The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

I was asked recently what I get from using the Vampire Rave.

It's simple.

Confession.

I get to confess all my dirty little secrets and upsetting memories that build up inside of me like a toxin and release them into my journals anonymously.

I stick that message in a bottle and throw it out into the sea with little repercussion.

And it makes me feel better.

I sometimes pour my heart out here.

As in the case of my blog 'Baby'

I sat there and sobbed writing that.

Sobbed until my eyes were red. And it helped. Some members who read that blog thought it was a piece of creative writing. A story. A fiction. Yet it was all true. And it barely skimmed the surface of my relationship with Baby. I may return to Baby's story one day. I really think I might.

In the case of my blog when I wrote about my parents. Not a single tear fell. I felt no emotion writing it. None.

I write a lot because I barely sleep.

I went to bed at something to midnight last night and woke up to start my day at two-thirty am. That's an average night for me. It's just how it is. And I spend my early mornings writing. Not just here at the Rave. I make a living writing. But this, here, this is my outlet, this is my confession. This is where I get to let my mind free. And I can't tell you how good that feels. And I have so many stories I want to share.

How long will I stay in the Vampire Rave? I don't know. How long will it last? I've spent years on other sites until they crumbled away through time. And sadly, it seems I joined the Rave on its downward journey rather than its upcoming peak.

Willpower.

I've always had a problem with a lack of willpower.

There's always a tipping point where I can convince myself that I don't have to keep my word. Whether to God or to a person.

I'm not noble or particularly trustworthy. I consider myself honest. I don't steal. I try not to lie. But when it comes to my emotional needs, I have no willpower, or very little.

Especially when it comes to feeding. It's a rubbish term in silly lore. But it's still there for me. I feed. I need it. I like it. I want it. I pretend I don't. I tell God I don't. I even tell Satan I don't. But I do. I always wanted it. And every time I've abstained. It's been a lie. A lie to myself, to God and to everyone in my life.

I've fed for decades and spent even more decades torturing myself trying not to feed. I've fed on males, and I've fed on females — all adult consensual activities, let's get that out of the way — and it's a dream, it's a living, walking, talking, breathing, dream.

If you do feed, and you are out there reading this, you know what it feels like. You know what it makes you feel, you know how deep you can go, what it turns you into, where it takes you, and what it does to your mind and your body.

Why would I want to be anything else? Why cower? Why do I hide?

Why not simply be?

Because I'm afraid of losing my soul.

It is that simple. My readers may not believe in God or Satan. I don't live in your world. I live in mine. And in my world, God and Satan exist and hold a person's soul to account.

And I don't want to spend an eternity in hell.

I'm afraid of that and I try to appease God by abstaining from drinking blood.

And I try to appease Satan by acknowledging his presence in my life.

I wrote a blog a while back called 'The art of fence sitting'

In it I describe my refusal to make a final choice between living under God's rule, or Satan's.

Yet my choice has never been between good or evil, for I have seen more evil in God's world than I have ever seen in Satan's world. In the dark, those places where I feed, those places where I love, those places where I am loved. We don't have spats in the dark, we don't argue, we don't fall out, we live comfortably, we share, we enjoy each other.

Yet I have spent so long hiding from all of those things through self-imposed abstinence for the above reasons.

I have turned my back on myself.

I have locked a part of myself away within my own mind and forced it to stay there.

I hear that part of myself every single moment of my waking existence crying, screaming and pleading, to be let out, to be allowed to live. To be let to feed.

I have pretended to myself that containment of my needs works. That I'm fine. That I can simply remove 80% of my entire being by refusing to acknowledge it. It's not 80%. It feels more like 99%.

And the only reason I can think of why I do that, is for God. I do love Him, but what am I doing?

What am I doing?

What am I putting myself through?

Am I dragging myself through this Earthly existence, refusing to give in to my need for blood in the vain hope that God will look kindly on me at the end of my life and grant me a place in heaven?

I know this is why I abstain.

But the person God takes into heaven on that day will not be me.

It will be a hollowed-out version of me who spent his life denying that the greatest moment of his life was when blood ran down his throat.

I miss myself.

There is a person within me and he is my greatest love. He even surpasses my wife.

Sometimes, I let him out. Not often these days. I shackled him. I locked him away.

