More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (33. Evol Deklaw ni)

That’s In Walked Love, backwards. There’s a jazz tune by that name. Our big band at Uni played it.

TWO of CUPS (inverted). Love. Harmony of male and female in the largest sense and all that goes with it, pleasure, warmth, etc. Inverted, it could mean folly, dissipation or waste.

Or it could mean the loss of love. Allen asked for the ring back. I can understand why. I haven’t worn it since my epiphany … um, episode. I still love him, I think, but I can’t reconcile what I’ve done … sleeping with Max, then allowing myself to be possessed.

The worst part of it all is blabbing … blogging all about it. That alienated Allen, and was generally unforgivable. I don’t blame him. Maybe it is time to pull the plug. I know you wank … want to heal … hear all about my infatuation with Marcel and my time as the High Priestess of the coterie. Maybe you want me to give in to my bisexual fantasies and shake up … shack up with Evie or go back to London and Christa. She’s too young for me, and I wouldn’t want the responsibility of healing … helping to rear her daughter.

Frankly, what happens in the coterie is probably secret, and I need to heal … hence the reason I keep typing that word when I mean to type something else. Yes, my soul needs time to heal, and adding my verbal diarrhoea to the Internet probably isn’t helping matters.

So that means I’m going to cool it for a while. I’ll pop back when I feel strong enough. Eirica is almost finished. She’s won her man (as much as she wanted to), and all that is left is a short epilogue, which I’ll post in a few days. I don’t know what I’ll do with that blog afterwards. Maybe start a new story … a story of healing … a story of becoming Scottish … a magical story of ghosts, castles … of healing. Who knows where I’ll take it. Anyway …

The bite-marks still hurt.

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More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (9. Shameless Hussy)

XIX. The Sun. Glory, gain, riches, pleasure … enough of that, let’s get to the appropriate ones … shamelessness, arrogance, and vanity.

Did you miss me? I spent the whole weekend on a binge write – the one that I mentioned in my last post. I’m not going to describe it here, but you can find it at http://ericajohnstonesobsession.wordpress.com/ . That’s my punt at glory, gain and riches.

Well, I didn’t blow the entire weekend on it. I had rehearsals and a concert on Saturday, as well as another on Sunday afternoon. I do have to work, you know.

When I wasn’t writing I was being bad, very, very bad. Puddle-duck told me so. I still smell like corn oil. Saturday night wasn’t too bad, safely deluded … err, secluded in the privacy of my bedroom. Why oh why did I mention that it was unseasonably warm on Sunday? Believe it or not, it was Lore’s suggestion that I take it outside. She’s usually quiet, but she can be the most cruel, as if she is testing me for my suitability for their sisterhood. Outside, under the full moon, drenched in corn oil, screaming obscenities when I came at 2 am. I’m normally quiet, but they pushed and pushed until I let it slip … um, rip … well, both actually.

I fortunately have a fairly large back garden, so when I woke the neighbours, they didn’t get much of a show – not much, but their son did. The teenager got a good view out his back window.

Unfortunately, Lore wasn’t finished with me. While the boy watched, I took it off the mat and into the mud. (It had rained all day and my garden was a swamp.) I wasn’t all that noisy the second time, but the boy knew what I was doing. The moon was so bright, almost like daylight, and I left a light on above the back porch that illuminated me enough for the camera (and the boy).

What am I doing? It’s like an addiction. I can’t say no, and I can’t stop once I’ve started. I need help, but will I get it? No. I don’t want it. I do, but I don’t, if you know what I mean.

I’m trying to pour my soul into Erica Johnstone, but I’m afraid there is precious little of it left. Buffy (you know who I mean – from my novel) lost it to Alaron who vaporized. It’s gone.

What more could they have in store for me tonight? I can’t tie myself up, and I’m too afraid of the sight of blood to cut myself. (I hide all my knives in drawers in the kitchen. I’m really paranoid about it!) Am I ready for induction to their clit, err cult? No paradigms … paragraphs … paratroopers … (???) … uh, paraphernalia tonight.

I fear that even more.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (2. Powering Down)

It’s nearly 4 am. We had a thunderstorm around midnight that knocked out our power, and only now has the electricity returned. My luck … uh, battery ran out around 2 am, so I’ve been burning in hell … err, huddling next to the fire for two hours waiting to post my blog tonight. St Louis can be rather cold in October.

Nights like tonight, I wonder if my life is ruled by my tarot deck. Tonight’s draw was:

10 of Disks: POWER. (inverted) It usually means prosperity, but inverted it can mean insecurity, a mild loss, or heaviness.

Tonight it had little to do with electricity. Max – that’s my trumpet player’s name – sent me an email asking me if I wanted to chat on the internet. I’ve always avoided it, because you never know what it might lead to. In my weakness I gave in.

It wasn’t I who was the wielder of flower … power tonight.

One poorly timed stammer, and I found myself trading places … um, glances … err, sexual innuendos with him. I think that was what he anticipated, so it wasn’t long before I found myself staring at my webcam touching my naked self for his benefit, something he refused to reciprocate – video, yes, but his clothing stayed on. (He claimed his wife was sleeping in the next room.)

Wife?!!!!!!

I would swear I heard someone with him when I climaxed. (I knew he was just faking it, and no, I didn’t know he was married – the prick.) At that point I was too far into it to care.

Now is another story. I’m certain he decorated … decoded … um … recorded it, and I’m certain he plans to use it against me. (If you followed me in the past, you already know how insecure and depraved I am.)

My weakness last night has translated into complete idiocy tonight. Can’t wait for tomorrow.

More Late Night with Ezzie Dryar (1. Bound, contains swearing)

I’m b-b-b-back blogging, stuttering, in my typed turd … turkey … Tourettes again.

Allen had visa problems, and marrying would have complicated my green card. He’s back in London, and I haven’t seen him for a couple of mouths, moths, err … months. He was good at writing, but his work got in the way, and my work did, too. I’ve never been bound in chains before … um, bound to an orchestra by contract before, and I miss the freedom. It will be June before I can get any time off to go back to London.

I might as well just say it. I’ve slept with someone else. It just happened, and it didn’t mean anything. I’m such a ship, shift, slut … uh … shit. He was a trumpet player who was on trial … with the orchestra … for the principal sport … spot. I was out of his hotel room before the sun rose, and he was on a plane back to Pittsburg before the sun set – no phone number, no email, nothing.

I feel dirty. Allen and I never agreed on a date for the wedding, and I was beginning to wonder if we would. Now, I know that we won’t. If I didn’t love him enough to stay halibut … celibate … exclusive, it won’t happen now. I’m up late nights again, thinking things I shouldn’t, mostly about sex, to be completely honest, and that isn’t a good thing. I boiled up into a frenzy. The trumpet player, Mark, Mack, Max – whatever – and I were talking, and I asked him if he wanted to go for a fuck, err, walk.

He chose the former, and I was unable to say no. I hope I’m not pregnant. (I shouldn’t be, and I shouldn’t be blowing … flogging … egging … blogging about it.)

Calm down, Ezzie.

My tarot is calling me again, so I’ve drawn a card tonight.

QUEEN of Cups (inverted): Is that me now? – dreamy, imaginative, yet not willing to take much trouble for another. She’s much affected by outside influences.

I just can’t say no. I’m doooooooooooooooooooooomed.