A FALL FROM GRACE AND A FEW THINGS!

Well I feel from grace last night! I could feel it coming on and now I realise it wasn’t
worth it and it probably won’t happen again!

I got booked in Chelsea – lovely Italian guy on Kings Road! Really nice guy, good
looking and very smart and continental! A true pleasure. The only problem with him
was obviously his smoking. I’ve always thought smoking is the very worst drug and
the very worst habit! I even rate it worst to smoking heroin as far as health problems
go and he was a classic example. Smoking is VERY bad for you, which is why I’ve
never really taken to it properly. I smoked socially on and off for about 10 years! I
don’t touch fags now. When I did smoke I never really liked it and didn’t really ever
get a habit. Thankfully! I think I will reap the long term health benefits from that!
Although it would have been far better if I had never have smoked !! But can’t turn
back the clock – at least I don’t smoke now and there is no danger of me starting
again. I tried one the other day and YUK it was FOUL next to my fruit eating!
ABSOLUTELY FOUL! I only smoke when doing crack and that’s ONLY with a
client. I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t have to! If I could get clean and stop ‘selling my
body’ then I’d be a lovely clean living girly wirly! But that is on the cards for the
future.

I’ve digressed! Back to the story! Yearh! So this guy the Italian banker on Kings
Road was a smoker of Marlborough lights, being from Italy he appeared to have
picked up a large cheap stash of fags from duty free! A fucking stupid idea it would
seem to me! Considering they cause cancer! He seemed to ‘have’ to smoke them. He
showed me that he bought the wrong ones, the ones he had were extra long, Kingsize!
He wasn’t too happy about this, and I’m not surprised! YUK! Smoking is bad enough
with normal size ones, uuurrghhh! Imagine having boxes and boxes of extra long ones
to get through! It would see m to me that it was his stubborn male ego driving him to
smoke and he didn’t even really want to smoke! I told him that I didn’t smoke and
that I was watching my skin, wanting to keep it youthful in appearance ( on my face –
not taking into account my messy scarred arms and hands). He INSTANTLY put the
fag out, the extra long one stuck right up! He’d hardly puffed it at all! He was
BEGGING for an excuse to put the godamn thing out! Poor chappy! Stupid male ego
needs to take a rest when it comes to serious health consequences Kez says!

Unfortunately the smoking had taken effect on his circulation, as so often,

unfortunately, on men it does. I Know, I am a sex expert, afterall. He was a little
impotent, as smokers generally are. Smokers don’t get such strong erections and he
was a classic example. If he quits then gradually he should start to repair some of the
damage and more than likely get god errections again. I didn’t tell him that, I hope he
realised for himself. I kinda wish I had mentioned it, to help him and suggest fucking
stopping, but it isn’t exactly sexy or glam to give out anti smoking advice when
working as a high class alluring escort is it?

MUM…

I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood and teenage years and then my young
adult years! Well, about my life! I had the urge to call my family home to ask why
they never call me. My dad has not called me once since I moved to London. That’s
three and a half years ago. NOT ONCE. My Mum has called me a handful of times.
Literally a handful n three and a half years. I haven’t seen my family for about 3
years. We don’t get on. Things went VERY WRONG. The thing is with my family
is that they were a young working class family. They expect us to be the same, you
knw, leave school, get a job, get married and have sprogs exactly as my sister has. I
fell in love with my childhood sweetheart when I was 19. We first shagged when I
was 17 . I’d had a crush on him since I was 12. He was my first love. I was madly
in love, devoted, besotted, happy. I loved that strong hunk of a guy. I loved him with
all my heart and all my body and all my soul. I expected to marry him. I gave up my
education for him. I went off to be a nurse so I could have a career during our
‘marriage’. Yes. You got it! He dumped me.

( I have to GET THIS OUT…)

I never really recovered. I was so heartbroken my life collapsed very seriously. I was
very shocked on my 21st birthday that he didn’t put a ring on my finger. I expected
him to get down on one knee. He didn’t. He bought me a diamond necklace instead.
A tiny one. He didn’t love me like I loved him.

I didn’t know.

YUK.

OOOOWCH.

EEEEK.

FUCK UP!

My life literally collapsed. I needed him. He was my crux. Sexually he was perfect.
Physically perfect. Emotionally, he was sensitive and headstrong. He was passionate
and red – blooded, but I guess something was missing in our youth. He never quiet
let me in, looking back on it, I now realise he was deceitful. He was cheating on me.

