taking it for himself. I have just raised my outstretched palm, poised to hit him to get my cigarette back, when he returns it, kissing my forehead.
I get a phone call. The shrill clanging of the repetitive ringing is harsh on my newly awake brain, and I shudder as it makes my delicate head ache. I lift the receiver of the dusty, seventies style, red phone, pressing it against my ear.
“Hello?” I groggily mutter. The voice on the other end is my manager and best friend Kitty. Sounding as fresh as a newborn baby’s scream, Kitty reminds me that I have a gig in London tonight. She then slams the phone down exaggeratedly, no doubt rushing off excitedly to accomplish her next assignment. For so early in the day, her happiness and levels of alertness are sickening.
I curse myself for forgetting the gig. I am one third of the infamous riot grrrl band Spinster. I am lead guitarist and vocalist, alongside drummer Carina and bassist Holly. We are a brilliant band.
My boyfriend Drew is also a musician. Solely, he is the Dark of Night. Dark of Night are an unsuccessful, electronic, one man band with a nasty passion for synthesises. I hate his music, but it is endearing that he tries to be creative.
Even though my entire body is screaming at me to curl up under the duvet, sleep for another four hours then drink a pint of orange juice, I know that I have things to do today. These things demand my attention more than my self inflicted hangover, so I crawl grudgingly out off bed.
I hear Drew whistle appreciatively as I pad across the room. My appearance is everything listed on the Suicide Girls criteria (although I am far too attractive, self aware, vain and busy to even consider modelling for them). My hair is cut asymmetrically; short, long, spiky, blonde, black, red and pink; all in one hairstyle. I have a gorgeous amount of piercings (two rings through the lip, numerous hoops and studs decorating my ear, a black bar through my tongue, two bars either side of my hips, a ring dangling from my nipple). They are my babies and I treat them just as grossly as I would a child. Tattoos sporadically adorn my skinny frame. On my lower stomach, a design that reads “Pretty On The Inside” in gothic lettering stretches to my pubic bone. The tattoo on my lower back is a self penned, twisted black design. I also have barbed wire curved around my thigh and a tiny pink heart on my ankle. Wearing black French knickers and a vintage, cream and coffee coloured camisole, I wiggle my ass for Drew. He thinks I am exquisite looking.
Perched upon a stool at my dressing table, I retrieve a pillar box red lipstick from the top drawer. Large, wooden and extravagantly built, the dressing table’s surface is crammed with rows upon rows of tiny bottles of sweet smelling, evil smelling, musky smelling and fresh smelling perfumes. The mirror that hangs directly above, is ornate gold. Surrounding the mirror frame are torn magazine pages of stunningly attractive people. Staring down at me with their wide eyes peering from beneath perfectly mascared lashes, they inspire me to. The dressing table makes the rest of the small room look even shabbier and messier than it is. It sticks out like bone jutting from a broken thumb.
Parting my lips, I paint them blood red. When finished, I look as though I have just bitten the head off a live animal. Looking at Drew, I smile. He smiles back; loving me.
I go to the stereo and change the CD to Marilyn Manson-Great Big White World. It blasts out of the speakers, deafening us. Since Drew is looking enviably, cosily lazy, I sit on his lap giving him lots of fluttering butterfly kisses across his abdomen. I kiss his pouted lips, the delicacy of his neck and his undefined chest.
Reaching above Drew’s body to the window sill, I grab a plastic bag of white powder, a small rectangular mirror, a credit card, and a £20 note. Resting the mirror on Drew’s flat stomach, I make eye contact with him, pulling my best, stern school teacher face.
“Don’t move. Or I‘ll hurt you.” In reply, he giggles like a naughty school girl.
Routinely, I crush up the crystals, perfectly in time to the crazy whirring noise of the guitar solo in Great Big White World. Laying out the powder on the mirror, I split it into four equal lines and roll the note into a hollow tube, handing it to Drew as the opening of The Dope Show crashes around us…“there’s lots of pretty women, that want to get you high.” How appropriate. Smiling, Drew puts the coned shape note to his nostril and snorts, until two of the lines have vanished, as if by magic. I follow suite and wipe tiny white crystals from my nose as I feel the beginnings of chemical drip. How I detest this feeling. It is as though ants mixed in a syrupy liquid are marching, sliding, gliding, gradually dripping down the back of my throat and nasal passage. Once that awful feeling subsides, I feel innocent and happy as though there is a light shining amongst my internal organs, spreading warmth throughout my body. I could curl up with this warmth and sleep forever.
