I don’t know what’s up with my sex life. I had a root canal 3 days ago and I’ve been in a lot of pain since. I’ve felt so much pain that I gave in and took Percocet. Normally I would avoid narcotics because I don’t like feeling muddled. I don’t want to depend on drugs to feel good. But at a certain point, the pain gets to be too much and I cave. I’ve spent much of the past 3 days high.
Percocet does weird things to my libido. On one hand, being out of pain is a relief and makes me more receptive to sexual activity. On the other hand, narcotics make me feel kind of crazy. I feel distant and detached from my body. But my body is ovulating. My cunt is super wet and ready to go. My brain on drugs considers sex in a philosophical way – contemplating the deep eroticism of touch. I am both turned on and not present in my body.
I want to be sexual. We kiss slowly and deeply. I cut his his hair in a haze of sensuality. We shower together, bodies sliding soapily in the hot spray. His hands grasp my hips and cup my breasts. I enjoy these activities, but my brain never really engages. I never take it a step further.
After 3 days of intense foreplay with little follow through, my brain starts to foment rebellion, ways to overthrow the tyranny of narcotics. I feel manic. I want wild, sudden, rough sex. I need to prove that my body is still mine. I am on fire. I struggle to feed my desire in ways that I won’t regret later. We manage to find a way to fuck long enough for me to orgasm, but it just adds fuel to the fire.
The drugs still cloud my mind. It reminds me of negative experiences, of being drugged and raped, but I am doing my best to reclaim even this feeling. I should be able to take pain medication without being triggered. I can feel sexual because that’s mine. I own my sexuality. I’m always working so hard to prove that to myself. It’s just that the drugs make clear thought a challenge.
It’s about control. I don’t want to lose control and the narcotics make it hard for me to think. If I needed to quickly think my way out of a situation, I wouldn’t be able to. If I feel like someone else has my back, I can relax, maybe even enjoy the feeling of being high. Mostly, I am struggling so hard to stay in control that I am allowing myself only a narrow window. This desire for wild abandon is my attempt to open up and let go. I know that I could have a good time, even on drugs, if I just let go.
I made it through last night – trapped in my body and hazy mind, wishing with all my might to be fucked, but doing my best to be a good mom. I wanted to let go. Sadly, no chance for even a few minutes alone with my vibrator. This morning the pain feels less, though the swelling is still present. I think I’m done with Percocet. I want my sex to be clean.
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I’m in agony. Well, no, not really – but I am pretty uncomfortable. There’s a burning sensation around my urethra, just below my clitoris and above my vaginal opening. I’ve been experiencing this discomfort for about 5 or 6 weeks. I’ve gone through two courses of antibiotic, which of course means that I’ve had to battle vaginal yeast infections. I went to pee in a cup a couple of days ago because I still felt the burning, but this time, there were no white blood cells, no infection.
I did some internet research on urethral pain with no Urinary Tract Infection (UTI). I found a lot of women with this problem with varying diagnoses. They talk about how difficult it is to have sex when everything in the vaginal area feels bad. They discuss all of the tests they’ve had and things they’ve tried, but it makes it sound like they will be in pain forever. I started to panic. I can’t feel like this for the rest of my life!
The physical sensations are bad enough. I have managed to keep having sex, but it isn’t as nice as it usually is. How could it be? And often, I just don’t feel sexy. The worst part, however, is emotional. This particular feeling at my urethra triggers flashbacks of childhood abuse. It makes me feel really yucky. I absolutely cannot cope with these feelings every day for the rest of my life. I’m doing pretty well a day at a time, but I will lose it if we can’t resolve the pain. How do women cope with this?
I went to see my doctor. She rocks. We talked for a while about different things that could cause this pain. Sexual transmitted diseases are a possibility. My last tests were fairly recent and everything was clean. I haven’t had any new partners. It does remind me that it might be good to check in with my partners and their partners about current safer sex practices. We haven’t had that conversation in a while and it can’t hurt. My doctor mentioned that I could have a micro-tear or something that I keep reopening with sex. That would suck. It’s possible that something I’m doing during sex is causing repeated injury. I hate this thought. I love my sex life. And I’m pretty careful – I use good lube, I pee after sex, and I use good hygiene. I find myself offering up little prayers like, “Please don’t let it be fisting.”
