Guilty Grievers (1998)

It is Springtime

You are four months dead

Our Son is doing better

He misses you

And takes it out on everyone who loves him.

Your mother drinks

To drown the image of your charred body from her memory.

Surely she remembers the years

She taught you so eloquently to hate her

To fear women

Yet need them so desperately to be what she never was.

Surely she blames herself.

It is Springtime

You are four months dead

This was the time of years you like to make love outdoors

You reached and I gave

But it was never enough

It is Springtime

And I have guilt of my own

I miss you, my Love



Been a long time…

I have not been on this site in a long time. It seems I’ve lived an entire lifetime since I last posted.

I had a bit of a nervous breakdown with mom being there with me.

I packed whatever I could get into my Nissan cube and I just left.

I tired starting my business up in the next county over but mom found out where I lived so I moved again.

That’s not the only reason but it’s one of many.

I have been living with some friends, renting a room and grooming in the garage.

I miss privacy

I miss being naked

I miss red bean buns

I miss my life

I do have a nice friend whom I see very regularly now. Didn’t think I’d ever date on a regular basis again and he’s BLONDE with BLUE eyes, if you can believe that.

I’ve got 6 months to save up to get us a place. It’s rained non stop in Georgia. Every day it rains I loose three hundred dollars. Cold hard truth. I have not paid a car payment in two months but the insurance and everything else is up to date. I am short on money. So very very short. But I am away from that crazy pill popping mother of mine even though I had to pretty much run for my life.

My sister is having her labor induced Sunday and mom will be there. I am too much of a coward to go up there. Or I am too wise. Either way,  I stay off facebook and it’s been quite a relief, not being at my family’s beck and call when it comes to mother. I gave her the better part of my life. I have done enough.

Its time for me to focus on MY daughter now and making sure she does not end up like mom. She needs my focus and support and a healthy place to live. I don’t know where that will be yet but I have faith something will come together. I get up every day, I wash my face and get dressed, and I go to work. That’s all a woman can do.


Smoke invades the lungs so deep

The Blackened Killing

Of a Gift given conditionally

A backslide, if you will,

One of many I’m too ashamed to reveal.

Smoke invades the lungs so smooth

As I remember how you entered me unprotected

My chest shudders

I know not why I play the fool, the silly girl

Sacrifices for the sake of chasing love never to be found

Smoke invades the lungs so white

As I scream up into the black sky

Why does living have to be so God Damned Hard

Playing by the rules so impossible

Standards set by the sinless one

The only one who knows how to love me back.

I blow rings through his nail holes

And hide behind the Cross

Shivering in shame

Mcarthur Park Bad Girls

When I was 8 I heard a two songs that made me pitch a fit for my first album.

One made me feel powerful and one broke my heart, but I didn’t know why.

I’d listen to the album over and over and sing my little heart out.

The songs pulled from me emotions that I knew were to someday come and I was frightened yet intrigued by the pain that was in store.

Life warns us about stuff, ever realize that?

After Ed there was Prison

For 9 years I had more cold sex than love.

For 9 years love turned on it’s heels and ran for the border.

I don’t Pity Party. Trust Me, I made do.

I even had some truly remarkable romances that made me think I had love

But what can really replace love?

Can Sex? Power? Money?

I don’t know. I can’t remember anymore.

I’ve fought the real stuff for so long, keeping it in my Box with Ed’s hair and memories.

I miss that Rat-a-tat-tat at my heart’s door

And I’m freaked…really freaked that I may not be able to answer should it happen

Because Ed won’t let me.

I know this. He was my love, but He is dead, and that box has done me more harm than good.

His spirit has not cared who I fucked as long as my heart was in the box with his hair.

But I put it back in my chest recently

I let a man come over this week and kept my hair down trying to drown out Eds whispers

I love you I love you damnit Hello Hello

I cooked for him

And Ed raged

I kissed him

And Ed bled

“Someone left the cake out in the rain. I don’t think that I can take it, cause it took so long to bake it, and I’ll never have that recipe again.”

