Perfected :: Her Body :: Greek Necessity :: Deep Throats :: Scrolls

Don't wanna break these chains. I want to love you but I’d better not touch. I want to hold you but my senses tell me to stop. I want to kiss you but I want it too much. I want to taste you but your lips are venomous poison. - Alice Cooper The three day visit from my favourite living dead girl culminated in a post-shift-at-pub trip to Opium, were we bounced and gyrated happily to the strains of Alice Cooper, Madness and (I am ashamed to admit it) Slipknot. I defy anyone to criticise my love of Marilyn Manson’s new single, which was the soundtrack to my enthusiastic air-punching and boinging around on the dancefloor like a lunatic. ‘Be obscene’ indeed…My hysteria reached new levels when Alice Cooper started rocking out the first few chords of ‘Poison’. Black lace on sweat, wanting some(one)thing you shouldn’t…I haven’t heard that song in *years*. It’s still my anthem, even though I appear to have graduated to wanting some(one)thing I might just be able to get…Opium is a classier joint than mine and Lucia’s usual hangout. The Krazy House was a dive, its walls dripping with sweat and certain other bodily fluids. Still flinging my jean and t-shirt clad body around next to the pretty, shiny little girls in their tight black tops and ripped fishnets reminded me of how far I’d come. I was one of them once, underage or barely legal (and how many hits will I get after *that* sentence, I wonder…), making an effort for the bouncers. Now I waved my passport at the man on the door, who resolutely refused to believe I was the girl in the picture. Admittedly I’m not 15 anymore. My hair has grown out of the short black crop into long red curls currently shoved into pigtails sticking out on either side of my head. I was wearing lipstick rather than Carmex back in the days when I actually *cared* about my appearance. In the end, my matriculation card, railcard and bank-card persuaded the bouncer that even if I wasn’t who I said I was, I’d stolen enough of her identity to make believe for a while. So it was ice water and a smoke-filled bar at 2 am, while my tired body boogied around Edinburgh’s premier rock venue. Just like old times, if this were Liverpool and scuzzier. Wandering home, surprisingly un-gin soaked for one of my nights out, dawn was breaking as a curious American accent inquired politely: “What do you girls think of peanut butter and bananas?” Since I am quite the addict, we struck up a conversation. Keith was American, Random Canadian Guy whose name we never quite got was Canadian. He shall henceforth be known as R.C.G. Transfer students inevitably, pretty in that pity-you-posses-a-Y-chromosome kind of way, they bought us donuts from the 24 hour shop on the way home. They live around the corner from us and since they offered coffee and peanut butter & banana sandwiches when all we have in our kitchen is festering milk, it was decided to accept their invitation. Watching the sun rise above Arthur’s Seat from the roof below their window, we shared stories. I gave my practised growing-up-gay-and-Wiccan-in-a-Convent-school spiel to R.C.G, he referenced “a few major traumas” but didn’t elaborate. It is, of course, entirely plausible that they were just looking to get laid. They asked if we wanted to *come back for coffee* - the international term for “Hey, come back to mine and we can have hot monkey sex until three weeks from now.” That said they didn’t put the moves on either of us, possibly because I mentioned my girl, and Lucia was sullen and disinterested and talking absolute shite. Now it’s undeniably daytime, Deanna the Laptop (she looks pretty but doesn’t do anything useful. It’s a Trek thing) claims it’s 04:25, my watch says it’s ten minutes later. Either way, the Janeway-esque quantities of instant coffee I consumed at Keith and R.C.G’s flat will keep me up for a good long while. All of tonight’s mini-dramas – Lucia and I singing the Goblin Song very loudly in front of my boss as we cleared up, flashbacks to being 17 and silly, random encounters with random guys, all served to temporarily distract me from the fact that I am in Edinburgh and she is not. Seasoned followers of the madness that is Lady Vivien will accept that at least she’s on the same *continent*, so I am improving. I nearly typed ‘country’ until I realised that the Scots among us would hunt me down and kill me. Sweet messages sent during the fallow periods of my shift nearly finished me off, and July seems further away than ever. Someone give me a good reason not to hop on a train to London right this minute… ______________________________ we have come so far :: it is over

Accomplishment :: The Moon :: Toga :: Night Flower