Vicess - Princess of Vice

I state for the record now, as I have never made any blatant reference to my teenage drug abuse in previous posts, that I am in now way proud or condoning of what happened to me or the mistakes that I made.

Cole was the first of us to see past the excitement and drama of drugs, and she stated, "I want out before it's too late".

She had sparse communication with her alcoholic mother, but during one of their very sporadic phonce conversations, her mum had advised her: "Right now it's a habit, don't let it become an addiction."

So Cole had taken her own methods to kicking drugs. She stayed up late, researching different ideas and tips of ex-junkies, and had written a list of step-by-step instructions for herself. The first step was the eradication of temptation.

I, and others like me, were seductresses of a class A nature, and we were the first to be quickly shut out of Cole's life. It had been a tear-filled, sob session as Cole had informed me that she "wouldn't be seeing me for a while". But she vowed that when she was stronger, or when I was "better", we would see eachother again.

Two nights later, I find myself at Dom's house party, smoking bag after bag and snorting line after line, sadly reminiscing and staring at an empty chair (which had no particular relevance to Cole), imagining that she was still with me. But eventually, the empty chair was blurred and then it was out of sight, as I lay on my back slowly drifting in and out of existence, listening only to the horrified noises of my more sober friends, "Call her mum", "Call an ambulance", "Call Cole"...

I felt Cole's gentle hands lift me from the floor, and I can remember little else after that, although I know that I eventually ended up in her bed, vomitting and blacking out, in an almost comatose state for two days.

When I finally awoke, Cole was crouched at the side of the bed, a deep sadness in her eyes that informed me (without words) that she was back. She had been weak, most likely for fear of my death.

Unfortunately, I had little time to console her, as I felt an aching migraine burn and suffocate my brain, and needed air of only the freshest quality. The nearby hills, though we referred to them as mountains, was where I headed. And when I returned, I never did remember to apologise to Cole for sending her back over the edge.

When I travel to foreign countries, I promise to myself that I will view all that there is to view, I will spot all that there is to spot, and I will ask all that there is to ask. I prepare myself like an obsessive traveller, purchasing expensive beginners guides to the native language, or tourist guides to the cultural hubs of the country. Yet, when I visited Holland I did no such thing, for I suspected I would be without urge to see anything beyond the walls of Drizzle's home, and indeed I was correct.

Drizzle booked only one day's holiday for the duration of my stay, though this didn't halt my captivity. I could have requested the freedom to wander in my regular manner around the Dutch towns, as I had only visited Amsterdam once as a younger teenager, accompanied by a couple of friends, and had seen little past the art galeries and Anne Frank museum. I longed to peruse through the shops, and stroll through the evening X-rated streets of sexy clubs and bars.

But I was happy to accept the destiny that Drizzle had determined for me.

It was a particular evening that I look back upon and feel that burning excitement in the pit of my stomach.

Drizzle had a work's party with friends, and opted not to invite me, instead leaving me at home, alone. I was left, handcuffed to the radiator, nude and alone. Still buzzing and stinging from the demoralisation that had occurred before she had begun preparing for the evening ahead, I was left in almost darkness with nothing but a dimly lit lamp to allow me to see the photographs laid out around me. Drizzle, donning sexy dominatrix latex and fishnets, various poses exposing her toned and tanned body. My lower lips clipped open with laundry pegs and a vibrator pushed inside me, whirring away.

When she returned at midnight, she was intoxicated and smelled faintly of cannabis. She undressed before me, telling me about her evening, not asking how I had been. She asked if I would like to be uncuffed, to which I simply smiled. She said, "Don't be so rude, I was offering to do you a favour," before grapping the whip from the bedside table and lashing me four times across my right hip.

Whipping her pants aside, she thrust her pelvis into my face, demanding I pleasure her orally - the vibrator still whirring inside me. I happily obliged, appreciating the juices after a long evening of dehydration. After several ecstasy-filled minutes, she pulled away, crouching beside me and playing with the end of the vibrator, making it adjust positions within me and reaching spots it had been unable to reach all evening. The sensations that had become almost numb suddenly gained new life, and it was all I could do not to moan.

She did this for only a few moments, before stopping abruptly and harshly ripping it out. She thrust it into my mouth, demanding: "Lick it clean" to which I did with pleasure, as my own taste pleases me.

