A Note From The Writer

Welcome to the archived blog posts (when I was a wee blogger, wet behind the ears and not aware of spell check and various other gramatical structures!) I have kept the writings unedited or reworked as I am in the process of doing a massive rewrite of my entire life, many posts I have yet to publish and this blog was merely writing practise for the massive job of sorting out my emotions whilst retelling the story as cuttingly real and dramatic as the real memory was.. some of the posts contained are raw, streaming emotion.. many posts although painful to write, had a tremendously cathartic effect - cheaper than therapy one would say. I welcome new and old readers to keep in touch via my author email (sensualexplorersatHotmaildotcom) if you have any questions or wish to share the feelings and emotions raised by my work.
I will announce the publish date and title whenever it happens and I have been clean now for three years. It is possible.
But it is never easy. It's a lifelong journey, I will always be an addict, but I must stay one step ahead of myself and protect all that can be ruined in the eternal struggle to be
at ease once again, comfortable in this skin.
Thank you for being a part of my story.

Monday, September 13, 2004

Pretty Pink Dancer Feet

Thank you for all the ongoing support of the blog. As I have stated many times previous, The Content of This Blog will always be varied as much as my experience.
Somethings may be sad. Somethings may disgust you.
This may well be one of those times.


As mentioned in an earlier blog post I had many cohorts when I employed in The Industry. For the purposes of this blog and to protect the identity of the innocent I will refer to her as working girl.

One thing that did bind in the community , was the escorts.
This girl, in short - saved my life many, many times . She also saved my sanity. The most respect was not kept for ourselves but for each other and the things we did to survive.

WG and I were due to start work at 7. It was now going on 8. Nothing unusual to us. So far the deal was going much later than planned. My mobile phone kept ringing, nothing unsual for me.
An anxious client was repeatedly dialling my cell phone to confirm our paid attendance for his Saturday night Buck's party. Not that we cared about his party. First things first. I didn't care about anything else but our hit. That was the "key to it all" I could imagine their face if I said that without heroin the show would not "just go on."
WG and I were getting dressed in the meantime. WG with her islander heritage and petite frame looked gorgeous in a paper bag - it was just one of the many things that worked in our favor.
The bedroom was lit with candles and I was getting my makeup done , big false mascara and hairpieces and subtle makeup. Short , Short Skirts. Killer Heels. F**k me boots. We were ready in about half an hour. Anything to pass the time, to get rid of the nerves. We looked like a knockout. We shimmy our hips in the mirror. We were 21. We were about to score. We were about to earn 1500 dollars to go to a party and act like some schmucks girlfriends. It would be a hoot. As long as we were stoned.

I heard the door click open and our dealer came in, apologizing that he was late. It was new runner ( thats the only time they apologise) to our usual jaded dealer and of course this one was much healthier looking - in the beginning. Soon after, they will begin to rabbit hedge, to cut the gear so you will be spending more and more and getting the taste less and less. Sometimes when I was projectile vomiting the worse thing was when the heroin did not fix it. You close your eyes and will it to work , so life can continue and you realise just how sick you really are.
It was only a matter of time. Time is all you have and it's the thing you miss most when it dissapears.

We both flirted aimlessly with the jockular dealer until both money and drugs were exchanged. His mobile phone was beeping the whole time and he maintained a constant harranged persona. As he slowly walked backwards out of the door, he waved goodbye. A Thousand times goodnight. We laughed and winked at him suggestively. He is in jail now, for seven years.

Soon as we heard the door slam , I called out to The and WG boyfriend hiding in the bathroom.
The thing with dealers is, if they like you to be single, your single. If they think your boyfriend is a smelly loser. You hide him in the broom closet. You agree.

A flurry of activity as each couple races each other to get their hit into the spoon first. A fast paced exchange of tissues, lighters or spoon, as soon as your finished with one- pass it on. Someone's always waiting for something. Until they are done, meaning the drugs are put away. Then, you don’t need anything. WG asks if she can use my headband as a tourniquet. Sure. You already have ? Its got bloodstains on it. Not mine either. Most of my long shirts had bloodstains on the inside sleeves. It just came with the territory. Short sleeves where not a good option thesedays.