He is beautiful. He harms no one. All he wants to do is feed. He lives to feed. It's all he thinks about, and he is good at it, he's an expert at it, he doesn't miss a drop. He's been feeding so long he's like a surgeon, not a surgeon, an artist, an artist in love with blood. He cares for blood. He loves it. It was the greatest love of his life. And he needs it. And I keep it from him.

It's not him. It's me. He is me.

I'm hiding from myself. Always hiding. I want blood. I want my wife's blood. She gives it as easily as offering me a coffee in the morning when I ask for it. And I drink. And I feel. And from the tips of my toes to the follicles on my head, everything tingles, and I have to tense my muscles tightly, tightly because every part of me erupts in orgasmic sensations, and tightening my muscles intensifies that pleasure and I close my eyes and just experience that beautiful moment.

I got lost at that moment.

That moment changed me. And when I open my eyes. I'm not the same person I was before her blood ran down my throat.

I'm something else.

I'm plugged into something else.

Something forbidden by God.

It's Adam's apple level forbidden.

And it's really difficult to face.

I feel like I'm giving God the one finger salute when I feed.

I am lost.

I have been since I turned.

I can't be anything else now.

It's like asking a drowning man not to drown.

Can I hang on? To live this life, go to heaven, look down upon Earth and think phew, glad I didn't give into my cravings. I won that game.

But what about now? What about today?

What about tomorrow? And the next day and the next.

Every day, I spend time trying to kill a part of myself.

God Himself knows, my wife far prefers the other side of me, she brought that side of me into the world, nurtured it, fed it, made it, and loved it, and here's me abstaining, like a weak little soul begging for God's favour.

I want to fall.

I think since losing Baby, it was inevitable.

I don't really mean the odd feed. I mean staying fallen. Being fallen. Leaving God.

I've always felt happier that way.

It's a big step. An easy step. A quick step. An instant step. But a big step.

Can I hold on?

Do I want to?

I don't know.

I'm two different people inside one body. And both God and Satan will only take one.

There is no harmony for me. Until I choose which part of me dies. And sadly, the only part of me that can die, is the light.

Do I need to say that my battle is already lost?

Am I delaying the inevitable?

Rhetorical.

------------------

I lost a couple of comments attached to this blog. I've no idea why. I'm sorry your replies have vanished. It seems to happen when I come back to the blog and edit something.

I joined the Vampire Rave two weeks ago.

Within two hours of me joining, someone jacked my honor points into the negative. And then left a comment telling me to leave them alone. I hadn't spoken to a soul at that point.

Whoever that was, they came back the same day and fucked up my honor points some more. Then they left some messages about me being a weirdo and a sick fuck.

Over the following days, my honor score was repeatedly tanked by anons.

I felt my first week was going poorly.

Then some of the nicer members of the Rave contacted me, gave me advice, supported me, and even bumped up my honor points.

A few days later, I posted a blog and a sock puppet quickly appeared and commented that they'd sent that blog to the police. Some shit about it being too sexy for this site's members.

The same afternoon, another sock appeared simply to have a rant at the admins about me, and to call me a paedophile. Then he got flushed. Like a turd. Down a hole.

It wasn't the best week I'd had upon joining a website, but nonetheless I decided to stay and wrote a short blog offering friendship to whoever I'd pissed off.

I got no response.

Well I did, they spent the next few days shitting on my honor points and profile scores.

A week later, I received a private message from a sock puppet pretending to be a 15-year-old girl telling me she was lonely. I blocked it.

At that point, things started to spoil for me here because I couldn't trust anyone who messaged me barring the few I'd gotten acquainted with who were helping me get to know the site.

Then my blogs came under attack. A sock puppet appeared solely to insult one of my personal journal entries.

I'm new to the Rave.

Despite its membership, the Vampire Rave is not a very active site, and less than 30 members use their journals often. It took me 20 minutes to find all of my attackers — you can hide your real profiles behind sock puppets, but you can't hide your words from me. Your unique word choices, phraseology, idiolect, consistent punctuation errors, stylistic patterns. You may as well have sent me a selfie.

Sadly, a part of me likes the conflict I've experienced here. And since so many of you seem to enjoy that kind of thing, instead of simply getting along, carry on.

