I am not.

I cannot be what you want.

I am no siren in a red dress
with flirty heels and a sly smile.
I do not twirl in childish joy
and blush prettily at off-colour jokes.
I am not a shy young maiden,
breathless for your every glance.
I do not whisper for fear
of drawing stranger’s stares,
and I will not look down
when you give me your cold looks.

I cannot be your creation,
sculpted from fantasy
and some strange sense
of patriarchal propriety.


Turn the Page

I have often wished that I lived a breathless lifestyle, ripe with scandal and lush with drama.

I don’t, however. My life is the usual distant hum of daily existence. Adherence to the grind of routine, and sighing boredom from the tired conversations and words repeated until they no longer have any coherent meaning. The same actions performed on almost a daily basis, from the smallest and most insignificant (turning on the kettle for tea) to the chores that need to be performed. Of course, there is variation – I do go out, I interact and communicate with people, and every day is not a reflection of the last.

It all just seems so… banal.

I suppose this is why I love to read so much. There’s nothing like a rousing adventure, or a gripping thriller to take me someplace else. I feel sorry for people who don’t read, or who don’t enjoy reading.

One of the greatest gifts my mother has given me, is a love of books. I cannot recall what dolls or other games I received as presents on special occasions, but I do remember each and every gift of books I have received. I cannot recall first conversations with past lovers, but I do remember wonderful stories that I have read.

I happily pass by shoe stores, jewellery stores or boutiques whilst shopping, but I cannot, simply cannot, walk past a bookstore without browsing.  There is something about the smell and feel of a book that invokes powerful emotions inside me.

New books, with their unbent spines and crisp white pages have a sense of promise and mystery to them, a sparkle that sends a frisson of excitement through me. New books have an enthusiasm and vibrance about them, they are filled with possibility.

Old books, on the other hand, make me ache with a yearning for history. They sometimes leave me with a powerful urge to continue the tale, to write and write so that the story will not end.

I love to find old books with words of dedication and well wishes written inside the covers. Even if the book is not one that I will read again and again, those few thoughts written by a stranger’s hand, to another stranger’s heart, remain with me as I read each page.


Velvet Dark (re-post)

I was feeling restless, dizzy, and out of sorts. I could smell my drunk coming on. It was not going to be pretty.

My mind adrift with memory, thoughts and imaginings. The slightest contact now would send me into spirals of misgivings. I did not want that. I wished that I could remain focused and sharp. Reality sharp, I mean, not my dreamy excuse for it.

I walked into the smoky atmosphere, full to the brim with laughing and empty promises. The smell of beer and desperation hanging in the air, almost visible.

There in the darkest corner I saw him. My salvation. My sacrificial lamb. He didn’t have any idea of how important he was to me as he sat there, eyes drifting lazily across the room like the cigarette smoke that flowed from carelessly held cylinders of tobacco and paper. I could tell he was broken inside, apart from the self-assured wholeness he tried to project.

My heart skipped a beat. Or did it? Perhaps it speeded up, but it was all the same sensation in that hazy, dream-like atmosphere.

I walked to the bar, ordered my slice of unreality on the rocks, and then made my way towards him. I didn’t approach him right away, but stood a little distance apart from him, my peripheral vision waiting to see if he caught himself looking. He did. His eyes flicked over me once, disinterested. That half-hearted look incensed me, made me want to go over and splash burning alcohol and cold ice cubes onto his face. I inched closer, my body swaying to some inner rhythm, pretending to keep the beat of the raucous music that pounded through the air. Placing my glass on the table before him, I lifted my eyes and willed him to meet my unselfconscious stare. He did, and I saw a cloud of uncertainty flit across his clear blue eyes. Then it cleared, and he spoke in his deep voice. “Hi.”

It was all he said, but it was enough to solidify my resolve. He was it. I nodded to myself and moved to right in front of him, conscious of how my woman smell drifted to his nostrils – I saw them flare slightly as he caught a stray tendril of perfume. He smiled, tried to appear self-assured and in control. I wasn’t having any of that. I told him that we would dance. He nodded once and stood, taking my hand in his as we moved fluidly towards the knot of people writhing on the dance-floor. As we danced, I grazed my body against his. Light, almost accidental touches of my skin against him. I felt the electricity each time. His body and being yearned for me. It made me smile.

Yes, I thought. Yes. He is the one tonight. Tomorrow there will be another, but for tonight he is all that I need.

Suddenly I caught a spark of emotion and anger from across the room. My eyes scanned, and eventually found the source. A brassy blonde, too full of alcohol and men’s compliments to imagine herself any less than perfect. She angered me.

Glancing an apology to him, I moved to her, pulled her ear close to my mouth, and whispered to her. She bridled in anger, but one look from me, and she was subdued, realising her powerlessness beneath the makeup and blonde hair dye.

My lips set in a grim line; I made my way back to him, swaying as my rhythm took hold of me once again. He smiled and asked if I knew her. I replied with some or other flippant answer and he was satisfied with that.

After we had danced, I held my mouth to his ear and whispered the words that I knew he wanted to hear. We moved towards the door, I led him outside, so far from the safe places he had known. I could smell his lust springing upon him, like a fox surprises a rabbit.

Outside it was cool. There was rain in the air, but for now it was just a promise. The darkness enfolded us and the sounds of the night seemed to rise up and form a screen around us. He mumbled something about how beautiful I was, and I realised then that I was the link between his reality and his dreaming.

No matter.

My purpose was clear, my hunger sharp. I kissed him, and then pulled back in time to see a fog of madness fill his eyes. He grasped me tight, and I let him feel that he was overpowering me, it fed him. He clutched and gasped as his mouth roamed over my neck, his tongue in my ear, his breath cloudy and beery as it spread across my skin. I allowed him to have his way. His hand stroked and grabbed at my breasts, his lust and longing making him clumsy and rough. I reveled in it all. I could smell him. The scent coming in waves off of him made my hunger into a keening scream within me. As he fumbled with my skirt, trying to lift it and sink his fingers into the warmth and wet of me, I closed my eyes. Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting for precisely the right moment.

His lust was an almost visible fog about us now, rich and dark and throbbing through the air between us. I grasped the back of his head, licked my lips, and sank my teeth into the tender flesh of his neck. Just below his full earlobe. He gasped, mistaking my hunger for lust. It was only when he felt the needle-sharp prick of my teeth against the skin of his delicate artery that he gave pause for thought. By then it was too late.

He was mine.

He struggled, but I let the strength that I had kept hidden in a show of feminine helplessness take over. He tried to cry out, but his words were so full with lust and fear that they were unintelligible. I sank my teeth into his blue vein, and felt the rush of thick, hot blood flow into my mouth. Better than orgasm, that first taste.

Better than sex had ever been.


He visits me in the velvet night,
sliding his warm caress across my dreams,
breathing his promises in my ear.
I feign sleep though my breathing quickens.
His gentle probing into my intimate mind
makes my blood run to fire.
Running his nail along my skin,
tiny sparks of electricity enliven me –
making my body ripple with need,
it’s intensity escaping as a sigh.
His mouth on mine, cold with the night
floods me with incandescent passion.
I turn to him, alive, alight.
He takes me, makes of me a sacrifice
to rapture and blazing desires.
He offers me, a willing victim
to the shameless burning in both our eyes.