My doctor did a visual, vaginal, and pelvic examination. My kidneys seem fine. Everything checked out, except that my urethra burns. Ultimately, we decided to wait and see if the urine culture revealed an infection after all. She gave me a prescription for a medication that numbs the urethra. I can only use it for a few days at a time. It turns my urine a bright neon orange, makes it unwise to wear my contact lenses, and upsets my stomach, but I think it’s worth it. Love is not supposed to burn.
I’m trying to keep my freak-out under control. My doctor is working with me to discover the cause of the pain so we can treat it. It’s possible that things will resolve themselves. I’m going to keep trying to have the best sex life I can manage, including not having sex when it feels bad. I’ll keep getting through a day at a time until I feel better. There will be a time when I am not constantly aware of my privates in a negative way. My urethra just has to get better!
Book: “A Year of Sex”
Author: Mia Martina
Where to buy: Amazon Kindle, Barnes & Noble Nook, Apple iBooks, and Google Books
Mia Martina’s debut memoir is brilliant! I devoured the whole book in one rainy Sunday. I generally like reading about sex, but what really drew me in was her brutal honesty about herself, how appealing she is as a person. It’s easy to care about her ups and downs over the course of a year of sexploits and relationships because she seems real. Her voice is so authentic, I want to be her friend. It helps that I can totally identify with her experiences, but I’ve never read anything like this before.
Mia offers some of the best observations I’ve ever heard about sex parties. In her book she says, “Just because you can get naked and fuck doesn’t mean you’ll want to do it.” and “I’m learning that the unknowns about couples’ dynamics are the most interesting part of attending sex parties.” Both very true, in my experience. She does a great job of examining all aspects of a sex-positive lifestyle.
“A Year of Sex” is well written, which is a turn-on in itself. While the sexual content is fabulous and hot, Mia’s story it isn’t like typical erotica; it’s real life, where sex is seldom zipless or seamless. This story titillates, but is dedicated to authenticity, not getting you off (but don’t worry, there’s a happy ending). I even loved the bonus materials: a glossary of sex terms, tips for attending sex parties, music suggestions, and resources for further research. Like parting from a lover after a weekend of bliss, I’m left feeling turned on, emotionally engaged, and sated while yearning for more.
I feel like a huge weight has been removed from my chest and throat. Tension I didn’t even know I was carrying has lessened enough to for me to feel lighter. And yet, I kind of feel like my date with Harold yesterday was not fully successful because we didn’t have sex.
Thing is, we decided to dedicate the afternoon to letting me talk through some of the last awful bits of my childhood abuse. We’ve made to the very darkest recesses of my psyche, but it’s by far the hardest. I’ve been doing my best to avoid dealing with it at all. Truthfully, I don’t have to do this work, but I want to be fully myself and fully as powerful as I can be. I don’t want to be wasting my energy coping, when I can just do the work and come to accommodation with my past. The abuse will always be a part of where I come from. It doesn’t have to be who I am.
So, with some trepidation, Harold and I had our date. We started by taking a long bath – talking and relaxing. Then we moved to the bed where Harold brought me to orgasm with his tongue and fingers. I was really getting off on the pain of having my nipples pinched. I wanted it harder and harder. After I finished coming, held tight in his arms, we could have fucked. But we didn’t. I just wasn’t feeling it.
Instead, I started talking. And crying. I think I cried for three hours straight. Maybe four hours. Harold just held the space, held me. I looked at some of the things that I’ve feared too much to bring into the light. I let go of all of my careful control. I let myself really feel all of the sadness and some of the anger. I went through nearly a whole box of tissues. Harold let me know how much I am loved.
I have an old deep fear of not being believed, of being thought crazy. Harold made it clear that he would love me even if I was totally crazy. He not only believes me, but is willing to walk through hell with me, step by step. He met every fear with support and slowly together we bridged the abyss. Eventually we emerged into the evening, tear-stained, snot-smeared warriors.
I wanted to make love on kind of an intellectual level, but I had to follow my instincts. I just wasn’t there. My love for Harold wanted to make him happy. I probably could have worked myself around to sex, but I gave myself some time off. Harold and I have never had to talk ourselves into sex. We will have more time, but letting myself feel this pain is a rare and hopefully short-lived occurrence. We will make love when everything flows. When the time is right. And I don’t have to make anything right by Harold.
