Friday, 27 February 2015
It was the first notorious killing of the twentieth century. July 1910 Britain was gripped by the progress of a huge man hunt. It was on a scale that hadn’t been seen since Jack the Ripper.
The fugitive was Doctor Hawley Harvey Crippen and he was wanted for the murder and mutilation of his wife Cora. Together with his mistress, Ethel le Neve, Doctor Crippen had fled from London. Handbills had been printed and pasted everywhere and distributed to police around the world. Everyone was talking about this case.
The Home Secretary, a certain Winston Churchill had organised a reward of £250, worth £20,000 in today’s money for their capture.
So where was Doctor Crippen and his lover Ethel le Neve? In fact they had already left the country and were holed up in a hotel in Belgium. They had plans to leave for North America.
Henry Kendal was the captain of a steam ship heading across the Atlantic to Canada. But two of his passengers had aroused his suspicions. The SS Montrose had only been at sea for one day when Captain Kendal noticed a father and son behaving strangely on deck. He thought it was very odd that they squeezed each other’s hands immoderately, as he put it, and that they would sometimes disappear behind the lifeboats. The two of them were travelling as Mr and Master Robinson.
What happened next was just like a detective novel, with the Captain playing the part of Sherlock Holmes. Captain Kendal decided to carry out an experiment to try and confirm his suspicions that he had Doctor Crippen on board. He took a newspaper photograph of Doctor Crippen and using chalk he whitened out the Doctor’s moustache and then blackened out the frames of his spectacles and it was a photo fit. Without his moustache and spectacles the mysterious Mr Robinson was clearly Doctor Crippen.
Captain Kendal had access to a pioneering piece of technology that would speed up the process of twentieth century crime investigation. It was the Marconi wireless, but the transmitter only had a range of 150 miles. When Captain Kendal made his breakthrough he was already 130 miles from the nearest receiver; he had 20 miles left to get the message out. Rushing along the lower deck to the wireless room he handed the wireless operator the message that would electrify the world.
“Have strong suspicions that Crippen the London cellar murderer and accomplice are amongst the passengers. Accomplice dressed as a boy but with voice manners and build undoubtedly a girl.”
But would the message get through in time?
So what exactly were the events that had led up to this extraordinary situation?
Doctor Crippen, an American, who dabbled in cheap patent medicines and dentistry had been living what seemed a pretty conventional life in a North London villa. His wife, Cora, was a would be music hall artiste. But the marriage was troubled and Crippen had begun an affair with his young secretary, Ethel le Neve. On the 19th January 1910, Crippen visited a chemist to purchase five grains of hydro bromide of hyosin; an enormous dosage of a deadly poison. He signed the poison book like he was supposed to, with the words “for homeopathic purposes.”
On the 31st January, the Crippens held a little party at home. Later, Crippen would claim that it had been followed by a terrible quarrel between him and his wife. Cora had said that she was leaving him the very next day. Whatever really happened that night the guests at that party were the last people to see Cora Crippen alive. To explain Cora’s absence Crippen claimed that she had gone back to America and then he later said that she had died out there. Very suspicious Cora’s friends now paid a visit to New Scotland Yard. The case was taken up by Detective Chief Inspector Walter Dew, a veteran of the Ripper murders. He was a member of the Yard’s newly formed “murder squad”. Its members prided themselves on their prowess and their skills in disguises – however unconvincing. Chief Inspector Dew searched Crippen’s house for evidence but found nothing. But he wasn’t quite satisfied. He went back three days later for another look and discovered that Crippen had disappeared. “My quarry has gone,” he said.
Crippen’s house, where a block of flats now stands held a strange attraction for Dew. “That sinister cellar,” he wrote, “draws me to it.” His sergeant began to work away at the brick floor, then to remove the earth beneath. There was a nauseating stench and Dew and his men had to rush out to the garden for fresh air. Fortifying themselves with brandy, they returned to the cellar and soon made a grim discovery. There, in a shallow grave, lay a limbless headless torso. What kind of person could have done this? Surely not gentle Doctor Crippen?
The story caused a frenzy of excitement, with lurid headlines in the popular press. Inspector Dew was now under enormous pressure to catch the killer.
And then, that sensational telegram arrived from the mid-Atlantic.