I’ll never have that recipe again


The Virgo with the brown hair that swings

Has arms large enough to wrap around me.

Straddling both sides of the fence, he says,

Is a good place to be.

He’s been there, and knows.

“Beware! Beware!” warns the wasp

“Those Virgo Men get you everytime!”

The feminine Virgo considers the advice

Tilting her swollen heart sideways and putting it back

Into the Titanium box.

“I’m sure you’re right” she says

“I’m sure I’d be a fool

Those Virgos ARE a weakness.

Ask the Dragon,

If you can”


The Virgo Dragon went up in flames like the Phoenix

He always said we’d Burn

I’m just not ready, don’t think I’ll ever be

To embrace the fire’s licking wrath.

I’m stuck here on Earth

Wandering aimlessly without him

I think I am the last

He shoulda told me, the bastard.

It’s been a while

Since anyone has licked the wound of my soul.

No need for sentimentalism now.

The Virgo Dragon went up in flames

He sent me a Christmas Card before he left

Guess he was expecting me to follow.

Look who’s grinning now!

But only sometimes.

Most times I just cry

How Porn Can Destroy Innocence

I imagine I’ll loose half my followers in this post. When I decided to write a blog it was to write my story. I will not sugar coat things and I will not do anything to make myself look like a saint because I’ve been the opposite. This subject is a focal point in my childhood and there may be people out there who had the same issues but are too scared to talk about it. It’s totally cool. I’ll be the scapegoat. These things need to be said because there are warning signs that just possibly could save your child from becoming a monster. Put the dirty books and DVD’s in a lockbox people. Your kids are finding them and looking!

In the 70’s children were to be seen but not heard. I was good with that. If I was very quiet in a corner somewhere the adults would forget I was in the room and they would go about their conversations and pot smoking and record playing as if I were not really there at all. This was a very powerful feeling. I could listen in to all of the grown up secrets right there in plain sight. I could hear who was screwing over who when my mother got on the phone as I hid behind the towering stereo speakers that were so popular then.  I knew way too much for a elementary aged child, but I didn’t understand what it was I was hearing. I knew things that got me into trouble when I would decide to join the world for playtime. I didn’t go seeking it though, it would come seeking me. And when it found me I blew that neighborhood out of the water.

Little girls would come to my house and ask if I could come play. I would hide so my mother would not make me go. She’d feel sorry for the kids and shove me out the door. While out there among them I was a stranger in a strange land. I had a difficult time playing childish games. I liked to ride bikes, to skate, to play basketball or jumprope, but I was never good at just sitting on the sidewalk with the gang and shooting the shit. I’d inevitably repeat something I’d heard my parents say and someone would go home and tell their mother. The neighborhood kids wouldn’t be allowed over to my house for a few days but by weeks end someone would wind up at my door again, crying because I would not go out to play. I would lie and say someone was already in my room and that my mom didnt want more than one child over at a time. My not wanting them made them so want me. Not much has changed.

I was a perverse little thing and there is no damn good excuse for it. I wish there were. I wish there was a big human drooly monster in my closet I could point a finger at and say it’s his fault. But I was not molested.  In the end it came down to the fact my grandmother taught me to read before I was 5 and by the time I was 8 I was reading hustler.

While my parents argued in the next room I decided to hide.  That day it was under their bed. Low and behold there was an awesome magazine with a bunny on it. But wait. How weird! The bunny is on a cross! I open it up and …nothing. There were naked women making stupid faces. I didnt feel bad looking at it. I didnt feel like I needed to hide the fact I was looking at it. I didn’t know it was supposedly wrong. I found out it was wrong when my mother walked in and caught me looking at it and beat me with the magazine, then went and screamed at my dad for not keeping his dirty books hid better.