COMMENTS

-

---

CuRsEdToDaRkNeSs
20:18 Apr 21 2026

Sadly, every website has it's troll, the type that have nothing better to do than dwell in the basement of a home they do not own and just try to strip the enjoyment of websites for others. I consider those types, no better than pond scum and have zero time to allow them space in my mind. Enjoy VR and let the derps... derp. lol.

---

Adain
05:06 Apr 22 2026

Thank you for your reply. I believe you're right. Some are like that. Some trolls are exactly like that.

Others hold managerial positions, have egos out of control and can barely control their anger to their loved ones in real life. Well, that was before the divorce. Not a great relationship with their kids either. Takes a lot of anger out on people online. Then pushes himself into make-believe characters in his own mind based on things he's watched on the television and old Clint Eastwood movies.

They're all the same in the end. Arseholes.

---

Adain
07:41 Apr 22 2026

Apologies to anyone who left a message on this blog. I haven't deleted any. I don't know where they have gone.

I may have bugged things up when I did a bit of editing.

Again. Apologies.

---

POST COMMENT

Some years ago, my wife's sister introduced me to her new girlfriend. And at first sight I felt her girlfriend was an interloper.

My wife and her sister and I have a tight family, we live together, and I didn't want anyone else involved in our lives together.

It may sound selfish but I was comfortable. I was happy, I felt secure, and I wasn't in the mood for strange women to be easing themselves into my life by way of my wife's sister.

I didn't take to the sister's girlfriend at first at all. I simply flat out refused to entertain her, I didn't want her in my life.

The weeks passed. The girlfriend spent time at my house developing her relationship with my wife's sister. I kept my distance.

One Sunday morning, I was thinking about a million other things, and my wife's sister's girlfriend came down the stairs. She'd practically been living with us for six or so weeks by then, and she came down the stairs and gave me a look, and all I can say is, she broke my heart. In two. Right there. Right then.

Her eyes.

She stared straight into me.

And I couldn't help but stare into her.

And that was the first time I ever truly saw her.

And she was beautiful.

And I fell in love at that moment with her.

I became a child. Helpless. Needful. My heart. I felt like I wanted to envelop her in my love and protect her. I needed her. I loved her. Right then. In a single moment. I became a different person around her. She utterly ripped the skin off everything I had inside my mind to not become emotionally attached to her. And there, then, we began to be connected emotionally. She and I were not the same people we were a few seconds before. We were the people we had become at that moment. And at that moment, and forevermore, we loved each other. No build up, no chatting, no small talk, no getting to know each other, we simply loved each other. It took nothing more than a couple of moments of connection. And moving forward from there, we both accepted it. It didn't need words. It didn't need anything. It simply needed to be.

I became a child around her. I was besotted with her. I pandered to her needs. I did every single thing I could do to look after her. Nothing was too much trouble, because I held a horrible pain in my heart for her, and I became afraid of hurting her in any way, no matter how small. I needed her to be happy. I needed her to feel loved. I needed her to know she was wanted, and I needed her to know she was welcome.

How did my wife's sister feel about me falling for her girlfriend?

I sleep with my wife's sister too. It's in my other blogs. It's no secret if you read them.

My wife's sister's girlfriend. She had a peculiar name, so while the sisters and our friends would use her name despite it being a bit of a tongue twister, I simply fell into calling her Baby. It felt natural, it was comfortable and it stuck. And for all of her life, I never called her anything else.

She was my Baby.

My wife loved Baby deeply.

Her sister loved Baby deeply.

But I loved her more.

And Baby and I fell into a deep untouchable relationship both with my wife and her sister and apart from them.

I could hang out with Baby in a way I could never with my wife and her sister. The sisters are the adults of our household. I'm not. I'm a child within our family. I usually get told what to do and when to do it. The sisters arrange meal times and what we are eating. They arrange pretty much everything. I just usually keep quiet and go along with their plans and when we go shopping, I'm just the trolley pusher, they choose the food, I just unpack it, and that hierarchy is saturated throughout our life together. They even choose when the TV goes on and what we watch. I just go along with things.

Getting back to Baby, she was my buddy, we got to hang out, we'd scoot off upstairs often and climb into bed together with a pair of laptops, or books, and just hang out. It was the best of times. To have her next to me, the way she made me feel, just her near me, it made me feel something that I felt was perfect.

It wasn't what we did together, it was the way we both made each other feel and we became inseparable. We were the best of friends as well as lovers. In a sense, she became my world. She'd follow me in a way my wife never would. My wife is a lot stronger than me emotionally, and it affects and sets my relationship with her.