Chief Inspector Dew now hatched an ingenious plan – he had to take a faster ship to overtake the Montrose before it reached Canada and to arrest Crippen on board. And the press were hard on his heels. Word had leaked out about what was happening on the SS Montrose. Newspaper readers could follow Dew’s pursuit as he closed in on his suspects at the rate of three and a half miles an hour.
This story has it all. As well as a gruesome murder, there is an illicit romance and a chase across the Atlantic. And best of all, the suspects didn’t have a clue that the police were onto them, although every newspaper reader in Britain did. Doctor Crippen had become the most famous murderer in the world.
Dew attempted to evade the journalists by disguising himself as a harbour pilot in order to board the Montrose. But it was no good. Reporters were there to capture the moment when Dew finally greeted his suspect with the words; “Good morning Doctor Crippen.” Can you imagine an actor and director lingering over that line – the pace, the dramatic pause?
Press photographers caught everything that happened next. The crowds waiting at Liverpool docks. Dew escorting Crippen off the boat. The anticipation outside Bow Streets magistrate’s court for the committal of Crippen and Le Neve.
The press had made the couple into a highly marketable commodity. This was a very modern murder.
Bizarre offers now began to come in. If they were acquitted Crippen would get £1000 a week for a twenty week tour. le Neve would receive £200 a week for a performance including a musical sketch entitled “Caught by Wireless.”
On the 18th of October the trial of Doctor Crippen began at the Old Bailey. This was going to be a huge spectacle. Four thousand people applied for tickets, the court had to issue special half day passes so that double the normal numbers could get in. In the words of the Daily Mail’s reporter;
“…the crowds begged, pleaded and argued for seats in the public gallery.”
Inside there was even more chaos. There was a rowdy atmosphere, like a music hall. People were shouting ‘blue tickets that way, red tickets up here.”
The trial ended on Saturday the 22nd of October. The jury only took twenty seven minutes to find Crippen guilty of wilful murder. He was sentenced to death.
In his evidence on oath, Crippen said that his wife had often threatened to leave him and had picked a quarrel with him over his behaviour while they were having friends round for dinner. Recounting the last time he saw her, he said:
She abused me, and said some very strong things; she said that if I could not be a gentleman she had had enough of it and could not stand it any longer and she was going to leave. That was similar to her former threats, but she said besides something she had not said before; she said that after she had gone it would be necessary for me to cover up any scandal there might be by her leaving me, and I might do it in the very best way I could. I came back the next day at my usual time, which would be about half-past seven or eight o'clock, and found that the house was vacant.
The trial ended on Saturday the 22nd of October. The jury only too twenty seven minutes to find Crippen guilty of wilful murder. He was sentenced to death.
The jury took just 27 minutes to reject Crippen's explanations for his wife's disappearance and convict him of murder.
Crippen was executed on 23 November 1910, less than four months after his arrest. His last request was to have a photo of Ethel Le Neve in his top pocket when he was hanged. He was buried in the cemetery at Pentonville prison.
Ethel le Neve, at a separate trial was acquitted and she lost no time in selling her side of the story. A publicity shot shows her in her infamous disguise as a boy. But her fame was short lived. It was Crippen himself that would be imortalised. Even during his trial sculptors at Madame Taussaud’s had been preparing a wax figure based on those snatched court photographs. Within days of the passing of Crippen’s death sentence Taussaud’s unveiled their new addition to the chamber of horrors. Crippen was on display to the public before he’d even met the hangman.
And over one hundred years later he is still on show.
In the 1912 catalogue to the Chamber of Horrors he takes his place amongst the greats. His fellow doctor, William Palmer the poisoner. And opposite the 19th century murderess, Maria Manning. They have a description of their crimes in the catalogue. Doctor Crippen has none. Everyone knows who he is; what he did.
And a contemporary journalist described this place, the Chamber of Horrors as “the holiest of holies.” These were the people everyone wanted to see. What does that say about the Edwardians?
Indeed; what does it say about all of us? Public hangings are no more; but I bet people would go to see them if they were. I recall watching the Crime channel (I’m addicted to it. It’s my version of a seat in the public gallery at the Old Bailey) there were crowds outside the jail where they’d got Ted Bundy. They cheered when it was announced that his death sentence had been carried out.
It seems that a lurid fascination with murderers and death did not die with the Edwardians.
You can read statements taken by the police and transcripts from the trial here;
TV viewers of BBC 4 will recognise that I have plundered parts of “A Very British Murder” presented by Lucy Worsley. The rest of the post has been put together using sources from the web.