What we did instead, was get into the shower. At first, I couldn’t. I was still so strongly in my past that flashbacks overwhelmed me. Then I stood in shower, hot spray hitting my chest, breasts, and belly, while tears continued to flow down my cheeks. I felt emptied, vacant without the knot of emotion in my core. My heart beat hard and fast against my chest, like a bird trapped in a cage. I could hear myself breathe. I looked up at Harold and said, “I don’t want this. I don’t want this to be my story. I don’t want this to be who I am.”
He wrapped his arms around me and spoke earnestly against my ear, “What you went through is a part of you. It’s where you’ve been. You need it, it’s important. But it doesn’t define you. You need to keep speaking it, because if you don’t give it words, it will keep haunting you. Don’t be afraid to tell it. Speak it over and over, until it isn’t the story of who you are, just part of your backstory.”
He’s right. Words have the power to define thoughts and concepts. If I can define something, I can own it. The vague, fearful things that used to lurk in my basement can’t hurt me any more if I can speak them. I will own them – mine, not anyone else’s. This is the power of speaking my story.
Will you be brave enough to put words to your shadows and own them?
If I have a fetish, it’s probably for learning and exploring novel concepts sexually. Thankfully, I haven’t ever run out of exciting new perversions to try. Just when I was afraid that I’d done it all, Harold came up with a few fabulous things to investigate. Several of them are CBT related – a ball parachute for hanging weights (something I saw in a magazine when I was 18!), a ball wrap with a chain to attach to any tie point, muscle rub to make his balls burn, and a lightweight ball tapper to desensitize Harold’s balls so I can hit them longer and harder. He also shared a masturbation sleeve with me which I found very strange. I have not yet gotten a chance to check out every one of these things, but I do have a new favorite thing. Prostate milking.
Harold and I really needed to connect with each other a few days ago. Things have been stressful lately. It was one of those times where we look at everything that we ought to be doing and decide to take two hours to just be alone together. Because of who we are and what’s been going on and how we use sex to form emotional bonds, we decided to do a CBT scene.
I used the ball wrap that Harold made to tie his balls. I attached the chain to some rope, ran it down to the floor, through an eyebolt, and over to another tie point. I made it tight enough that Harold had to bend his knees and any straightening would pull his balls further. That kind of thing makes me happy. I put on vibrating nipple clamps. Then I smeared his scrotum with muscle rub. I’ve wanted to do that for soooo long. It evidently burns. A lot. That also makes me happy. Maybe I’m a sadist after all.
At this point Harold was in a very receptive state. We started to find that place where we get under each other’s skins. We were both very turned on. He opened up and offered himself to me. I wanted to take him. What we don’t talk about but lingers under the surface is that he wants to prove that he is not like the men in my life who have hurt me. Underneath, I am hurt and angry and I want to be in control. I want to strike out. Of course, I would never do CBT from a place of anger and Harold has nothing to prove. I still felt the undercurrents in this scene.
I started using the lightweight ball tapper on Harold’s burning balls – just very light taps, over and over. It made a surprisingly big impact. He was writhing, which pulled on his balls more. I made him ask me to hit him harder. It pleases us both when he has to plead or make a deal in order for me to increase the intensity. I think it adds to the nobility of his sacrifice that he will knowingly and willingly take pain for and from me. I get so wet at those moments. I want to drive him harder and further, turn him on more. I want him to want the things that he’d never otherwise want, and I want him to do it for me. We do this because we love each other.
I hit his balls harder and harder, watching his face, meeting his eyes, holding him firmly in my love. There is a point in here where I just feel him surrender. He is just totally mine in that moment. He opens up and gives himself over to me. Nothing changes on the outside, but I feel it. It really turns me on. I very nearly orgasmed. Then I decided that coming was a fabulous idea.
I lay down on the bed facing Harold and spread my legs. He was securely bound, hands and balls, and couldn’t move while I got myself off with a vibrator. He’s said since that it was a beautiful sight. He doesn’t normally observe from a distance. I loved giving in to my desires while he watched helplessly.
Much relieved by my orgasm, I freed Harold and had him lie down on the bed. I wanted to take his come. The stretch of his scrotum being tied had made it difficult for him to be very erect. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to fuck him with the muscle rub all over his balls. I just wanted his jizm. So I stuck my fingers in his asshole and rubbed his prostate. It’s actually a lot like having sex with a girl – same motions exactly. I used my other hand to squeeze Harold’s cock and come oozed out. It’s very satisfying. It feels subversive. I can take a boy’s come without giving him an orgasm. It’s fucking awesome. It’s my new favorite thing. And Harold’s still incredibly horny afterward, but without the ability to orgasm for a while. I enjoy the thought of him wanting me for days. I like taking him like that.