The dawning of my sexual self began with the Easter Bunny on a Cross
The dawning of my sexual self began with the Easter Bunny on a Cross

If you are so much as two years younger than me you would not understand how it was to be 8 and that innocent. Television back then was so innocent. There were not even tampon commercials. When I would repeat things to neighborhood kids that got me in trouble my mom just whipped me, but she didnt tell me what exactly was wrong. The moment my mother freaked out on me for looking at that book a monster was born. All of a sudden the puzzle pieces came together and I realized THIS was screwing, THIS is what freaked the kids out. I was not sure what was happening here but I knew I’d NEVER gotten mom’s FULL attention in such a manner. I realized now EXACTLY what my words to those kids meant. My dad’s embarrassed reaction by barely being able to look me in the eye made me feel so powerful I knew I had to have more of what those dirty books contained. And thus my porn and sex addiction began.

Apparently my dad was a porn addict because there were Hustlers and Penthouse hidden all over the house. I was home alone all the time, dad worked all the time and mom was running the roads. The minute she walked out that door the search was on. I always found what I was looking for and there was always new material to look at. I felt no sexual thrill at all. Instead it felt as though I were gaining ammunition, or that I was gathering information that made me powerful.

At about 10 years old I started befriending some of the kids who would come over to ask me to play and I let them in on my little secret. I showed them the books. They were horrified, yet fascinated, and my possession of these adult things made me the holder of the golden goose. . They were putty in my hands. I decided it would be great fun if we took our clothes off and pose like the models in the magazines. We would do that, feeling very powerful and grown up. I was ALWAYS the man. Mom came home one day and caught us and beat me sensless, sending the little girl crying out of the house. I’d be furious during those beatings, but take them silently. I never felt shame nor did I feel guilt. Perhaps if I’d felt a sexual spark during these encounters I may have felt shame, but it was all a game. A game that made me feel like the ruler of the neighborhood. Everyone wanted to play with me but no one talked about what they’d do over there. The one who was allowed in my house that day was the winner, but what they thought they’d won I don’t understand because I would torment the shit out of them. The fact that they even came back for more disgusted me and made me determined to amp it up a notch each time.

I became more bold as months went by. I’d read so many of my dad’s penthouse forums apparently it had corrupted my young mind. I had a girl take her clothes off and tied her to my desk leg with a shoe string. Then I got dressed and just left her there and went to the kitchen. I could hear her screaming and crying and I was just laughing my ass off. I got ketchup and mustard and poured it all over her, I poked her with my baton saying something like “but you love to play with me and it’s my turn to decide what we play. You’re a dog and you made a mess on the floor and you have to be tied up” I remember telling her she was always crying at my door wanting in and this is what happens when you come in. I made her promise to leave me alone and never come back. She promised! I wanted to let her go but I’d tied the knots tight and her pulling made it worse so mom came home and found me there with a naked girl tied to my desk and ketchup and mustard all in the cream-colored carpet. I got beat with a vacuum cleaner so badly mom sent her best friend in to make sure I was still breathing. I could hear her screaming on the phone that she thought she’d killed me. I was not dead. I just layed there with my eyes closed and let her hit me with that vacuum vowing that no matter what she did, I was going to keep doing what I was doing. I did not care.

It had been about a year since I’d acted out because mom wouldnt allow kids over anymore. So instead I was over at someone’s house and they wanted to play house.  There were three of us and I was voted the baby, which I was mad about. I was always the daddy. Not fair! So when she went to change me “into my pajamas” for naptime, I peed all over her. The thrill at the horror across her face was classic. That thrill was soon replaced with shame and fear because she jumped up and ran to tell her teenage sister, who locked me in the bathroom to wait until the parents got home. I remember taking everything out from under the cabinet and putting it in the tub and hiding under the cabinet. But they found me, of course. I dont remember what happened after that. For some reason my memory of those insane times just vanishes after that moment.