Friday, 20 February 2015
It’s two in the morning. In the opening scene of Edward Albee’s WHO’ AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, George and Martha stumble home tipsy, from a party. They bicker, in the way drunks do about things that don’t really matter. They laugh; stupidly.
The loud snap of a door latch. Action!
Martha; “What a dump!” The play begins.
Yes, it's 2am and Dionysus is on the prowl. Dionysus is alive and well this night in New England in the 20th century. His red gaze falls on his two old disciples, George and Martha. The beast has been unleashed; he wakes from his long slumber, and snarls. George and Martha will act out Dionysus’ ritual and sacrifice. They will scream and go mad. They will paw and claw at each other. They will do real damage. The ritual will end in death, just as it did every year centuries ago, in Eleusis.
Dionysus is the Greek god of fertility, wine, and ecstasy. A complex deity Dionysus played two very different roles in Greek mythology. As the god of fertility he was closely linked with crops, the harvest, and the changing of the seasons. As the god of wine and ecstasy he was associated with drunkenness, madness, and unrestrained sexuality. His nature included a productive, life-giving side and a bestial, destructive side.
The audience know immediately, that George and Martha have acted out this orgy of violent, verbal bloodletting before. How we know; well, no-one tells us, it’s just a gut feeling. The humiliating word games they play; “Get the Guest.” The stories that they tell suggest that this obscene rite has been performed before. George and Martha are in the grip of a repetition compulsion. Just as Hades and Persephone act out their ritual of death and re-birth so do George and Martha. The Dionysian mysteries were repeated annually; the sacrifice, the ritual tearing of human flesh to please the god ensured healthy crops and fertility for the coming year.
George and Martha are part of this eternal conflict. Their game is cyclical and they play it through to its bitter conclusion. Only then can they achieve sanity, sanctity and restore order.
Two guests arrive and they are immediately drawn into George and Martha’s ugly little scenario.
I watched the film of WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, this week. I didn’t want to; I knew I was in for a rough ride. I’ve seen the stage play and seen the film. Both left me shattered. The film stars Richard Burton as George and Elizabeth Taylor as Martha. George Segal is Scott and Sandy Dennis is Honey. The film is made in black and white which works well; the stark images helping to convey the creeping, sinister feeling that everything is slipping out of control. Usually, I would prefer to watch a stage play over a film, but the close up camera work lingering on facial expressions adds to the tension. I feel as if I’ve watched a violation, something profane. Something I should have stopped but was helpless to do anything.
There’s a hopeless, helpless slippage going on that things are not what they seem.
This is psychological terrorism.
At one point, Martha says to George. “Truth and illusion. You don’t know the difference.” George responds; “No, but we carry on as if we do; the illusion can be as true as we want it to be.”
While Martha is showing Honey where the bathroom is, George tests Nick's verbal sparring skills, but the young man is no match for his host. Realizing that he and his wife are becoming embroiled in the middle of marital warfare he suggests they depart, but George cajoles him into staying.
Upon returning to the living room alone, Honey innocently mentions to George she was unaware he and Martha had a son on the verge of celebrating his sixteenth birthday.
Martha has broken the rules by talking about their son, and will be, must be punished.
But at this stage of the play, it is Martha who is controlling the action. George seems like an amateur compared to Martha’s bitter vitriol.
Martha reappears in a new outfit - sleek fitting slacks and a revealing blouse - and when her husband makes a snide remark about the ensemble, she begins to demean his abilities as a teacher, then escalates her seduction of Nick complimenting him on the body he has
developed as quarterback and a state boxing champion, while criticizing George's paunch.
Honey again raises the subject of George and Martha's son prompting the couple to engage in a conversation which Martha quickly tries to end without success.
To counterattack George's relentless comments about the boy she tells their guests her husband is unsure the child is his own. They argue about the colour of the boy's eyes until George threatens to expose the truth about the boy. Martha is furious and accuses him of being a failure, whose youthful idealistic plans for the future slowly deteriorated as he came to realize he wasn't aggressive enough to follow in his father-in-law's footsteps leaving her stuck with a flop. Inebriated and upset by Martha's behaviour, Honey rushes from the room.