I was clenching my fist repeatedly to get my favorite spot. The Ex found it, instinct. Done. I don't watch the needle push through the scar tissue as ironically it makes me sick. Just like most things I pretend it is not happening. Soon enough ( 3 seconds) I feel the taste in the back of my throat and the smell of morphine floods my nostrils. I’m rubbing my face like mad. Will have do my makeup again. The Ex could do himself (inject himself) in about three seconds. It was purely amazing. I watched in a stoned haze, the seductive swirl of crimson blood cruise into the barrel, billowing into the beige watery abyss. Then I would watch his body sighing as it shot back out into the mainline. Creeping up slowly, a totally insane lust feeling connecting you to the drug so tight it owned you. Heroin runs its warm fingers all over, down your aching spine, over your goose bumps of pain and turns them into pleasure, clouds over your eyes in a delicious haze and takes you back to basics.

WG and her BF are not having half as much luck. Beside me I can hear WG grunting and panting to herself and I know what’s about to come. Unfortunately, shooting up was a pain in the ass for WG, who had been shooting drugs for too many years ( even though she was younger than me) and not super carefully either. Consequently, it was getting increasingly hard for WG to find a vein. She was what drug user’s call "gun shy". Getting a vein in her arms was virtually impossible thesedays alibeit many injecting session ends in heated screaming match. Tears and panic. Once blood enters into the syringe , you have a very small window of opportunity to get it into your vein before it congeals. You don’t want it to congeal inside the syringe for the obvious reason that your hit will not come out of the tiny hole at the base of the syringe. You want to keep the blood warm. You want it in your arm as soon as you can.

The BF of WG was running warm water over the syringe to keep the contents warm and the eager recipient was screaming. It was the worst and most desperate of screams. I closed my eyes and let the heroin take me to a another place. Then I threw up over myself. Her entire arm was now covered in rivulets of blood after several failed attempts. It was , unfortunately just like the movies and I know I am not doing junkies justice. But that is not my aim. This is what happened . This is what I remember. She was still a person. She was only nineteen.
She would be bruised and sore tomorrow. Her face was a contorted mix of panic, mascara and bloody handprints from people trying to shut her mouth which was foaming and I was holding her arm at her shoulder and working my hands as a tourniquet. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed she wouldn’t miss her shot and shoot it in to her arm's muscle, thus rendering the shot useless for a few hours of agonizing wait. Something she had already done in her panic, but felt the familiar resistance you get when you shoot into muscle. We call it a miss. That’s exactly how you feel.
Someone is yelling. No hang on, everyone was yelling. Somebody help them. You just feel so helpless. Yet so grateful it is not you. Poor thing. He had only just turned 17.

If we wanted this shot to enter WG bloodstream, we had to go now. It was a team effort. I remember dry gagging as he pushes the plunger of the syringe, with a considerable amount of force as the blodd had congealed again. I can still see that tiny worm of congealed blood and gear wiggling onto the spoon. This is not what you want to see. It was like crazy string. We know it’s just to keep it alive and out of the syringe for a moment. He adds more water. Precious gear getting lost in the whole sordid process.

"Put in My toes ! ", WG is frantic now and prizing her toes apart to find a vein. We all exchange worried looks. Her BF is pulling the gear back up into the needle. Sweat beading his brow. I smooth away her head and try to calm her down. The blood flows better in your body this way.
"You have to try and relax babygirl" I mumur , although I know I am a million times worse.

We give up on Wg's tiny pinpricked arms and reluctantly look into shooting the gear into her feet. Its extremely dangerous. It was common knowledge if you hit a nerve or worse a tendon, you could lose operation of your foot, or do serious damage. It was a chance she was willing to take. In that moment, when a user is telling you what to do with their gear, you hold , in that needle. Thier life essence. You put it wherever they tell you to. You do because you have to - not because you want to. That's just the way it is.

I squeeze her hand , as chad positions himself in between her legs. Silent tears slide down her makeup stained face.

Everyone holds their breath.

No-one is watching anything but the plunger.

A blast of blood hits the already nearly full syringe of blood , yet it mixes. With all the expert of a 17 year old doctor, her BF ever so slowly begins to push the plunger down, pushing out the mixture into a tiny vein in between her toes. The vein is weak and delicate. Oh god.

This is bullshit hard.

No one moves. No one talks. Down, Down, Down. Slowly the gear dispenses into her tiny foot. Pretty little foot with pearly pink polish. Dancer's feet.

He gets most of in and the WG gets a taste, the morphine prickles in her face before us, sweet relief. Smiles and they share a special embrace. It was close this time. He quickly puts his into his arm.