She asked if I would like to be uncuffed. I was hungry by this point, following my four or five hour stint attached to the radiator, and fancied my freedom, so I pitifully nodded. She giggled slightly, reaching to uncuff me, before suddenly slapping my face brutally. "Tough luck," she smirked, before pulling on her lilac silken dressing gown and bending in to kiss me erotically.

Flicking the switch on the light, I saw her silouhette moving gracefully across the room, climbing onto the bed and pulling the cover over herself. The hunger beginning to ache inside me and desperate sickness causing my chest to throb, I rested my head against the wall. Within minutes her breathe had deepened and she was asleep, and my only thoughts were that I didn't care if she didn't uncuff me in the morning.

I was thrilled to be suffering in such a manner to the point that I didn't need to see the photographs, or to feel the vibrator inside me, I was orgasmic enough - just from the memories of the hours before - to thoroughly enjoy the entire evening of sleep deprivation.

I started playing World of Warcraft when I was a few months away from my eighteenth birthday. I enjoy the social elements more than the rest, and the roleplay. It allowed me to make friends, new points of contact.

There were two girls, both night-elves, a priest and a hunter. We made a channel for the three of us to talk.

They were both open lesbians, though Drizzle (the priest) was less so than Nedula (the hunter). Drizzle had been in previous straight relationships, and retained a strong element of feminity. They differed in weight, hair length and beauty. But overall, their personalities were strong opposed. Drizzle was sweet, polite and friendly. Nedula was blunt, outgoing and sensitive.

I found myself drawing a strong attraction to Drizzle, and found myself admitting my innermost sexual desires to her. It wasn't much at the time, although I had by this point recognized the fetish inside of me, and was well aware of my need to submit to another. I told her of my submissive desires, and she confided her dominatrix habits. I fell.

A month later, Drizzle planned a visit to the UK from her Holland home. She asked if, during the second week in the UK, she could make a stop at my home for a few evenings. I considered, pondered and contemplated for days before telling her that I would have to decline. I had imagined the moment that we would meet many times, and decided it inappropriate to meet on my territory. Much for the atmosphere of control, I felt I needed to be on her territory.

When her trip to the UK was over, she purchased an plane ticket for me. She didn't tell me until she had already purchased it, but she knew me well enough by this point to be aware that I had no home commitments to attend to. She sent me the email, with the confirmation of the booking. A message:

"You will catch this plane. I will see you when you arrive."

When I arrived in Holland, I was met by a stern-faced Drizzle. She took me by the arm and nodded, without saying a word. Before leaving the airport, she took me to the girl's toilets, pushed me into a cubile and handed me a package, before closing the door behind her. I tore it open in anticipation, to find Chinese packaging - a chastity belt.

I equipped it uncomfortably, extremely aroused. She knocked on the door, asked if I was done. Yes, I replied. I opened the toilet door, she stepped inside. Clasped on a padlock, locked it with the key.

"Until you leave for the UK, you are my property," she smirked, before gently brushing her lips against mine.

I gazed at her with adoration. I knew this was the beginning of an amazing holiday.

Even though I don't believe Dom and I ever loved eachother in a romantic sense, it was definitely "true" love. I was so connected with him, and there was a bond of years between us. We had bought our first bikes together, we had been to our first swimming team together, we had even been in the same Boys' Scouts platoon. We knew everything that there was to know about eachother, and even though separation was difficult when he was accepted to one school and I another, we had quickly adjusted our journeys to involve meeting - even briefly - every morning and afternoon.

I often dream about him, asking me to go back to him. It has been hard for me over the last couple of years, to accept that he is no longer in my life, and this has been evident in my dream life.

I often dream about Kay too, the girl that he eventually ended up with. I dream that they are still together, walking hand-in-hand in town, before Dom spots me. He comes to me and we spend a dream together, doing dream-styled things that aren't really possible, fading in from one location to the next and talking in a disjointed manner about peculiar things. Towards the end of the dream, it is evident that he regrets being without me, and I am drawn to him once more, ashamed that it should make me so content that he wants me again. Dom tells me he wants me back, and I am happy.

They aren't nightmares, but I do wake up with a lingering feeling of misplaced excitement, pining for a dream boy that isn't there anymore.