Honey’s comical hysterical exits and entrances provide the audience with a much needed relaxation of tension. We are already feeling battered; we need to breathe before the next round of screeching, screaming annihilation. It’s a relief to be allowed to laugh; it’s only when we laugh at Honey’s antics, we realise how our jaws have been set in a grimace of horror, like Munch’s SCREAM.
Honey is the Greek Chorus, commenting inanely, sometimes profoundly on the action. Sometimes she simply repeats the last word of the dialogue. Sandy Dennis’ wonderful comic timing, and physical comedy, releases us from the tension for just a beat, or two.
Honey wants to dance; she loves to dance. “I dance like the wind,” she tells us, while skipping and waving a silk shawl. Her dance is reminiscent of a Dionysian orgy.
“Following the torches as they dipped and swayed in the darkness, they climbed mountain paths with head thrown back and eyes glazed, dancing to the beat of the drum which stirred their blood. In this state of ekstasis or enthusiasmos, they abandoned themselves, dancing wildly and shouting 'Euoi!' [the god's name] and at that moment of intense rapture became identified with the god himself. They became filled with his spirit and acquired divine powers.” (WIKI)
The play is overshadowed by children, or the lack of them. Honey has had an “hysterical pregnancy.” “She goes up, she goes down.” One of the first questions George asks of Scott is whether he and Honey have children. George tells a story about a boy, blonde haired and beautiful. He shot his mother and killed his father in a road accident. He’d swerved to avoid a porcupine. The story has a peculiar resonance with what George says to Martha about their own son.
Martha; “our son is coming home tomorrow, for his 16th birthday.” George tells her that their son is dead. He drove into a tree, trying to avoid a porcupine on the road. Martha bursts into an hysterical rage. George has killed their son. He has no right.
But George has taken control of the action. He was in control all along; the audience and Martha just didn’t realise it.
Martha asks George, where is the telegram notifying them of the death of their son? George says he’s eaten it. He hasn’t; there was no telegram. Honey colludes with George. She tells Martha, “He did eat it, I watched him.” George’s statement is a blatant, bitter parody of the Eucharist. Transubstantiation; the participant consumes the wafer, the body of Christ. The disciple consumes the Divine and becomes the Divine.
Was any of this true? Was there a son? Was a boy, killed? We don’t know, and that really is unsettling. We know that the telegram is a lie; what else is a lie?
There’s a strange feeling of calm as George begins to pray. The final act is entitled “Exorcism.” Is this an exorcism or a requiem? A prayer for reconciliation? Is it a funeral mass? While George is reciting the prayer, Martha talks. The two voices speaking simultaneously, produce a rhythmic, calming, lulling effect. Order is slowly being restored.
George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)
George; Christe Eleison. (Christ have mercy.)
George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)
Honey; Amen. (So be it.) Honey, as the Chorus, speaks the final word of the prayer ending Dionysus’ revels. The games are over.
Kyrie Eleison is Greek, and is a part of many liturgical rites in Eastern and Western Christianity.
Scott and Honey leave, almost unnoticed. George and Martha relax. The actors take their curtain call. The credits roll to Alex North’s tranquil music. George and Martha prepare to go to bed.
Friday, 13 February 2015
‘Good pussy bad pussy. I knew something had awakened in me, something I’d never experienced before. A force, a power, a drive, an energy. Call it good pussy, call it bad pussy, call it whatever you will, but a life force had been awakened in me and I couldn’t put it (her) back to sleep again. Right or wrong, she was awake! She was alive! And she wanted more.’
In this fascinating tale of forbidden sex and guilty pleasures, readers can follow the beautiful and naive Rachel in her dangerous attempt to be free, follow her heart and satisfy her pussy – all at the same time!
From Amsterdam to the French Riviera to New York City… from her blond lover Stefan, to the aristocratic Albert, and mad doctor Howard, Rachel tastes the forbidden fruit – and likes it. That is until life takes a very surprising turn! And yet another…
Tim Spencer interviews A. Aimee about her book “Good Pussy Bad Pussy – Rachel’s Tale”
Tim Spencer Question:
In your book, Rachel has to leave her husband to experience the orgasmic bliss she is seeking. Was her leaving him driven by a conscious need that she had for this experience? Did she understand what was really happening with her? And, if it's possible, how do you see such experiences of orgasmic bliss influencing other aspects of people's lives.