Prostate milking really is my new favorite thing! At least until I try out something else.
You know how after a really kinky sex scene you kind of take stock of your body and think about all the wild stuff you did with a feeling of awe and mild disbelief? And then the next morning you take stock again only to notice that you have weird stuff in your hair and bruises in places you hadn’t noticed? Yep, that’s how I’m feeling this morning, the day after surgery.
Yesterday I had a tubal ligation and had my IUD removed.
I was feeling dubious when we left the house – per instruction: well washed, no conditioner or hair product, no make-up, no contact lenses, no food for many hours, no jewelry. Okay, I fudged on that last one. I removed everything but the nipple piercings and the nose ring. I had a reader educate me on why the jewelry needs to come out (wearing metal jewelry can possibly lead to burns from an electrocautery unit and/or there can be bacteria under or around jewelry), but I still wasn’t willing to have my nipples close up. So, I damped down my panic and we drove to the hospital, even though I was pretty sure I was going to die.
Good thing the hospital knows their stuff. Things went smoothly every step of the way. My fears that I would be treated as a thing rather than a person were unfounded. The staff was very respectful. I was amused that Harold was consistently referred to as my “significant other” until I mentioned that I had 5 children and then he was my husband. I kept saying partner.
The jewelry wasn’t a problem. I just covered it with paper tape. Sure, that meant that I had tape up my nose, but it was worth it. Harold wore some tape on his face in a show of solidarity.
My doctor is awesome. She reminds me of Helen Mirren – professional, competent, intelligent, sexy, and with a sense of humor. She is very caring as well (not to be taken for granted in a doctor!). I have been very upfront about my anxieties and where they come from and she has never missed an opportunity to pat my arm in a comforting manner. I am impressed by health care providers who aren’t afraid to make physical contact with their patients. To continue casting my tubal ligation movie, my anesthesiologist would be George Takei. Evidently good drugs cause me to become a director.
This procedure was different from anything I’ve done in the past in that I walked into the surgery room all on my own and helped them get me situated. My doctor waited with a toasty warm blanket. They put cuff-like things on my legs to help the blood circulate while I was under. They put the arm with the IV out to one side. Obviously under the influence of George Takei’s happy juice (yes, he called it that) I thought, “I’m like Jesus.” I stared up at the ceiling dimly aware of all of the bustle around me. As the mouth piece for the gas was coming toward me I was thinking, “This is a really kinky scene for a grrrl with a medical fetish.”
I woke up somewhere else. Everything was fuzzy because I didn’t have my glasses. I actually woke up badly, coming up out of a nightmare and finding myself someplace unexpected. I started shaking hard. A nurse came and put something in my IV for anxiety, put stuff on my lips, and brought more warm blankets. As far as I’m concerned, warm blankets are the single redeeming feature of hospitals. I want an unending supply of warm blankets in my home.
From there I went to final recovery. My throat hurt worse from intubation than my abdomen did from the surgery. They brought me apple sauce and tons of juice, which I devoured, diet be damned. The nurse there was a solid type with a hickey on her neck and she told me that I looked really good, even if I didn’t lose any more weight. I’m flattered. They gave me sexy tear-away boy shorts to wear home, even though I brought my version of granny panties – full bottomed red underwear with a fishnet pattern. I’ll make an awesome granny some day.
And then I was done. They carted me out to Harold waiting with the car. Of course it was rush hour by then, so I convinced him to feed me at a nearby Ethiopian restaurant, which I thought was better than starving while stuck in traffic.
The down side is that I’m 5 pounds heavier this morning. I’m going to blame being pumped full of fluids and gas and assume that it will work itself out. It’s been weird assessing my body for damage and finding random forgotten probes stuck under my breast and such. My belly button is gory looking, all bruised lovely colors and bleeding a bit still.
My discharge paperwork says no sex for 1 week. The nurse crossed it off and said 2 weeks. She seemed to assume that I would be grateful. Like I wouldn’t feel like having sex ever again. I didn’t have the heart to try to explain that I masturbated in the shower just before going to the hospital because it calms me down and makes me feel good. I like sex. I’m going to be having sex a whole lot sooner than 2 weeks from now. And not all sex is penetrative anyway.