Yet with Baby, she saw me as a strong person who would, and did, look after her. I did, look after her.

She was beautiful and I mean that. Everyone says their spouse, girlfriend etc, is beautiful, but Baby was truly beautiful. You could put her in a room full of women, and she would stand out.

She was the kind of girl that could break your heart just by widening her eyes a little and focusing on yours. Baby, she was deeply special to me, and it's crap that's how I describe her — 'deeply special'—but if I started writing about her, I wouldn't stop for six hours. So Baby, you were, and always will be, deeply special.

And we all lived. We lived. Lived for years. Together. And time passed. And it went too quickly. It went the way when you're having a great time, and suddenly it's over, and you can't believe the time has gone so fast.

We all lived together. Until Baby died.

Why? How?

It's not for this blog.

Baby died in the autumn of last year.

My wife's sister, my wife, coped a lot better than I did.

Baby's death was as painful as I imagined it would be. And me being a morbid type, I always imagined her death and how it would feel while she was still alive. I used to lie next to her in bed knowing she would one day be gone, knowing I couldn't stop it, and knowing that space in the bed one day would never be filled with her again.

And when she died, in the weeks and months afterward, when I lay in that bed and looked at the space where she was once alive, it felt the way I thought it would.

I expected oceans of overwhelming pain when Baby died, and it came as I knew it would, and I said to the pain, just drown me, you've done it before, come and drown me, and it cascaded over me and I was still able to breathe because how wet can you get when you've spent a lifetime living in that ocean. But Baby's death hit another part of me that I wasn't expecting. My mind. I lost my mind after her death. And I wasn't expecting that. And that broke me. Not my pain. My longing for her to come back. That caused me to loose my mind in a way I never had before.

It's not that I gave up on life. I have my wife, her sister, our friends, our family, but anyone who has known grief will know that nobody else can console you when a loved one dies. All you want is that person back, and no one else matters. You can't fit a different person in that space in your life where your dead loved one once was and once lived. And that space just remains empty.

In my case, that empty space started to fill with a lack of inhibition. That's how it felt and that's how it still feels, not to the intensity it was a few months back, but I'm not the same since Baby's death.

I'm not heartbroken. That's too soft a term. Numb stinging grief. That's how it feels.

I'm never going to get over Baby's death. It's been months, my heart burns for her. I miss her. Fucking in tears.

Baby steps. Baby ... steps.

We all have our crutches. Booze, drugs, cigarettes, gambling, we all have them. I have mine.

Drinking blood has always taken my pain away, instantly, and I mean instantly. It's like my brain hasn't the capacity for anything else when I'm focused on blood. There's just no room for anything else. And even more, I make myself feel good. I can go from the depths of despair to utter elation in moments when I drink. And I've used that as a tool in my past to phase my brain out of whatever emotional pain I was in by sinking into blood. - all consensual adult activities — even just writing about it helps. It gives me a little bump just thinking about it. My heart has sped up typing this. My grief has lessened.

I hate letting God down. I know drinking blood is a sin.

Do I really think I'm going to heaven at the end of all this? How many feeds is one feed too many?

When does God pull up that drawbridge?

I'm tired of the light. Because Baby is no longer in it. Sadly, she isn't in the dark either. She is in the ground.

COMMENTS

-

---

Cadrewolf2
18:27 Apr 20 2026

Well written great job

---

ThianaNight
18:50 Apr 20 2026

Nicely done.

---

Adain
18:57 Apr 20 2026

Thank you both for commenting.

---

POST COMMENT

This blog used to be called 'Bondage' but it annoyed a member of the Vampire Rave so much they sent it to the police apparently. I've read some of the blogs on this site and there's some truly weird shit going on, but I mention my girl's under-crackers and b00m!

So here it is again with the sexy bits removed.

This blog is now called Possession after I song I recently heard, which seems appropriate.



Being tied up does something to me. It's more than the simple act of being restrained. It floods my body with concentrated endorphins. I get the whole pharmacy the moment the rope starts coiling around my wrists. And when that final knot is tied, accompanied by a subtle yet harsh tug, and boy does my wife know how to play that fiddle, I feel like I'm melting in lust from the inside out.