A. Aimee Answer:
In my understanding, orgasm – the big O that we are all seeking – is truly a portal to ecstasy, a state of timeless awareness and the death of the ego, which is so blissful. And that I believe is why we’re all so desperately seeking this experience. That’s my understanding of it. Orgasm, or the great surrender, is such an amazing experience because finally we let go and give up everything. Everything! In other words, in that state of blissful surrender we even give up thinking and worrying about everything and anything that’s bothering us. At least for a few moments! So at least for a few moments, we truly lose our minds! And then, oh great glory and wonder, we are finally fully present in our lives in this now moment. No wonder we find it so extraordinary!
So I wanted to write a book about a woman who experiences this blissful surrender at great depths. And I also wanted to write about a woman who finds these states of orgasmic bliss outside of our so-called “normal” couple relationships (marriage) and in situations that are often quite beyond what we think is acceptable. In my story, Rachel is often shocked and surprised when she discovers that her body can respond in one way even if her mind was screaming something else. Hence the title – Good Pussy Bad Pussy.
Tim Spencer Question:
Through all the events that happened in Rachel's life in this story, is it logical to conclude that Rachel found that living a life that cannot be sustained emotionally is unfulfilling? What do you think it takes for a woman today to live an emotionally fulfilling life?
A. Aimee Answer:
Yes, in the end, Rachel was not willing to put up with a mediocre life that was emotionally unfulfilling. She was ready to live “outside the box” so to speak even if she couldn’t always find her way or see the consequences of her actions. At least she was willing to give it a try and go after a deeper level of satisfaction – even if it had unexpected karmic consequences for her. So yes, I think all of us – both women and men – are seeking a deeper emotional fulfilment than most of us are experiencing.
Tim Spencer Question:
Do you think that ultimately Rachel learned, through all her experiences and relationships in the book, that what she was really looking for was someone she could love and be with? Or, if there was more to it, what was it?
A. Aimee Answer:
Rachel wasn’t so hung up on the idea of marriage and couple relationships – rather she was seeking true intimacy – however that would reveal itself in her life. Seeking this demands real courage, as she found out. And honesty.
Tim Spencer Question:
Finally, was it all of the experiences that she had and the people she experienced in the book the reason she came to choose a career in psychology? What did she come to "see" that made her want to help others in this way?
A. Aimee Answer:
Traumatic experiences such as Rachel had often make us question our beliefs and spark a desire to go deeper and understand more. This was definitely the case with Rachel. And I continue to explore this and the other themes in the next Good Pussy Bad Pussy book.
Tim Spencer Question:
Wait, one more final question... is there a second book in the works for Good Pussy Bad Pussy? Do you have an expected release date?
A. Aimee Answer:
Yes I’ve just finished another Good Pussy Bad Pussy book. The title of the new book is “Good Pussy Bad Pussy in Captivity”! It will be released in the fall of 2015. You can look forward to a deeper exploration of these themes, lots more drama and adventure, and yes, lots more hot sex!
Good Pussy Bad Pussy is getting fantastic reviews!
The book is getting great reviews all around including so many 5 Star reviews on Amazon and Goodreads such as:
Good Pussy Bad Pussy is a “great freaking book! 5 Stars” says blogger and book reviewer @ReneeGiraldy on her blog. Read more here:
“Good Pussy Bad Pussy is one of those pieces of work once read, never forgotten. 5 Stars” says Darla Hogan on Amazon. And he continues: “An uncomfortable story but one that needs to be told, and read.” Read more here;
“There’s enough craze and kink, tears and thrill, romance and repentance to make Good Pussy Bad Pussy a perfect gift.” Doris Dawn, sex blogger on her blog and on Goodreads:
“Good Pussy Bad Pussy is brave, wonderfully done, it hooks me in and grabs my interest from the start,” writes blogger and book reviewer Sylvia Storm. Read more here:
For more see: www.goodpussybadpussy.com
Or contact the author at: firstname.lastname@example.org
The book is available on Amazon and from other sellers as a printed book, Kindle and ebook.
Interview posted on Tim Spencer’s Web site here:
Tim Spencer’s narration of the start of “Good Pussy Bad Pussy” here:
Good Pussy Bad Pussy trailer by Tim Spencer, here.
