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.

Friday, October 01, 2004

Part One

Geezerz need excitement
If their lives don't provide them
This they incite violence
Common sense
Simple common sense

THE STREETS - "Geezers Need Excitement"

This memoir is not for the fainthearted. Not sure if this entry is going to be two parts yet cos I have only wrote two lines, so we will see how it goes. It may be three.
This is not the final version of this post as I am publishing in breaks, as this may well be one of my hardest pieces to write. So I want to take it easy.

Final edit should be done in 2 hours
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If I take you from behind, play with your mind - will you give up and let me have my way?
Just go with it. If you fight me, you only spread the stain. Be Still. Hush now.

That is what he said. That is not what he meant.

I have previously mentioned WG in a post called
"Pretty Pink Dancer Feet"
Yes she is the girl that had to inject into her feet. This post is perhaps worse, so if that disturbed then maybe this one ain't for you.
********************************************************************************

Sometimes in the still of the night , when no one is there to comfort and reassure me that my time as a heroin addict is over, all but a fading memory "They" come to get me. The nightmares about "close-calls" start to flourish behind my eyelids. Images of blood. Images of Pain. Images of raw lust. I lay awake as in lurid technicolour this story plays out once again. Maybe sharing it with you, will let me have a good night's sleep.


I have had perhaps a handful of moments (all of which I will get around to sharing with you) that for some inexplicable reason I was spared my innocence and my dignity. A life altering negative experience , that came so close , breathing ice cold tentacles around my throat, closing down my breath. Moments where you know in your heart, that you could never be the same, if you make it through this minute. If you make it - cos it wants you. To break you. Snap you. Kill you. Gone.

It is summer. The desk fan is cooling the sweat slick on our naked bodies. Australian summers are tropical and humid. The air cloaks you in a mist of denseness, filling up your insides with heady waves of heat.


My eyes are rolling back into my head with stoned dehydration. The motel room is sparsely furnished, I'm lying on the double bed and WG is pacing around the room. Trying to think of ways to score. We had just checked into a new motel, this one was situated along the highway and was owned by a nice elderly couple, whom I think felt sorry for us when they saw us approach with shopping bags splitting with our personal effects. We used our last fifty bucks to get accommodation and knew that we could maybe swing some more money using that room.
The phone was silent. Just one of those days where it all seems to go wrong. I had them nearly every day as a heroin addict (No, I am not embellishing)
WG was lamenting getting a room now, whinging that she would rather sleep on the streets and have a shot , then have a room to which she would be crawling the walls. She had a point. It was a calculated risk, sure, but I wasn't up to sleeping on the streets tonight. It had been a rough week. WG is crying. Breaking. Screaming.
I am just trying to sleep while I can. Hours fade past. Already it has been 8 hours since our score this morning. I know I have a stash of gear , just in case. You just can't tell anyone or less than thirty seconds later - your mixing up and sharing it and then in the morning you practically want to skin them alive as a result.
Everyone in your life is sick , in one way or another , when you are a addict.
Dope sick, sick in the head, lovesick with gear or just sick of your shit.


Wg wrestles me awake. It is early evening. My head feels light and I my legs are stiff. Eyes streaming. Dope sick. Just let me die. It's going to happen soon. My heart pounds an irregular beat as if nodding in agreement. I run to the toilet and dry wretch repeatedly. I am starving too, so in front of me, she is swimming with the stars.

"We have a job matey, just spoke to this guy on the phone and he wants both of us for the whole night - a thousand bucks each - get ready. He is coming over soon to meet us both and decide if we are what he is looking for!" WG spoke animatedly whilst fossicking through the shopping bags for some clothes that were not stained or badly creased. I rub my face . Shit man. I am just not in the mood for work tonight. But I have to. No choice. Think I am sick now? That is nothing. That is just panic. That is not the beggining nor The end.

We do each other's makeup, paying special attention to details. The best lingerie. The polish. The preening. It is actually my favorite part. I think of make-up as artistic expression. I believe women look fabulous in floaty feminine ornateness, I like to be gorgeous for a man. Cheek stain and an abundance of lavish curl. Gloss. Delicate fragrance and heavy lidded cat eyes. Purr. Suspenders. Cleavage. Legs that go forever and ever ever. So sexy, she is so sexy. My eyes wantonly stare over her exposed breasts , innocently yet not. I think I am in love.

She knows that I want her, but not as much as heroin. Pity that.

To be Continued.


7 comments:

Biek said...

It's a bit strange. Now that you've posted pictures I read the story with the picture that comes with it in my head ... it's a little weird.

When you don't know how someone looks you (or at least I do) will simply keep some general figure in mind when building the story in your head. Now it's a different way of reading this Blog, a whole lot different even. It now grips me even stronger when reading, not sure how to explain this.

You people experience this also?

HeroineGirl said...

Do you think that I should take them down ?
I don't know, I dont want to ruin the creative process.
Once the blog goes "public" it won't have pics, the pics are for my friends, and also to prove that I am not ashamed. I am ready to face up to my story.

Love and Light
HG

deanne said...

Hey HG. Boy your stuff gives me goosebumps sometimes!

Leave the pics - they make you more *real* and tangible to other people. It's easy to see a blogs page and just see a jumble of words, not thinking there's a real person behind it. The pictures contradict that notion, so I say leave 'em.

(And yes, Santa *was* wearing glasses).
x. d

Biek said...

No no, please leave them up here. Like The D says it gives a more personal touch to your Blog.

Besides ... you look nice so I can't imagine anyone complaining ;-)

darling maggot said...

i love the pictures. they bring an added dimension to the table when i read your stories. don't do away with them, please.

HeroineGirl said...

The 'awww-shucks' meter is rising - to new unchartered heights ! You guys are soo sweet (hug and kiss)

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