I was young and naïve. He thought of himself as a love stud! He was a great lover
and he knew it! I’d never ever had orgasms like it! Everytime! That was one of the
reasons I was in love with him, we made love as I had never made love before. I
didn’t ever get pregnant! I wanted the time to be right. I took the pill and sometimes
forgot, bu mainly I’ve always been pretty sensible. Although I secretly wished I
would have got pregnant, so he would always be mine. That didn’t happen. He met a
new girl, a tall Brunette. I was a short blonde! But an exceptionally heartbroken one.
I took to the bottle and I took to razor blades to unleash and express the deep pain in
my soul. Pain that stopped me from physically being able to eat for weeks! I have
never felt so much pain. I’d given up my art education for him. Then I gave up my
nursing career ( nursing for me was about a loving commitment to humanity, a way of
connecting to humanity, understanding life and giving love). I expected to become a
mother, I wanted to give love to people, I had the idea of an honest loving soul,
nursing the sick and needy. This is true. I was very inspired my Buddhist teachings
at the time. Teachings that I still find comfort and understanding in, even now.

I ended up studying at ‘the old’ Leicester Poly. I could have gone just about
anywhere. I was too ill to leave my home. I was still bruised in my gut each day I
woke. The pain in my insides took years to heal. It took at least three years for that
pain to subside. Eventually I made some friends in Leicester and I had a new
boyfriend for a while, my second love. I’ve only really had three boyfriends. I was
seeing a guy in London for a few months, but I was just a bit on the side. So, the tally
of my boyfriends is three. I’m 30 this year.

So I had to stay in Leicester to do my half – hearted Ba (hons) Fine Art. I didn’t do

great. I learned quite a lot about myself though and I got into macs and Photography,
aswell as always loving painting. The course was messed up by campus problems. A
lot of my artworks got destroyed. There was a lot of problems with the place and the
course. It’s a shame, because now it’s really let me down. I can’t get onto an Ma at
good London art school, which is a real shame and I think a lot of that is to do with
my very poor Ba.

So many factors has led to my failed education! Not just poverty! My parents were
never supportive of my education. They didn’t ever come to any artshows ever.
None of them. Not when I was a student at any time. They don’t care about my
education, interests, career, they don’t care about who I am. It’s a shame.

It’s looking to me that the best thing I can do now is to literally TURN MY BACK
ON EDUCATION. I WON’T BE ALLOWED IN. I KNOW THIS. I MESSED UP
AND THEY WON’T EVEN GIVE ME A CHANCE TO EXPLAIN!!

The best thing I can do is to just stand on my on two little feet and begin my own
fuckin business regardless. Take someone such as David LaChapelle as an example,
he didn’t graduate. I’m at a severe disadvantage and I’m not all that young anymore,
even so, I shouldn’t let these things hold be back and prevent me from becoming an
artist and perhaps having my own business. I have to make a living so I can put on
my art shows! I can’t just survive on benefits the rest of m life. Its not right or
doesn’t feel healthy.

I still have that gradually sharpening memory of the guy who was gonna kill me
before I narrowly escaped into the street where the police caught me for being a mad
woman, as I was unable to coherently verbalise what it was I was doing running into
a housing estate semi naked standing at the top of a stairwell trying to get into
someone else’s house running and hiding from the murderer. Gradually my memory
of that night is returning day by day. My wooosy, dreamlike heroin states seems to
have regressed my memory to paint a much clearer picture of the events that led up to
me being caught by the police. I lay in bed only ten minutes ago in a very blurry,
state of misty - morphine - relaxation. My mind was sinking into dark grey areas
and the dark charcoal memory I have experienced before. In this dusty memory, as
blowing the cobwebs from an old dusty book, I see the shadowy, crowlike form of the
murderer, as a grey mass getting up from his crouched over seat, in the moment when
I looked down at the floor next to the sofa where I was sitting and noticed now what
seems to be a strategically placed scart-lead sitting in a latent – coiled - motion
anticipating strangulation. The forlorn shaowy mass off the hunchback murderer lifts
from his seated position with his back to me and he gets up and leaps swifly toward
the scart lead and he lets out a belt of laughter ‘ha’ or ‘huh’ a huff and a puff
sound…”I’ll blow your house down.’ The WOLF.

I jump and leap to the door narrowly escaping his violent grasp. I slam the dorr
behind me and run for the front door of which I slam behind me in the moment I turn
at such speed back to see the door handle moving up and down as he tres to get out
open the door to get hold of me to kill me.

YES THIS MEMORY HAS RETURNED HE DID GET UP TOWARD ME AND

THE SCART LEAD AND WAS SECONDS FROM KILLING ME.

I can still hear and feel his breath in the room. Huh…ha and desperate breath, the
sound of deep psychopathic emotion. It almost sounds like laughter.

“DRAT’ from the spoilt BRAT.

As I ran as fast as I could away from my flat.

He s a dangerous man and he shouldn’t be at large.

But he is and now there is no proof – only my mist of memory.

I run to the bathroom and vomit pancreatic gunge in the toilet basin.

I am lucky to be alive.