Links for A. Aimee
“Good Pussy Bad Pussy” purchase links:
Amazon com: Amazon Kindle: Amazon.co.uk:
Friday, 6 February 2015
I wonder how many of you know my friend Oatmeal Girl? I’m using the word ‘know’ reservedly – as far as it is possible to know someone in this, rather desolate at times, cyber landscape. I’ve never met Oatmeal Girl – we only really became aware of each other when we both had stories published in 2010, in Logical Lust’s ‘Best S&M III’.
I know that she follows my blog – silently – very, very occasionally leaving me an astute, thoughtful comment…I know from those comments that I am communicating with a refined intellect…a lover of words, finding the right word…the perfect word following the perfect word.
But most of what I know about Oatmeal Girl comes from her blog – ‘Submission and Metaphor’. From her intriguing poems and poetic prose I learn that she is a submissive woman in a compelling relationship. Oatmeal Girl speaks exquisitely of how she willingly relinquishes control bowing humbly to the man whom she loves and adores, her Master. She refers to him as ‘the Sadist,’ sometimes as ‘the Fiend. The Sadist knows what is best for her – the tasks he sets her are acts born of love, just as Oatmeal Girl’s dedication to the tasks are a demonstration of her love and devotion for him.
Yes, they love -- but let’s not be shy about this daunting, haunting relationship -- Oatmeal Girl tells of butt plugs, caning, chains, collars, floggings, masochism, masturbation, orgasm denial and spankings. These are the things that inform their love for one another. It must be an exhausting relationship at times and not just for the submissive who time after time submits to the ordeal. The Dominant has to plan, organise, take care of his submissive and take care of himself – keep himself physically fit, emotionally fit too.
At this point it seems appropriate to give Oatmeal Girl the opportunity to read what I’m saying about her, so I forwarded my ramblings to her. Here is her response – as you will read – in some ways I am right – in others I fall way off the mark.
“What intrigues me is the impression you have of the relationship from the glimpses I've given into some of my emotional reactions to it. What you (and many others) mainly see at this point - because that's what it seems I've been describing - is the love part of it. Which is only part of the foundation of the relationship. As the fiend reminds me periodically - and as I know deep down inside - the CORE of the relationship, which we must never stray from, is that he really IS my Master. I really do belong to him. Oh, not in some sort of slave registry thing. But in a very real internal sense. He really does see into my soul, he knows me, he freed me, his dominance isn't based on tearing me down but on building me up and teaching me to treasure myself the way he treasures me. We don't just "draw heavily on S&M." The power exchange is the foundation for it all. And it was only after years of training, with catastrophes along the way, that the BDSM side of it was solid enough that it became safe for him to connect with me - at times - as a lover and as a friend.
Which is obviously something I haven't made clear enough on the blog.
It is certainly fine for you to speak about us as you have, based on what you have gleaned from my writing. And, in fact, now it really is a love relationship. Now and then, speaking to him, I'll refer to "all the different ways we are together", referring to my being his mistress, his pet, his submissive, his slave, and his own little girl. But eventually that makes him uneasy, and he'll repeat that if we lost sight of the core, we will lose our way and get into trouble.
And he's right.
BDSM isn't something we just DO.
It is not a game.
This is what we are.
Deep inside, in truth, this is what we are.
But there's nothing you've written that reveals anything that should not be revealed. So that's fine.
Where you call him my "Dominant Master" I would just say he's my Master.
What you say about planning and organizing is absolutely true. He does work things out in a very detailed way before each visit and has a long-range plan as well."
Recently, a fellow tweeter told me that the stories that I write are disgraceful. Apparently, I write of sex without love; I write of pain, degradation and cruelty – She hasn’t actually read any of my stories, she just somehow ‘knows’ what they’re like. If I could be bothered to have a dialogue with her, which I cannot do because she has blocked me on all social media, I would argue that my stories are about people who are very much in love – they just happen to have ‘kinks’ and it is how those kinks inform their relationship -- that is what I find interesting.
And that is why I am intrigued by Oatmeal Girl – despite the S&M, her poems and poetic prose are a dedication of her love for the ‘Sadist’, the man she adores – the man who adores her. She is in an all-consuming love affair with the Sadist – without him, she is nothing – without him she would shrivel and die, like the autumn leaves on my magnolia tree -- exquisitely scarlet when they fall, only to turn muddy brown, found in the spring, as thin and fragile as finest tissue paper in their skeletal remains.
You can visit Oatmeal Girl’s blog “Submission and Metaphor” here.
Follow Oatmeal Girl on Twitter. @oatmeal_girl