Toes, fingers and nose tingling, I feel an incredible amount of love for the boy I am lead beside. He is 25 years old, yet his body is so small, skinny, fragile and bird like, that I can never imagine calling him a man. He is my baby. Suddenly, I fling my arms around his anorexic frame as he tenderly strokes my spine from beneath my underwear. We lock dysfunctional lip to dysfunctional lip in an intimate kiss as Dissassosiative plays in the background. It is so loud that I can feel the bed vibrating underneath me. Continuing to kiss, our worlds collide. Spinning around in our embrace with the world rushing past, the population of London ignores us as we lick, suck and nibble each other’s mouths. It feels as though the sensation will never end. As I push my fingers through his thin black hair, he pulls off my camisole and caresses every inch of my golden skin. I stroke and outline every feature, every freckle, every shadow on his perfect face, remembering every minute detail then forgetting it the next second.
Drew sits up so that I am straddling him. I can feel the rapid pounding of his heart, banging against his chest, ferociously trying to escape like a tiger locked in a cage against it‘s will. He groans as I pull him closer to me. We are so close that we are breathing each others oxygen. We are one. Panting heavily, he pushes the gusset of my lacy French knickers to one side, and pushes three fingers deep inside. I moan and my back arches in ecstasy. Teasingly, he draws his wet fingers away. For one second I am frustrated and annoyed. Having a part of Drew inside me had felt so deliriously good. But then surprises me. Drew thrusts himself into me, filling me. We are one. We are perfection.
Seeing my beautiful boyfriend lead beside me, sprawled like a fallen angel, staring at me as I slowly wake up, makes me feel warm and gooey inside, like my organs are a melted milk chocolate mess. As I eye my boyfriend, slender arms entwined with mine, hairless legs splayed absently, I know that he is perfect.
His name is Drew. And he is fucking perfection. (of course he’s fucking perfection, he’s fucking me!) He is a carbon copy of Drew from Namedropper, but the calmness described in the book is not a part of real Drew‘s character. He gets angry ridiculously easily, and we spend a lot of our time having huge, passionate fights. The police are frequently called to our flat by interfering neighbours to calm these spats. Longish blue black hair, pale skin, so white it is almost luminous and arms criss-crossed with scars, freshly healed cuts and burns are his attributes. My arms look the same, although there aren’t as many new cuts, because I am slowly attempting to stop the habit. Our arms lay across one another in unison. The two pairs of bony wrists seem to speak silently to each other in their secret language. It is an unspoken agreement that self harm is what we do and this is how we deal with the overwhelming, evil bitch that is life.
I reach over to the cluttered bedside table and roll a cigarette. I light it, inhaling deeply as Drew looks over and grabs the cigarette from me, taking it for himself. I have just raised my outstretched palm, poised to hit him to get my cigarette back, when he returns it, kissing my forehead.
I get a phone call. The shrill clanging of the repetitive ringing is harsh on my newly awake brain, and I shudder as it makes my delicate head ache. I lift the receiver of the dusty, seventies style, red phone, pressing it against my ear.
“Hello?” I groggily mutter. The voice on the other end is my manager and best friend Kitty. Sounding as fresh as a newborn baby’s scream, Kitty reminds me that I have a gig in London tonight. She then slams the phone down exaggeratedly, no doubt rushing off excitedly to accomplish her next assignment. For so early in the day, her happiness and levels of alertness are sickening.
I curse myself for forgetting the gig. I am one third of the infamous riot grrrl band Spinster. I am lead guitarist and vocalist, alongside drummer Carina and bassist Holly. We are a brilliant band.
My boyfriend Drew is also a musician. Solely, he is the Dark of Night. Dark of Night are an unsuccessful, electronic, one man band with a nasty passion for synthesises. I hate his music, but it is endearing that he tries to be creative.
Even though my entire body is screaming at me to curl up under the duvet, sleep for another four hours then drink a pint of orange juice, I know that I have things to do today. These things demand my attention more than my self inflicted hangover, so I crawl grudgingly out off bed.
