The Most Dangerous Plaything...

I long to paint my pixie pout the color of fresh bruises and crushed rose petals - a cruel, sadistic cocktail of pleasure and pain. It's what you taught me. It's the girl that you left behind.

I slick on my signature blood red nail polish - not merely because it is the glamorous thing to do - but because I remember your blood on my jagged nails and I refuse to forget all of those things that you did to me - I refuse to pretend that the past is irrelevant - you will forever lurk in my mind.

I take a sip of a rich bordeaux. I can feel the sting of hatred begin to rise and pulse through these fragile blue veins. I can remember you whispering to me, "Please, just for me..." - I can feel the firm grasp of your rough hand on my slender bronzed shoulder...I can still feel your hot breath on the nape of my neck. I can still smell the scent of stale cigarettes. I can still feel your rough cheek graze mine...

You have created the most dangerous plaything, my love - you have created the ultimate seductress - the femme fatale!

And baby, when you die, I won't cry for you.

 "Whore!Whore!" - the girls in the neighborhood would scream at us as we walked by. Twelve years old. You made virgins into whores. God curse you all. Where are you now? Old, decrepit, and decaying. Our beauty was never meant for you. One day, we will have our revenge...until then, dollface...


Comrade Von Pussycat

Beauty And The Beast

Blame it on the sting of cheap red wine. Blame it on that strange magic that is summertime. 

“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow.”

- The Picture of Dorian Gray

 

It is days like this that the demons of the past come to haunt me. 

As a woman that possesses some kind of strange, dark beauty, I have come to accept that there will be strange men staring, and outright gawking, the occasional lewd gesture, catcalling, and even blatant sexist remarks. I have accepted this fact, and I have learned to keep my eyes to the ground, avoid making eye contact, and to never crack the slightest smile. I can feel the penetrating heat of the eyes that are on me, and I can often hear the footsteps and whispers behind me as I walk. I am embittered just thinking about what I deal with on a daily basis. I don't pretend to be a great beauty, it is something that is forced upon me. Things I don't even think of myself are present in the minds of others. It is truly amazing how, if you possess some sort of beauty, people will either immortalize you, discriminate against you (beautiful = incompetent/unintelligent), or despise you. I have discussed my thoughts on beauty many times before, but today I just wanted to write down the facts of who I really am.

I am a global nomad and a citizen of the world. I once described myself as floating between worlds...I am not entirely accepted in my home country and not entirely accepted in my adopted country. As a little girl I had a book containing every alias that I could come up with, including a full biography. I grew up dreaming of being a spy . I guess that is what growing up with James Bond, The Avengers, and your parents dragging you through countries only written about in spy novels will do to a little girl. I even seriously considered joining the CIA after high school.  I never thought of myself as much of a beauty. I am the only dark featured child out of six children. The rest of my siblings look like what the Aryan super-race should have looked like - icy azure or seafoam colored eyes, platinum blond hair, and porcelain skin. In turn, I was often mistaken for a gypsy - you see, I have that unmistakable Mediterranean skintone - I turned a deep, glowing bronze after only a half an hour in the sun. I am the only one in my family with turkish coffee colored eyes. I remember, vividly, that once an old lady chased after me with her broom because she thought I was a gypsy. Ah, memories. 

The summer when I was ten years old, I was introduced to a world that would forever define me. The years when I was ten, eleven, and twelve, hold some of the most magical and most painful memories for me. It was through these years that I learned to sharpen my nails enough to draw blood. As the only American girl living in an ex-Communist country where women were thought of as inferior - this is how I survived. Barely. I was locked in elevators with my best friend and forced to watch her do unspeakable things. I was grabbed off the street in broad daylight and locked in strange rooms. I was beat and spit on and held up by my ponytail if I put up too much of a fight. Needless to say, I was quite a fighter...and I learned to outrun and outwit many an adversary. But the damage had been done. These things led to the development of agoraphobia...something that I have attempted to explain so many times to close friends and family, yet still fails to be acknowledged or understood. I remember my father once telling me, "It was all your fault", and, "Your timidity is a sin". I love my father, but he never will understand what it was like to be a blossoming girlchild under such suffocating and unforgiving circumstances. As a survivor ( I refuse to utter that word...victim!) of such abuse, I find myself occasionally fighting back the sting of tears as I walk down the street and am the target of unwanted attention. I find it so unfair, and so unjust, that I, as a woman, have to fight this battle and the opposite sex has no idea how it is to feel like the broken child that I am. I know that I am not alone, but goddamn, most days it feels that way. I fake my confidence, and I fake my composure, because I have to pretend in order to face the world I live in. People think that because I am nice, and that I always smile, that it is because I haven't faced adversity or because I am unintelligent and naive. It is generalizations like these that will always haunt me, but they will never let me forget who I really am. 

Please, just remember:

Never judge a book by its cover.

Comrade Von Pussycat

On Seduction And Silhouette

 Silhouette. I am obsessed with silhouette. Shadows, curves, and indentations...what could be more seductive than silhouette? I have always been good at one thing... in my experience, seduction has always been more about a revelation of cheek, charm, and silhouette rather than of mere skin. 