Now I’m lying out nude in the sun, relaxing. I’m not very good at it, the relaxing. I’ve some brought stuff to do. The pain meds do help me take it easy. I’m just thankful that everything went so well. I have survived surgery and now have more fuel for my medical fantasies!
My date with Harold was a fuck fest. I like it when we get in that mood, pushing each other’s boundaries in such nice ways. This time it was fisting, both anal and vaginal, along with some prostate milking and rough sex. Oh yeah, and I really put the “cock” in cock and ball torture. Ah, good times…
I’ve been very emotional and anxious lately, leaving me feeling isolated. It takes something more to cut through my walls. Edge play, like what we just did, is a fucking can opener – opens me up so I can feel the love again. Of course my sexual boundaries are a moving target, but so far I haven’t run out of things to explore.
I’d had every intention of fucking Harold with my strap-on. I love our anal play. I adore feeling like a boi with my hard cock. Fucking like that is exquisite. I can feel his cunt. He can feel me spurt inside him when I come. Strap-on sex is an amazingly wonderful thing. But we didn’t do that. It never seemed like the right thing.
I did get most of my hand in Harold’s ass though. I wanted to stimulate his prostate. We’ve done some of that before, but Harold wanted to take me on a tour and I’m eternally curious. I took off my rings and lubed up. I inserted one finger and curved it toward his cock, slowly stroking a spot that feels a little different. That had good effect so I added another finger. At the same time I began to stroke his cock. Jism started to ooze out. It was really amazing – ejaculation without orgasm. I gather that it feels good. I totally felt powerful, like I was stealing his come. After I had gotten it all, I put the rest of my fingers into his ass. I got thumb and fingers in up to the knuckles before we hit the place where he would start tearing. Harold needs to do more stretching. I think I would like to actually get my whole hand inside of him.
I wanted to rub Harold’s back after that. We didn’t have any oil of lotion, so I used lube. Because I happened to use my whole body during parts of the massage, we both ended up covered in lube. We were in the cabin with a hot fire burning so soon we were covered in lube and drenched in sweat. I lost about 2 pounds in a single day!
The massage led to Harold going down on me. Always beautiful and wonderful! He’s perfected this way of licking my clitoris while putting two fingers inside my cunt and pressing against my g-spot. Sometimes he’ll take his other hand and pinch a nipple. It makes me orgasm instantly almost every time. This time, after I came, he slathered a ton of lube all over his hand and started inserting more fingers. I used a vibrator on my clit and every time I came he pushed his hand further in. Harold has long hands. He managed to get his hand in nearly to the wrist! It’s a very weird feeling, being so full. It’s not entirely pleasant, but it’s super erotic and intense. I came hard when he took his hand out.
Then Harold was in a mood to be pushed past his comfort zone. He very nicely asked for cock attention, so I started sucking. I tied up his balls and gave them attention as well. When he was begging, I started slapping his cock pretty hard. I left blood blisters. Harold doesn’t normally like me to do anything painful to his cock, but this seemed to be what he needed because he asked for something more. I used a flogger on his inner thighs, cock, and balls – stopping only when his scrotum started to bleed. It sounds intense (and it was) but the whole thing was done in a context of love and connection to each other. It’s a gift that we give each other.
After all of that, we fucked like crazy, in a variety of positions. By then we were drenched in sweat and sticky everywhere with lube, but we had managed to strip away all of the built up crap and difficulties and simply be intimate together. It’s incredible to just fuck without thinking about anything but the moment. It can be so hard for me to let go. Sometimes rough sex is the key that opens all of those doors to let me soar. Sometimes sex really does make it all better.
I’m in the air over Oregon and feeling lost. This week has been rough as far as dealing with memories of childhood sex abuse. I feel raw. I just plain hurt. I’m breaking apart. If ever I needed to be topped and taken, it’s now.
That might seem like an odd urge, to cope with abuse with pain and submission, so let me walk it through. The emotional pain I feel right now is stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat. I need someone I trust to gather me up and let me break. Hurt me so I can let it all out – scream, cry, hate, love…
It’s complicated. I need someone else to take charge so I can let it go. I need sensation so I can remember how to feel. But I can’t just be broken down. I must be put back together, better than before. I want approval – be a good little sex slave, please my master. It’s important.