My next memory involving sex or relationship is when I was 12. I played with the boy across the street because the girls were no longer allowed to play with me but none of the girls would tell the others what I’d done for their parents to have me off limits. Me and Jeremy (lots of jeremys in my life) were best friends. He was a year older than me and he just seemed to get me in a way the girls didnt. He didnt care that I didnt talk. He did all the talking. We biked, we went to the school playground, we went to the junkyard. And one day on his swingset he bent over and kissed me, and I punched him square in the face and knocked him off the swing. I was furious! But I didnt know why! I ran home crying my eyes out and refused to ever play with him again. I was so upset, because he’d taken my power away in that one kiss.  I liked him and was so mad that he’d ruined everything by liking me “like that”. After school I’d want to go over so bad but would not even look his way. He sent me letters through other kids telling me he wanted to go with me. I liked him and didn’t want to. I had weird butterflies down there when I thought about him kissing me and that made me want to punch him more. Boys ruin everything.

When I turned 13 my parents moved to another city and then the year after that they divorced and we moved to the country. I was a punk rock girl in a hick hillbilly school and got the hell beat out of me all the time for my smart ass remarks and anti social attitude. It was in high school that I met the love of my life. I was walking through the halls with my head down so as to not make eye contact with anyone and I heard from way up high “Hey blondie, nice leather” I looked up into the most beautiful slanted black eyes I’d ever seen. All my reserve went right out the window. He was the most amazing thing I’d ever laid eyes on, with a tall black mohawk and eyeliner on his already slanted eyes, piercings everywhere and the thickest juiciest lips. I’d never punch this one for kissing me, I knew that immediately. He said “What’s up, I’m Ed”  and just like that, I was his. Still, to this day, I am still his. He’s dead though, so there’s that.

Wrapping up I want to state that later in my 20’s I realized how horrible I was to those poor kids. Someone should have reported me. Maybe they did. Things like this just were not investigated back then. It was embarrassing so it was not talked about. And all the beatings my mom gave me just made the situation much worse and psychological than it needed to be because no one bothered to find out what was wrong with me.

Everyone will feel better knowing that in my years of Prison I received weekly psychotherapy and counseling. I revealed my childhood acts to my counselors who helped me realize why I did what I did, why it was wrong, and investigate things about myself that would make me act the way I did. It all revolved around power. The need for it, the addiction to it, and the desire to maintain it no matter the cost. It directly related to the violent fight my parents were in, and my mother walking in on me looking at a dirty magazine and the fight stopping immediately because I had done something so intense it trumped the fight.

I hope those girls can forgive me for being so cruel. I was the same age as them but I still was more mature and should not have done what I did. I would venture to suggest to them that they look into why they were willing to do whatever it took just to get me to play with them. What was going on with them at home or in their heads that they wanted so badly to be with someone who refused to open the door to them and once I did, allowed me to do whatever I wanted to do just so they could stay in my presence.

Despite all the years of therapy one thing has not changed, if you sit crying outside my proverbial door, and irritate me to the point that I open up and let you in, it’s my game, my rules, and you will be punished for being so weak as to need a monster like me.

Wanna Play?

From The Widow On Her Anniversary.

I would buy you roses today

If you had a grave to put them on

But you are ashes

“Ashes to Ashes”

And I am dust.

“Dust to Dust”

The roses we ate while making love on LSD

Left a bitter aftertaste that still lingers in the back of my throat.

Won’t you meet me at the old train tonight?

The one we would hide in when we were runaways?

I will curl up in the operators chair

Among the cobwebs and the memories.

I will be the one with the flesh on

And the pumping heart that still grieves your pale skin.

I have a few grey strands and wrinkles that you didn’t live to see

But you’ll recognize me by the crystal blue of my eyes

The salt of my tears

And the baby doll mouth that still whispers your name at all the wrong moments.