I help WG to her feet and then we answer the phone. I can see her in the background moping up all her dried blood on the tiles and then reapply her makeup, nodding off as she raises the lipstick to her bluish lips. Hmm. I would have to watch her closely tonight. She was a professional though. She could reduce a whole room of men to babies, throwing money like confetti at her while she wriggled her hypnotic dance and drew them in with her snake green eyes.

The phones ringing again. 22 missed calls. I grimace.

Before the phone is to my ear I hear"Where the fuck are you". I am not suprised by the hostile tones of his voice - due to the fact we are an hour late now and I'm so fuzzed out that my voice seems oceans away. His voice sounds tight and worried. I reassure him we are well worth the wait. We may even give him a bonus if he doesn’t stress us too much. WG turns to me and mouths a profanity. I stifle a laugh. Look, we can only be as fast as we can be. See you soon. I hang up.

We kiss both the boys goodbye as they settle in for a night of television and smoking pot. WG grabs the car keys, the rest of the gear and the ghetto blaster. In a squeak of pink patent leather and a cloud of perfume, we walk out.

Time to go to work.


WG rehabiltated herself and I hear through the grapevine she enjoys a wonderful life and young family now. Thank you for the memories and the support you gave to me , in times where many girls where just to scared to look at me, not to mention be my friend.
I know at times we were to sick to fully establish a lasting friendship, I know you had to leave and get better. I know there are somethings we just can't do around each other.
But thank you for showing me , that I could get my life back. Thank you for proving me wrong.

If all my friends were to jump off a bridge, I wouldn't jump with them, I'd be at the bottom to catch them. - WG

Peace X

May I forever fall at your feet X


darling maggot said...

that was the most incredibly difficult thing i have ever read in my entire life. i am not joking when i say this: i am going to have to take a xanax right now.

i am blown away.

this is going to stay with me for the rest of the night.

Biek said...

I feel just about the same way here. Without being able to do something about it I, while reading, tend to visualize what I'm reading to get some sort of complete picture in my head.

A part of me whishes I didn't right now ...

It's so tough imagining that someone actually lived through all these kind of experiences. And I guess the sad part is that probably more people than I will ever know actually have ...

Still I think it's good of you to be able to write it like this. It must from one point of view be really hard on you re-living this so you can write it down and on the other hand I can imagine that now you've been able to escape all that it must also make you feel very proud knowing what you've conquered.

Take care kiddo,

HeroineGirl said...

I don't know what to say :(

I didn't mean to offend anyone, my goal is to be true to my past and get it down as what was said and done.
I always give warnings before I post and if content offends/upsets/enrages then I apologise.
I just want to purge it out of me.

This never was going to be easy.

But - I am priviledged with a happy ending.
I love life and your will find the hope you need in my smile, that I smile to you now and say that I survived.

I am not going to sugarcoat the past or make it more palatable for the masses as this blog is an excersise in acknowledging what happened and moving through it.



What doesn't kill me, only makes me stronger.


Kim said...

OMG, that was chilling. A close friend was a user, she's now straight and looks again wonderful. This gives me insight to what her life was like.

thanks again,


darling maggot said...

omg i am not offended in the least. i think that was stunning. i seldom react this strongly to anything i read.

Trish said...

You're sharing your life, and that's always amazing. Everyone has an amazing story to tell, but not everyone tells it...

HeroineGirl said...

Thanks for the feedback.

You Guys rock!

Make sure you spread the word about for HeroineGirl.
You just never know , how many times you can change a person's life.


Anonymous said...

I was waiting for that post in a way - have been cleaning up spilt blood from my sister for 10 years, knew that you couldn't have gone through it all without some stories of gore flying around.

Shocking but truthfull - good work.


Bodhisatta said...

I'm beginning to realize that in different places on earth, with different people as players, it's all fundamentally the same hell. I still have a handful of oxford shirts from my using days that have tiny little brown spots at the elbows. I don't ever wear them anymore but they're a nice reminder of how it used to be.

I had as much of a love affair with the needle as I had with the heroin. I loved every bit of the process and I especially loved "the red orchid" as Burroughs called it. I got off of heroin before I got off of the needle. I love it so much that I still haven't been able to give blood yet. Maybe one day it won't be so romantic. I considered the injection such an artform that I prided myself on being so good that I don't have any real scars to show for it even today. I have a few tiny pits and a few hardened veins. Things only visible to a seasoned junkie but inexistent to anyone else. Lucky me.

HG- Everything your write takes me back to that part of my life. It's bringing up some painful things but also things I can learn from. I have so much gratitude that I'm not that person today. I don't think I have it in me anymore to live like such an animal.


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