So, I spent further hours thinking about the book today, whilst I lay in bed attempting to recover from the soul-destroying virus that's seen me lying around in discomfort all week.

Jamie was a prostitute, though she never used the word and would spurt a mouthful of angry obscenities just at the implication. The fact was that she had traded sex for money (or drugs) on numerous occasions, but only with men that she already knew. Tony was the first man to offer - her dealer - that she could give him oral in exchange for a large dose of brown powder. And she, as by far the most addicted of the group, couldn't decline such an offer, and took it up frequently afterwards. He wasn't the only dealer that she had, and he also wasn't the only dealer that she made these trades with, yet because she wasn't part of an agency, and she didn't have a business card posted in a London phone box, she considered herself purer than pure. She was not a prostitute. She had just had sex with a few guys for money.

And I know that she felt demoralised afterwards, even though she would claim that she would have fucked them for free, because her personality started to change. She was more volatile than before, and she would find herself bursting into explosive rages at more opportunities than ever. What used to be a fairly bad temper became a problem for all of us, something that we would have to avoid seeing her because of, something that would make us fear for her own baby son's life during numerous uncomfortable evening discussions.

I tend to believe that, in trading what is deemed such a sacred act of self-worth with other men, she abandoned the only shred of her own personality that kept her sane. She lost her sense of identity. She was anybody's girl, so long as they would trade for the right price, although this was on numerous occasions (as far as Tony was concerned) just one hit. That was enough to see her on her knees, dealing pleasure to a man that was slowly killing her by feeding her addiction for "free".

She and Owen were in a long-term, committed relationship, but even that couldn't survive this new development in events. Owen was naturally jealous by nature, and his protective personality was perhaps the only thing that kept him with the tempestuous Jamie in the first place. He didn't mind that she was on heroin because he had the job, he was paying the wages and it was his cheque that was funding her addiction. She would never jeopardize such a fortunate opportunity, or so he thought. When she started to sleep around to get drugs after he lost his job, his alcoholic demons fought back with a vengeance, as did his anger issues that he had so carefully supressed after months of stress management support meetings. The two of them would display cuts and bruises of broken ashtrays, splintered wooden chairs and sovereign-clad fists, that told of a depressingly dismal tale of two lovers that had lost their only connection.

I sometimes cry at the thought of their son, lying in his cot at night as his parents slowly slaughter eachother.

I've been suffering the flu virus that my mum proclaimed was "doing it's rounds". Feverish, fatigued and fleghmy. I moved from my regular sleeping place on the settee and slept in the bedroom, as the bedroom has an almost worldwide reputation for being colder than a January morning, and my settee is located in the living room - warm enough to be located at the earth's core.

My living room is a hub for electrical heat. Upon the various essentials of modern life (TV, DVD player, Xbox, Freeview Satellite box), Jack and I also have three computers in that tiny room. My computer, fairly new and hijacked from Jack as a gift for letting him live here rent free. Jack's computer, a.k.a my old computer, a computer with an old-fashioned box monitor and slow processing system. Our guest computer, a.k.a Jack's really old computer, that we let guests play on when they come over. On the very odd occasion that they do.

Being ill meant lying on my own in the bedroom while Jack played online poker with the hopes of winning us some money to be able to buy things when I'm well enough. He won £50 the other day, but we spent it very quickly, I produced him with a list of essential items that I would need to recover - and one of these items was a new book.

Jack, against my better judgements, opted to buy me "Belle De Jour", the book about a prostitute in London. "The intimate adventures of a London call girl, a new major TV series starring Billie Piper". I didn't think that I would enjoy it, and it did lack a plot or story which would be expected as, as far as I'm aware, it didn't ever intend to. Is it not just a collection on blogs, compiled into a book? Some would argue that the narration and "twists and turns" would mean this book was never intended to remain as a blog. Nonetheless, I finished that book, and I wasn't overly impressed, although I enjoyed the writing style and the lifestyle that it portrayed.

It's not that I enjoy the lifestyle, I just enjoy the concept of seeing other lifestyles in a realistic manner. I always have loved watching other people. I do it more than anything else.

On Sunday, whilst at Jack's house, amongst many thoughts, there was one that suddenly struck me. It's not an original thought, and it certainly wasn't the first time that I had thought it, but I came to beg the question once more: "Who invented privacy, reservation, embarassment?" Particularly around the subject of sex.