Oh Edwin

Come to me by moonlight

Lay your spirit down in my aging bones

Drift your ashes here and let me consume you as never before

One last time, for old times sake

Oh my Baby, my dead Dragon King

I would buy you roses today

If you had a grave to put them on.

On Your Birthday Sept 21, 1997

Poltergeist of my Heart

Dead Husband of my Childhood

Tomorrow I will tell our son once again how I loved you

Hoping somehow my telling him will soothe your raging Ghost.

He hides pictures of you in places where he thinks no one will find them

We all grieve in our own way

Each of us has an air pocket of guilt hidden away in the folds of our hearts

If you could just see him now, it would be like looking in a mirror!

The long fingers, the arrogant smirk

The slanted eyes watching the world in a paranoid fascination

It’s your loss, you asshole

You Dead Dead Man

He is beautiful

And you’re missing it.

Our Handsome Son, All grown up. 3

Plenty of Fish is a joke but I have a profile anyway

I havn’t given up hope that there’s someone out there whom I can respect enough to give up my solitude. I adore being alone in my little house. I run around here naked or just with an apron on most of the time even when I’m cooking because I hate getting clothes dirty. I dont have laundry machines in my place. Then i realize I just like being naked. If someone came over I’d have to put clothes on because despite my incredible past, I am shy. Go figure.

I met an Indian man whom I thought to be very sincere in his attempts to get to know me. I don’t have many old pics of me on my POF profile, only current ones taken from this past summer till now. I messaged Mr. India for a while and finally we decided to meet for coffee. We agreed to exchange phone numbers so that we could be in contact on the day of meeting. When things went downhill due to work last week I let him know I needed to reschedule our coffee date.  He said he heard my message on voicemail giving my grooming website and asked me if the pictures on my website were of me. I was surprised at such a question. I did not bother to tell him I’d lost a ton of weight and look a bit younger now than I did years ago. I didn’t bother to tell him they were pics that were over 5 years old for the most part. I just told him that yes, it was me. And I never heard from him again. The pic I have displayed here is about a year old and is the one he asked me about. This situation has shown me that people are visual creatures and no matter what, appearance seems to be everything. I find myself to be the lucky one. I happen to look better at 43 then I did at 39 and 40. Eventually time will take its toll on me and I will look like the above pic again, and worse. Why get into a relationship with someone who has such a problem with something as simple as aging? In fact…why bother getting into a relationship at all?

Despite my adoring my solitude there is a stronger drive in my heart and that is the drive to take care of someone I adore. The majority of my friends in the BDSM scene would take this to mean I’m switching from Domme to Sub. I don’t think that is the case. I just think that for whatever reason the Domme was born in me, those reasons have passed and I don’t need it anymore. I don’t want to be someone’s submissive necessarily. Certainly not in a masochistic sense…EVER. But I’ve always had such a caretaking nature. I simply adore taking care of someone I respect and love. Finding THAT is the hard part. I lived with a man I did not love for many years. The former client who asked me to move in with him after I got busted for Pro Domme work. I was always distant with him at best. The closest I ever felt to him was following a surgery he had due to diabetes. He had half of his foot removed and I had to help him do pretty much everything once we got home as he was healing, including cleansing and packing his wound. (Shudders at the grotesque memory of weaving bleach solution soaked gauze through holes in flesh with hemostats) For a few months, that was the closest thing to love I ever felt for him. I digress…

I have had a plenty of fish profile for a while now. I used to have an ok cupid profile, which has been deleted. I have not met the one yet. I only get on there every 6 to 8 weeks to check it and never find any thing other than the lame ass messages “What’s Up” or “Hey beautiful.” Always short ignorant one liners that indicate they did not read my profile. I admit sometimes on rare occasions someone will write me with a beautiful introduction, but he will live over an hour away…or in the case of Mr. India, he cares so much about how I look that he can’t see past it.  Sigh. I put so much time into it and all they do is look at my picture. I guess I will stay naked in my kitchen forever.