Never waste your charm one someone who doesn't appreciate it in the first place. Seduction should always come naturally, with minimal effort, it should never be forced because force equals desperation. It is always the dreamer who falls the hardest. They are always picking up the smallest details and reading into everything - these are the best victims because they imagine things are infinitely more fascinating/beautiful/enchanting than they really are. These are the epicureans, the fetishists. As La Loren once said, "Sex appeal is fifty percent what you've got, and fifty perfect what they think you've got". 

The shadows have always been great friends of mine. As a struggling agoraphobic, it was only in the shadows that I found consolation. It was in the shadows that I found my lost Lolita soul. It was the shadows that breathed new life into this faded nymphet. Maybe this is why film noir fascinates me so - the mist, the fog, the shadows - I've always had a fascination with sublety and innuendo. Sometimes words can mean so little, but one look, one glance, one frame, can reveal everything. I abhor anything painfully obvious. The dreamers always fall the hardest. How do I know? Because that, dollface, is exactly what I am.

Isn't it divine? The perfect mix of femme fatale and Morticia Adams! I need this in my life...

Comrade Von Pussycat

Would You Be My Baby Tonight?

I Love The Smell of Leather In The Morning...

There is a treacherous substance that flows through these fragile veins. Delightful yet toxic in large doses. Addictive and uncontrollable. Just as the warmth of sunshine on cool alabaster skin is addictive, yet can be fatal for us mere mortals. This substance permeates every pore of my being, every thought and every word that escapes my parched lips. Parched from the intense thirst for knowledge and adventure. This substance slips defiantly out of my tear ducts and escapes down the curve of my cheek in silent protest to the life I have chosen. My blistered tongue clumsily forms the unspoken.

My first "serious" heels bought way back when I was 22 - they just had to be black snakeskin and over 6 inches, naturally ;)

My 8-inch fetish heels...I love adding a little touch of vulgarity with an otherwise wholesome outfit.

James Bond villain?

My dear, departed baby crow Pistolero (now you have the proof that I am madly in love with anything related to Robert Rodriguez, ha!). This was his "hungry" face - if you could only have heard the ruckus he made begging for food!

Pistolero and I had an amazing bond...after all, we're both menacingly dark and therefore, misunderstood.

RIP my feathered partner in crime.

This was a project I did defending a woman's right to cover herself.

A lusty, sleek panther with hypnotic emerald eyes...

As the glowing ember of the sun dies,
She sheds her porcelain doll disguise,
Transforms into a lusty, ink black panther,
With hypnotic emerald eyes.

They call her the girlchild seductress,
Beg her for one painted pixie pout kiss,
She, the accidental temptress,
Amateur guide this little miss is.

Comrade Von Pussycat circa 2007

The Beautiful and the Damned

It is truly dumbfounding how beauty can both a blessing and a curse. Beauty has no loyalty and no compassion. Beauty is fleeting, and for those who have possessed a great deal of beauty in their lifetime, as she starts to fade and abandon you for another, youth, you feel betrayed and forgotten.There is nothing more grotesque than a person grasping for something they've lost, and replacing it with some artificial form of what they had formerly. That is the truly tragic part. Sometimes I feel that it would have been better to not have known her at all.

“The ugly and stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live-- undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They never bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Henry; my brains, such as they are-- my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks-- we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.”- Oscar Wilde (The Picture of Dorian Gray)

The first time I felt beautiful I was twenty-two years old. It was a brilliant moment, as I had always considered myself the ugly duckling (all five of my siblings were born with platinum-straw blonde hair and had clear azure or vivid green eyes; who wouldn't be intimidated?). That being said, I have always believed that my greatest strength is my heart and my mind. As girlchildren of eleven, living in Eastern Europe, my best friend, Snow White, and I were victims of unspeakable abuse by the older boys in our town. I tried to save her so many times, and I would fight for both of us. I sharpened my nails into points so that I could draw blood, if the occasion called for it. To this day, Snow White is the pariah of the town; chained, cruelly and unfairly, to her past and can't even walk through the center without being a target of lewd gestures, whispers, and stares. This is why, when I receive partial treatment (which has been nearly equal parts pleasure and cruelty) because of my beauty, the irony is not lost on me. The world is a very cruel place, and while I definitely feel the pleasure that beauty brings, I realize how much the other side stings...beauty is a double-edged sword in many respects. This is why I will always adore beauty and glamour, however, I will be forever faithful to my imagination, my writing, and my heart. I will always be a sunny philosopher, a lover-poet, an exotic fetishist, a charismatic seductress, a faded nymphet, and Lolita's best friend. Beauty does not, and will never, define me. 

Comrade Von Pussycat

 

 

All-American Summer...

I remember being a young girlchild of 12, all pretty in a red floral mini swing dress in light rayon, wearing white cotton ankle socks and faded denim blue Converse...good times :)

Lana Del Rey's "Born to Die" video

Would it be so terrible if I, an aging nymphet, slipped a pair on...just for old times sake?