I thought of how sex was a natural part of animal life, and we as animals are entitled, if not obligated for survival, to do it. And I thought of who it was that first demanded sex to be hidden, kept behind doors (or cave walls).

Wanting sex could, in some ways, be compared to wanting to sneeze (especially for a man). He grows erect, and has the inner urge to release some energy and some sperm, much like a fly buzzed into his nostril, he would have the inner urge to release some snot, to remove the fly. Something so natural as to want to achieve an orgasm... It seems odd that somewhere in time, a person decided to make it embarassing and secretive.

So, if at Jack's house on Sunday, he had grown the urge to ejaculate, why would it be so bad for me - in front of his family - to pull his trousers down and help him out? Apart from the fact that thousands of years of social boundaries and rules have prevented it from being possible? Why is sex in front of other people so frowned upon? Would you be genuinely upset at seeing a naked couple having sex if you had never been made to feel that it was socially unacceptable?

The only reason that I don't do any of these things is that it is socially unacceptable. I don't like to hurt other people. But it's a shame that it is so socially unacceptable, because perfect moments in life are missed because we forced such smothering rules on eachother to act in certain ways.

Imagine a life where you could happily masturbate in your office, surrounded by coworkers. Seems ridiculous, doesn't it? But it would only be the same as happily scratching an itch on your neck in front of your coworkers, if it weren't for the social laws and guidelines. Imagine a life where we hadn't been trained to find eachother's bodies offensive, where we could have communal toilets that didn't require cubicles - us all sitting and chatting as we relieve ourselves during lunch breaks at school and work.

The list of possibilities, if we could just shed this one hang-up, would be incredible.

Dom said he didn't like girls that swore, which contented me, as Jamie was a serial swearer, chanting her effs and sugars like a menopausal dinner lady. Jamie had an unnatural affection for Dom, though I could detect no chemistry and knew that she saw him as "a good lad" and nothing more. So when he spent evenings at her house, looking after baby TJ and watching soap operas, I believed him when he told me that there was no sexual contact.

Sex can only occur between two of the same species, and although Jamie was very much and definitely human, Dom was purely angelic - he just had invisible wings.

I swallowed my agoraphobia for the journey to Jack's house. We were summoned for lunch, although it was a remarkably late lunch and would fit more comfortably into the "dinner" category, as far as meal times go. Jack's parents have just returned from a relaxation breakaway, and were particularly pleased with how I empathised with his mother over her anxiety in regards to the safety and cleanliness of the empty house. They invited us for an honourary meal, as gratitude for my warmth.

At the meal was a guest of honour, as usual, in the form of Jack's grandmother. A spectacular woman, who is an inspiration to me in her optimism and uniqueness. Quirky, eccentric and full of stories of days gone by, she has just been awarded a prestigious war medal for her work as a factory girl during the second world war. She is always full of interesting stories, ranging from but not limited to romances, drama and epic revelations.

She's saucy, even in her age of wisdom and patience, and adores attention and controversy. She rants wildly about her interest in the use of cannabis, against her daughter's wishes due to a lingering chest infection. She makes lude and inappropriate jokes that can only be met with affectionate enjoyment and tickled funny bones.

Upon leaving the home, preparing for the more crippling, fearful journey to the hospital to visit my own grandma, I desperately begged for ideas to consume my thoughts - avoidance of the reality of my day was all that could keep me sane.

I have spent years of my life just searching within the depths of my own mind for a story, one which I can create in a fictional manner and nurture and expand with all of my heart and interest.

Yet, I found myself considering the potential excitement of documenting a true story - the story of a life time that has been so respected and wonderful that it has deserved such an honourable award, a life time that has seen such important moments in history, and most of all, a life time that has created the man that I love to stare at.

Even if it's just the back of his head as he shoots cartoon men in his own epic battles in computer games.

I affectionately named Maria's sister Corkscrew. There was no real reason for this name change, besides my own forced eccentricity and a desire to have a connection with her. Corkscrew's name was Spanish, but it wasn't impossible for me to recall or pronounce. She had curly black hair and the biggest, most beautiful eyes. But she was young, and desperately ill, so her romantically olive skin had faded to a sickly yellow, and there was a knowledge and wisdom in her eyes that haunts me even now.