It's more than lust, it's surrender. It's a final surrender where I don't have to be in control anymore, and I can just let go.

It's not the ropes that cocoon me. It's my wife's careful attention while working on the ropes. Studying them, wrapping them around my wrists, neatly, slowly, building up the sexual tension, moving on to another part of my body only when the last part has been tightly restrained and secured. Fingernails slowly being dragged over my skin teasing me as to what part of my body is next to lose its ability to move.

Every part of my body is always given the exact amount of care and attention during our bondage sessions and eventually, as that last knot is tied, that final, harsh pull, really lets me know I'm fucked. I'm not getting out, until she wants me out.

Of course, we both know if the roof fell in she'd have me cut loose in seconds, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't count. All that matters is that, right at that moment of time, I'm hers. It works. It works for both of us. She wants to own me, and I want to be owned. It's right. It's perfect. For both of us.

The visual experience is also important to me. I'm attracted to my wife looking a certain way when she takes control of me through bondage. Bondage. Even the word I find intoxicating.

The outfit she wore in our recent bondage session was truly beautiful.

There is pure magic in those moments. Dragons could fly past the bedroom window, and I'd have less interest in them than my wife's cleavage gently pushed together in her bra. Dark grape, such a beautiful color. Very sexual, invoking. I bought the set in a lingerie shop around Christmas and the whole experience was dream-like. I wasn't buying underwear for my wife, I was buying a ticket to a night of dark pleasure.

The bra's lace, against her slightly sun-kissed skin, the whole visual was a pool I'd be happy to drown in for eternity. A mind soothing adventure into happiness and love where sighs and deep breaths are endlessly invoked.

The silver of a braided necklace draped loosely around her neck, falling just slightly short of her cleavage. If I were that necklace, I'd be content forever.

Her stockings were the color of quartz, hypnotizing, impossible to look away from; her knees, her thighs, her feet. Dear Lord, her feet. Her toes. Ten little pools of deep blackberries, just like her sister's. All wiggling together in innocent life, under cover of stockings holding their power over my mind inescapably.

She wore a perfectly fitting deep purple blouse with a pattern of lilic leaves gently cascading around her shoulders and falling over her breasts and her waist.

Her skirt hugged her hips, dark navy and fell just above her knees.

Her shoes? They didn't last long. She kicked them off in the same way her sister does, so she could move and play. The vixen, the temptress, the power she holds. I'm endlessly, utterly mind-numbingly in awe.

We spend hours getting ready before a bondage session. Well, I don't bother. The only thing I want to wear is my birthday suit!

With her being dominant to my submissiveness, I get to choose one thing during the bondage sessions before fate and my wife's control takes over and becomes absolute. I get to choose her outfit. The extent of my freedom is in what she wears.

It's a ritual. No deviation. Always the same. I lay everything she will wear upon our marital bed. We're both silent. Solemn. We know what lies ahead.

She bathes me, slowly, carefully, every inch matters. Every inch needs to be cleansed. I have to be perfect, in her eyes, and mine. My hair is washed.

She patted me dry and as we were leaving the bathroom, she offered her hand in mine like Aphrodite to Artemis and made me feel every bit as important, and if a real goddess had offered her hand to me from the heavens at that moment, I'd still have chosen my wife.

She led me into the bedroom. There were no rose petals on the bed or soft music playing. The music was playing. But it wasn't soft. It was dirty, it was loud, it was naughty, it was ready, and it was ALIVE!

I felt so fluffed up I started doing body-building poses in the mirror. And as usual, when she thinks I'm getting too cocky, she fucked up my vibe by painting my toenails. Pink! I didn't even get a color I like.

She had me kneel in front of her while she dried my hair. The immutable routine of placing me in Smith & Wesson shackles and hearing the ratchets slowly close click by click was as exciting and worrying as it sounds.

As per this, I was attached to a steel D ring screwed into the bedpost while she did her make -up. I'm always a happy, willing witness to that. No chance of escape, I screwed that D ring into the thick wooden post myself! If I'm going to be chained up, I don't want to be unchained up because I've got half-assed about the D.I.Y.

Anyway, back to the make-up session. I always love that part, I get to watch her. I won't bore myself writing every make-up step she takes, but by the time she'd finished, oh my, she'd become a different creature entirely, vampy, sexy, and a little bit dirty, and real naughty. Especially with the dark lipstick. Amazing visual. And a blusher that could match the whore of Babylon.