I hear Drew whistle appreciatively as I pad across the room. My appearance is everything listed on the Suicide Girls criteria (although I am far too attractive, self aware, vain and busy to even consider modelling for them). My hair is cut asymmetrically; short, long, spiky, blonde, black, red and pink; all in one hairstyle. I have a gorgeous amount of piercings (two rings through the lip, numerous hoops and studs decorating my ear, a black bar through my tongue, two bars either side of my hips, a ring dangling from my nipple). They are my babies and I treat them just as grossly as I would a child. Tattoos sporadically adorn my skinny frame. On my lower stomach, a design that reads “Pretty On The Inside” in gothic lettering stretches to my pubic bone. The tattoo on my lower back is a self penned, twisted black design. I also have barbed wire curved around my thigh and a tiny pink heart on my ankle. Wearing black French knickers and a vintage, cream and coffee coloured camisole, I wiggle my ass for Drew. He thinks I am exquisite looking.
Perched upon a stool at my dressing table, I retrieve a pillar box red lipstick from the top drawer. Large, wooden and extravagantly built, the dressing table’s surface is crammed with rows upon rows of tiny bottles of sweet smelling, evil smelling, musky smelling and fresh smelling perfumes. The mirror that hangs directly above, is ornate gold. Surrounding the mirror frame are torn magazine pages of stunningly attractive people. Staring down at me with their wide eyes peering from beneath perfectly mascared lashes, they inspire me to. The dressing table makes the rest of the small room look even shabbier and messier than it is. It sticks out like bone jutting from a broken thumb.
Parting my lips, I paint them blood red. When finished, I look as though I have just bitten the head off a live animal. Looking at Drew, I smile. He smiles back; loving me.
I go to the stereo and change the CD to Marilyn Manson-Great Big White World. It blasts out of the speakers, deafening us. Since Drew is looking enviably, cosily lazy, I sit on his lap giving him lots of fluttering butterfly kisses across his abdomen. I kiss his pouted lips, the delicacy of his neck and his undefined chest.
Reaching above Drew’s body to the window sill, I grab a plastic bag of white powder, a small rectangular mirror, a credit card, and a £20 note. Resting the mirror on Drew’s flat stomach, I make eye contact with him, pulling my best, stern school teacher face.
“Don’t move. Or I‘ll hurt you.” In reply, he giggles like a naughty school girl.
Routinely, I crush up the crystals, perfectly in time to the crazy whirring noise of the guitar solo in Great Big White World. Laying out the powder on the mirror, I split it into four equal lines and roll the note into a hollow tube, handing it to Drew as the opening of The Dope Show crashes around us…“there’s lots of pretty women, that want to get you high.” How appropriate. Smiling, Drew puts the coned shape note to his nostril and snorts, until two of the lines have vanished, as if by magic. I follow suite and wipe tiny white crystals from my nose as I feel the beginnings of chemical drip. How I detest this feeling. It is as though ants mixed in a syrupy liquid are marching, sliding, gliding, gradually dripping down the back of my throat and nasal passage. Once that awful feeling subsides, I feel innocent and happy as though there is a light shining amongst my internal organs, spreading warmth throughout my body. I could curl up with this warmth and sleep forever.
Toes, fingers and nose tingling, I feel an incredible amount of love for the boy I am lead beside. He is 25 years old, yet his body is so small, skinny, fragile and bird like, that I can never imagine calling him a man. He is my baby. Suddenly, I fling my arms around his anorexic frame as he tenderly strokes my spine from beneath my underwear. We lock dysfunctional lip to dysfunctional lip in an intimate kiss as Dissassosiative plays in the background. It is so loud that I can feel the bed vibrating underneath me. Continuing to kiss, our worlds collide. Spinning around in our embrace with the world rushing past, the population of London ignores us as we lick, suck and nibble each other’s mouths. It feels as though the sensation will never end. As I push my fingers through his thin black hair, he pulls off my camisole and caresses every inch of my golden skin. I stroke and outline every feature, every freckle, every shadow on his perfect face, remembering every minute detail then forgetting it the next second.
Drew sits up so that I am straddling him. I can feel the rapid pounding of his heart, banging against his chest, ferociously trying to escape like a tiger locked in a cage against it‘s will. He groans as I pull him closer to me. We are so close that we are breathing each others oxygen. We are one. Panting heavily, he pushes the gusset of my lacy French knickers to one side, and pushes three fingers deep inside. I moan and my back arches in ecstasy. Teasingly, he draws his wet fingers away. For one second I am frustrated and annoyed. Having a part of Drew inside me had felt so deliriously good. But then surprises me. Drew thrusts himself into me, filling me. We are one. We are perfection.