Corkscrew carried the same need for spirituality that Maria did, and she would stay up late at night, teaching me how to use regular playing cards to read the fortunes of my life. Four children, three girls and one boy.

"One of your daughters will be a dark horse," she sighed, a serious tone in her voice. "But you will all be very rich. You will meet a handsome man and he will look after you."

"A tall dark stranger?" I smirked, rolling my eyes at the cliched game.

"Perhaps," Corkscrew laughed, faintly. "But I wouldn't be able to say. You can't read too far into a Jack of Diamonds."

I took the cards from her hands, preparing to deal them out on the hospital bed. "Let's read your future," I suggested, shuffling the deck.

"No!"

She almost yelped as she grasped quickly at my hands to prevent me from shuffling further. I eyed her momentarily, seeing fear in her eyes that shocked and offended me.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just... I want a perfect future. I want a man that loves me and children that we love even more."

She was afraid of dying, which was sad as she definitely would. There's little that you can say to a terminally ill patient, aware of her destiny and unable to prevent it, to stop her from regretting the experiences she would never have. All I could do was hug her as she tried desperately not to cry in front of me.

When she was asleep and the only light was creeping through a small gap of the hospital window, one sharp beam landing directly on my own bed covers, I shuffled the card and dealt her fate.

Corkscrew, a queen of clubs, full of integrity, wealth and happiness. A feisty and organised nature. A man, her future husband, the kings of hearts. Suitably contrasted to Corkscrew's personality to guarantee a lifelong, permanent relationship that would never end. The king of hearts, the heart representing his loving nature and the king displaying his noble and calm approach to life. Two children, a boy, the 9 of clubs. All of Corkscrew's genes inherited, a child that she would dote on and who would share a unique bond with her. A daughter, the seven of hearts, two years younger than her brother. A daddy's girl, but the apple of both of her parents' eyes. Caring, beautiful and special. Seven being the middle number, a highly prestigious number.

Although Corkscrew passed some time later, I don't feel sad for the experiences on earth that she would never have. Her mind is at rest, her problems are gone, and if Maria and Corkscrew's beliefs of spirituality are accurate, then I imagine Corkscrew out there, in another realm, living happily in a heaven of family life and futures.

Dom was avid about his football practice when we first started seeing eachother. He, like every other healthy young teenager, believed that he was going to be a professional superstar one day, booting balls for Manchester United, scouted for the national England team. He would almost jump excitedly from his single bed on Saturday mornings, filled with macho anticipation as he donned his bent and worn shinpads and bright white football socks.

His hair was long for a boy of his age, ear length, and dark brown. It flopped over his face in a flattering manner, and bounced as he ran across the green football pitch, signalling to his teammates and looking to me for approval when he tackled successfully, or achieved the feat of passing the ball to the short boy that stood near to the opposition's goalkeeper, awaiting the right to score a goal. And when they did score a goal, Dom would run around - almost in a circle - his shirt pulled over his head as he rejoiced with a manly roar of victory.

I thought Dom was the epitome of rugged masculinity as a teenager. Almost two years older than me, his jawline was more refined and his shoulders more broad than the boys that I shared classes with at school. He played football and he was the lead guitarist in an untalented rock band, so all of the girls in my class were jealous when he would come and meet me outside the gates of our school.

Anicka, the girl I sat beside in Biology and attempted to ignore, once described him as "sex on legs". She and all of the other hormonal girls often quizzed whether we had "done it" yet.

To me, he was untouchable in his perfection.

The eighth of the eighth, oh-eight.

I was woken up at eight o'clock this morning by Maria, who feels it's still appropriate to present me with spiritual guidance after almost a year of no face-to-face contact.

"I will tell you how you can make this day good," she said, her thick Spanish accent still filling her words with mystery and beauty. "This is a lucky day, as long as you do exactly what I say: you do everything eight times."

"What about when I go to the toilet?" I asked, laughing at the idea. I barely went to the toilet more than four times throughout the day, let alone eight times at once.

She pondered for a moment, seriously considering the idea. "You open and close the flow eight times."

It amazes me that, even after moving miles and miles away to London to begin her new journey as a "rave" night club owner, model and mother, Maria still carries the traits inherited from her obsessive compulsive mami and tarot-card-reader-to-the-stars grandmother.