By that time, as every time, I was no longer on Earth. I was in a little pocket of sexual hell reserved for naughty people who were about to do naughty things to each other — that's naughty things, and not bad things. Big difference.

After the make-up it was perfume time. She knelt in front of me and sprayed it on the sides and the front of her neck. I always take the deepest breath right about then. And then I was lost. My mind was someplace else.

It's like peering over the edge of the coming experience. I knew what was going to happen because we do the same things time upon time in this particular scenario. We have other scenarios, but I'm not thinking about them. In this blog we're in the bedroom, I'm chained to the bed, and she's just done her make-up. Cool. The music is still playing — full of filthy words and sexual references and a great beat. We usually burn through 3 CDs before she's even dressed lol.

After the perfume, she starts getting dressed. Should I type this? Why not?

We're starting with those panties, dark grape. If you imagine dried blood, mixed with a little purple, you'd have a fair idea of what I found to be an absolutely mesmerizing color. On her? With the slight tan? Well. Wow. It's either a 'wow' or a 3000-word essay comparing the contrast of her skin and her panties to the ends of the universe and all the light within it, so I'm taking the wow. I'm 30 plus paragraphs in, and I still haven't got to the good bit yet. I'm taking the 'wow'.

Her stockings next. Deep quartz. Smooth legs. Her toenails had already been painted. And mine too. Cheers to that! Unlike the pornos where the girls make a nice show of seductively rolling the stockings on, my girl prefers to pull them on like socks. And laughter doth diminish one's excitement! So I try to think about other things while she does that.

I'm back on track when the bra comes out. Matching the panties in dark grape! At that point, she's looking like a goddess with that sultry make-up and the undies.

The blouse goes on next and the peak of my interest has, um, peaked, now that she's covering up her best bits. Can I say that? I don't want to offend anyone when reading. I've already given her head a whole paragraph, I'm onto the boobs now, or not, since at this point they're about to get covered up.

Skirt gets pulled on, and I become fascinated once again by her pretty knees and the stockings. I've usually got a great view at this point because I've fallen off the bed onto the floor trying to get a better view of things at this stage. I'm still tethered but at least the carpet is soft.

We've usually been drinking a little blood while all this is going on. Hey, what can I say? Vampires. Not from the neck. I mean it's the 21st century, is it? I lost track. Anyway, we have glasses now. And a syringe works a lot better than a pair of 18th century fangs. Kidding. Maybe. Lol.

How do you drink blood from a glass when you're cuffed to the bed?

She .... feeds ... me. Like a dog chained to the bed. I have no shame. None. Well I do, but sometimes I just want to give myself a day off!

Eventually, I'll be a geriatric with a doddering old wife feeding me her blood until we both snuff it. What a sight that'd be for whoever finds our bodies. Two old people, one chained to the bed and the other dolled up like a harlot. A pair of coagulated blood cocktails left on the dressing table with straws stuck in them, and if I wanted to be really grotty, a spoon lol, because soon after a fresh spill, the blood thickens and um. Well, oh look, she's dressed! Onto the bondage!

I forgot the dance! There's always a dance. There's always a dance. It's sweet, it's sexy, but I never know if I should be comparing her to Santánico Pandemonium, the vampire queen in the film From Dusk Till Dawn, or Mr Blonde from Reservoir Dogs who's about to cut my ear off.

At this point, I usually recite poetry to her in a Viking fashion, and exalt her sexuality while she towers above me. You know the thing;

"I praise the gods who made you for your beauty. I will love you till the day I die. I will write poetry for you until ... "

Which often results in a seriously hard slap around the face to shut me up!

Anyway, I get released from my shackles around this point and savor a moment of freedom because I know what is coming next and that soon I'll be in tears. Hard tears, the kind that come from the bottom of your soul, because that's where my wife likes to take a stroll.

I can face the entire world but my wife? And the way she opens me? Delves into me? It breaks my mind and soul. And I knew soon, as in all those times we colloquially call our 'bondage sessions', I'd be going to a very dark place, and perversely, want nothing more than to be in that dark place. And stay there.

It always starts with me standing and facing away from her. My head is already bowed, not out of BDSM protocol, I've utterly surrendered emotionally. My eyes are closed.