I called my Mother today. This was the point at which I stared writing about my Mum
and the boyfriends. I remember the point of the writing, after just reflecting on that
trout ‘Carly G’ the oldest dirty prossie about! No. I do NOT intend to carry on until
I’m supporting my saggy tits on my zimmer frame thank you very much! I hardly
ever see guys anymore, it’s mainly just to pay my debts off now! I certainly am not
taking this fuckin escort business and further than I have to. The Photographic aspect
is a different matter. As for sucking loads of guys cocks – no thanks, In the end I’d
rather get a regular job if I could actually find one that would cover my bills. I’m not
taking the selling of my body to world domination proportions – I’m NOT THAT
DESPERATE and NEVER will be. All I an think is that she MUST have a mortgage
to pay that she didn’t think of the problem of an ageing escort when she took it out!

So I digress again, Oh yearh My Mum, OOOOWK, no we do not get on. I feel

DEEPLY sorry for my poor Mum. I called her this afternoon because I was feeling
deeply sad about my totally deteriorated relationship with my family. I was
wondering why my Dad has never called me ..EVER…..remember?

Well, My Mum would rather see pictures of me naked all over the internet and here
stories through the grapevine of me nearly being killed by the police and being beaten
up / robbed at gunpoint / addicted to Heroin than CONTACT me or low and behold
actually HELP me.

My Mum has always wanted to see me fail.

She has flatly refused to HELP me in anyway out of the situation that I am in.

The relationship between me and my mother is now I’m afraid.,,

TERMINAL.

FOREVER TERMINAL,

My family are not so Godamn poor that thy cannot at least try to help me create a
better future for myself, without me having to constantly sell my body and splash
naked and porno pictures of me all over the internet.

I mentioned going to college. In my mind I was thinking about the University of

Westminster Photography Ma. I’ve heard that its quite a good course, it seems quite
practical and pretty straightforwardly about purely Photography. No disguising Fine
Art in there. It seems to be very practically Photography based. If I want to become a
professional photographer – this will, indeed, be a good course to embark on as a next
step towards gaining a career as a Photographer. I have to think about ‘bread and
butter’ and Fine Art, unless one is exceptionally lucky and in the right place and the
right time, then one cannot and seldom makes a living out of selling ones Fine Art.
Therefore I am thinking of becoming a commercial Photographer, aswell as keeping
up my Fine Art practise. I have met other commercial photographers and it does
seem like a pretty well paid field.

The problem with me becoming a commercial Photographer is that I am not fully

trained in Photography, I have a degree in Fine Art, of which I did a large portion of
Photography aswell as other things, such as sculpture and painting. I was always a bit
of everything girl. A bit of Brocolli and carrot and peas and ermm beetroot too. But
now I am mainly focused on Photographic practise, with my lovely cameras and my
mac proficiency. I will need training in such areas as lighting and also basic technical
training. I really do need to embark on Photographic training. So I thought…whilst I
talk to my Mum I might just mention the fact that I am very disappointed about my
education and disappointed about my current state of my life and that I would like to
perhaps go back to do an Ma in Photography so I can build a career and earn some
money eventually.

NO. NO was her abrupt PAINFUL RESPONSE. She spoke to me as if I wee a

stranger begging for a charitable donation of the phone. I felt just as I did when I
worked as a charity fundraiser for Christian Aid, when I used to have to ring up
Christians for donations and rant on about Malaria in Africa. Even before I’d
mentioned anything to do with money she’d BANGED THE PHONE DOWN ON
ME. But I guess, like, the other people I used to beg on the phone too, she knew the
inevitable climax of the conversation would be the BIG ASK. Like most of the self,
greedy cowards she slammed the phone down avoiding the embarrassment of saying
NO! How guilty she may have felt having to refuse such a pretty, gentle girl a few
pound to help her get on her feet. Not to mention that that pretty young girl once
actually popped out of her vagina one day and is infact her very own FLESH and
BLOOD,

I put the phone down and went and sat over on the sofa and took a little toot of heroin
and then retired upstairs in bed sinking into a sicky, depressed haze.

Now, I am very frightened again. I just had a psycho on the phone. Another man,
who I possibly believe to be another possible Psychopathic killer. He reminded me
who he was and the moment I ran.

I just cannot believe I have to carry on doing this.

I’m afraid and I just want to escape.

I need to find a way out.

What am I gonna do?

The man on the phone, was another real weirdo. I do, think possibly, after spending
time with him and running off VERY QUICKLY, and then sensing murder in the air
and now having just spoken to him that he could quite possibly be psychopathic. He
did seem very disturbed and the last conversation was very disturbing.

Its looking to me that if I cannot sort my life out soon and stop having to work as an
escort, then I will just have to move out of London to be free from this life and to
escape the ghosts I have created over the last two years.