I giggled to myself throughout the morning at the idea of Maria opening and closing the flow of her urination eight times each time she relieved her bladder during the day, changing her daughter's nappy eight times in a row, snorting eight lines of cocaine in one go, opening the door to her nightclub eight times and demanding that her paying customers pay in eight pound coins, one at a time.

When we were younger, more fresh-faced and less intoxicated (on all but a lust for life's simple pleasures), the three of us created a time capsule.

I had been given the idea at Brownies, where the "Wise Owl" had set us all the task of filling a 2 litre plastic bottle with letters to the future inhabitants of the earth, to give them the idea of life in the mind of a young child of the 1990's. A quaint idea, at the least, but relatively flawed.

I was obsessed with my time at Brownies, and always took the tasks very seriously. I wanted to collect all of the possible badges at all of the different levels, to sew onto my brown, hard cotton sash. But this was an idea that didn't interest me, I was far more interested in the task to grow our own sunflowers (which I did obsessively until I was dragged away on holiday and it died in the rain).

Even at the young age of six or seven, I decided it was an activity that I would rather share with my closest friends. The three of us met at my house one night after school, and began to work on our time capsule. We stole an empty cardboard box from my backgarden, discarded by my father earlier that week, and filled it with sentimental objects. My first diary, full of scribbles about swimming lessons and my cousin's new puppy... A small collection of Cole's favourite drawings - doodles of dogs and houses... And a CD given to Dominic by his father when he had left home. In the small box, we did not depict the life of three young children. We depicted the life of three sensitive souls, full of enjoyment and excitement.

It was a few weeks later when a callous friend told me that she had asked her mother whether the time capsules were a good idea, and her mother had informed her that in this modern day and age, there was plenty for the future inhabitants to be able to learn about our lives. She said that rainwater would soak the box and make all of the items dissolve and disintegrate.

When we returned to our burial spot in the forest at the end of my garden, we couldn't find it. The rain had flattened the mud and leaves to make the discovery of our hiding place impossible.

We moved house just a few weeks later, and I still regret that I'll never be able to read my first diary, look at Cole's immature cartoons and listen to Dominic's priceless CD.

The writing industry is a tough industry to crack. I know this because I have been knocking on the metaphorical window of the industry for years now, desperately pounding the glass with heavy hammers with pointed and blunt edges, and never managing to even chip the surface.

It was four years ago that Cole told me to give up my plans of education and professions, "the stable wage to keep me alive while I created my masterpieces". An artist by nature and talents, she herself had made the unlikely decision to abandon a life of temp jobs and white shirts to pursue a dream of almost impossibilites. To a sixteen year old girl, it all seemed so simple.

I never told mother when, three weeks into my AS-level course at sixth form, I decided to drop out and spend my days writing. One day, I would have a book, and that day would arrive so much sooner if I could dedicate more time to my writing. It was an obvious career step! Or at least that was how it felt to a hedonistic sixteen-year-old with aspirations and more ambition than a full hall of Pop Idol wannabes.

And now, I sit with my tome beside me, printed off for what feels like the fiftieth time onto plain white, A4 paper. My whole body fills with sadness and misery when I look at the stack of pages, so perfect and rectangular and filled with so many ideas and memories. It's not that the story is not exciting enough, not interesting enough, not real enough (because people are enjoying real-life and "reality culture" more these days). It's that nobody will care to listen.

Nobody will care to listen to the whispering "I remember" of a lifetime gone by.

So, instead of living the J.K.Rowling dream - a fairytale cottage and a billion pounds in the bank - I find myself in my flat, two floors from the ground. The scruffy paint job peeling off from the unnecessary heat that is pouring from every radiator as I try to stay warm in the sweltering summer weather. Blanket wrapped around me, legs aching with disuse and another empty day of nothingness - besides scrolling through webpage after webpage of "freelance writer" job vacancy lists that you can't apply for without a website subscription anyway.

I had a blog before, but nobody ever read it. Partly because it was on an unknown site, full of diaries of fifteen year old girls who think the world is on a mission to depress them, but partly because I eventually passworded the page to give myself a faint possibility of the fact that people wanted to read it, but simply couldn't.