A part of me is appalled at how I long to give myself over. I’m afraid I’m selling myself out. I’m struggling to free myself of abuse. Why look for more? I’m not talking about abuse though. I want a loving exchange, a sacrifice of my pain. I need to be cleansed, by fire and sword, sweat and tears. I hurt, but I can’t cry. Make me cry out.
I want a beating. Blood, bruises, welts, and scratches will free me. Then love me Fold me in your arms. Rock me while the tears flow. Take my sacrifice of pain. In it’s wake I will feel clean and new. Whole again.
I’ve been lying in bed, wedged uncomfortably between the dog and the baby and thinking about how being a wife and a mother is eroding my feminist ideals. It’s complicated, this process of personal empowerment. How do I get everything I need and still fulfill my role as caregiver and nurturer for my family? Surely I can be a powerful and sexually fulfilled woman while embracing my inner domestic goddess. I’m still practicing that balance.
Years ago I learned to “endure nothing” from a group of woman exploring sacred sexuality. It was a brilliant concept for me because I came from a background of abuse. It meant I could say no. My body belonged to me and I was not to endure anything I didn’t like, even for a second. Amazing. Endure nothing. That meant that I should stop any activity that made me the slightest bit uneasy.
It turns out that enduring nothing isn’t so easy. I had to learn how to say no. Luckily I had some help from Harold and Melanie and some other fabulous people at a workshop 10 years ago. It takes some skill and practice to say no in a way that is firm and empowered, yet non-confrontational and considerate. Take it a step further and you can ask for what you do want. I actually got pretty good at it! But since then I’ve gone from enduring nothing to enduring sometimes because that is what needs to happen.
Like the discomfort of being awkwardly pinned between the dog and the baby. The dog is built like a fucking brick. I can’t move her easily. I could kick her off of the bed, but I want her here. The baby wakes up when I try to move so I’m waiting, somewhat painfully, for her to be more deeply asleep. I willingly endure for my children. My son bit my nipple while breast feeding when he was 9 months old. I endured excruciating pain every 3 hours or so while the wound opened every time he sucked until it healed 5 days later – but he breast fed until he was two!
Enduring starts to take on new meaning. I needed to be able to say no to anything initially in order to grasp the concept, but now I find that, like everything else, I am required to bring my brain along, be personally responsible. Yes, I want to act on situations where I’m starting to think that I really dislike something, but then there’s miles of grey area. What if the whole point is to be in a space where I dislike something?
Last night, Joel and I were messing around. He’s a sadist and gets off on inflicting pain, but I am not generally a masochist. I need to be pretty turned on before pain feels good. But I like to struggle, so we end up tussling a bit. He got me pinned face down with my arms pulled up behind me in the middle of my back. It was definitely not pleasant but I was having fun. If I had gotten scared or started to not want it any more I would have said something and Joel would have stopped utterly. I know because we’ve tried it a few times. So is this enduring?
How about when Joel held me pinned with one hand and the other hand tried to stroke my clitoris, but missed entirely? Should I have stopped him and pointed out where he ought to be? Maybe, but I was busy struggling so I was a moving target. I was annoyed that he wasn’t getting it, but I didn’t want to spoil the mood in order to get the clitoral stimulation. I knew that we would get around to it in earnest when I wasn’t bucking around. Is this enduring?
Then after we fucked, when I decided I wanted an orgasm and couldn’t make the vibrator work and wanted Joel to stick his fingers inside me and get off his fucking iphone – yep, I thought that was not a time to endure. I asked for what I wanted and got it right away, including the orgasm. I realized after that if I hadn’t asked I would have been resentful.
I think that’s my deciding factor of “endure nothing”. If I do nothing to change this situation, will I feel resentful later? If the answer is yes, then I must act. If the answer is no, well… I guess I’ll let sleeping dogs lie.
Sometimes sex can be therapeutic. Today I used a long-time fantasy to help myself work through some childhood trauma. I understand that the resulting images may be difficult for some people – if blood freaks you out please close your browser window now. We used a lot of stage blood and dirt and sweat and ashes to make me a dirty, dirty girl. A girl who is pissed as hell and gonna kick your ass as soon as she gets out of those chains! It was a weird trip today, but I think it helped…
Full of fear
Filled with hate
Only violence is forever
Beauty is a fragile, fleeting thing
A brief respite…
Love is a pastime
Trust is a game
Family is a farce
Anything can be broken
Promises are pointless
Words are empty
Faith is temporary
Rage is survival
Blood is reality
Only violence is forever
-Evoë (1991), age 18