I'm tied securely with 10mm braided nylon ropes. They're soft, they're strong, and they hold everything I am, right at the tip of my beloved wife's mercy.

I have no stamina when my wife is tying me up.

Even a brush of her hair over my skin is overwhelming. And the way she pulls her skirt right up, revealing her panties and stockings to straddle me to get a better purchase to cinch the ropes tight.

- A shit load of content deleted here. Don't blame me. Blame the Vampire Rave blog police. -

The hell, I've lost to her so many times. I don't know why I kid myself I have any power over my life at all.

And afterward, after I've been milked dry as gently as a newborn calf nursing, finally nestling beside me, my wife, my beloved, my portent, my key to myself, started to unlock me. Slowly. She'd blissed me out with the blow job, which is basically her version of a pre-med. Every time, there is no safe word, there is no turning back, there is only a one-way trip down into darkness with Satan ever waiting to see if this will be the one time when I truly fall down into a part of hell I will never be able to climb back out of.

It starts with a thought. A change of mood. A seriousness within me, I try not to access. Yet my wife rips that door right off its hinges and pushes me through. And behind it, I face myself. I face everything she made me. I face everything I try to hide from. And in doing so, I turn from God, because I can't face Him and myself at the same time. In those times, my only reflection is Satan himself.

I feel the tears, yet they feel good, they feel real good, they feel like I'm about to split away from everything in everyday life and let myself go, into the one thing I spend so much time hiding from, into the one thing I feel God is ashamed of me for, into the deepest darkest part of myself.

There's always a tipping point, everybody has one.

Where every safeguard you set up in your own mind to ensure you behave in a certain way, simply crumbles.

And my wife breaks through my safeguards as if she was snapping a pencil.

Despite drinking blood in the glass earlier, the blood now flowing is very different. More potent. More dangerous. Dangerous to me. And I know when I taste it I won't want to stop. My tears. A little is placed on my lips. I shut my eyes. I feel helpless. Lost. In the dark. I know God is watching, and I could reach out to Him, but I don't want to. I want to taste. I want to just let the blood settle in my mouth for a while, just a while, and just let it be.

A part of me.

A part of her.

I feel.

I feel connected.

To my wife.

I wrote the following paragraph for a different blog called Three Fathers, yet it fits my thoughts about this time perfectly because I always feel the same when I eat wife:

Everything melts away, there is only her, no universe, no world, no people, no God, no Satan. All I see is her, and we scream in unison because when we stop, our love overwhelms us, so we feed off each other knowing there is nothing but eternity to love deeper and deeper and deeper. There is no limit ever, and we fall, forever entwined, matching, meeting, biting, forever bleeding, forever healing.

My every atom, pulsing to the beat of her heart, thud, thud, thud, thud, endlessly, you reach a point where you no longer have a heartbeat. The pulse becomes so fast there is no longer anything to count, just this endless continuing thrumming sensation that emanates around us. It's beyond humanity, it's beyond life, and it's all her. She is all the universe, and I'm falling forever, inside of her love.

There is nothing like it. Within those moments I share with my wife, we remember every beautiful moment shared with each other. We remember all of it. True beauty. True care. True meaning. And as always, I quickly reached a breaking point and my emotions became too much for me to bear. She had me. Again.

I cried. I screamed. I strained against my bonds, and like in Alien, there was no one to hear me scream, except my adoring, needful symbiotic wife, who needed to hear my screams as much as I needed to make them.

The more I cried, the more I fed. The more I fed, the more I felt. The more I felt, the more I cried. Until I was utterly exhausted.

Of life. Of spirit. Of mind.

I finally fell into blackness. Yet there, in that blackness, I found my most cherished peace of all. Deep peace. The peace of the dark. Perhaps the peace of the dead.

Eventually I woke up. Hours later. She'd freed me from the ropes while I slept.

How do you recover from something like that? So deep? So meaningful? So emotional?

Usually, sit with steak pie and chips in front of the TV lol.

You don't need fangs and a cape to be a vampire.

I drink blood.

I was going to go with the term, blood-drinker. It's not as cool as 'vampire' so I'm sticking with that.

Being turned is actually a thing.

And I remember the exact moment I was.

I still remember how I felt in the years before the turn, and how I felt during the turn, and how I've felt since. I'm not the same. There is a clear divide. I'm still that person from before, yet I'm also this person now. And I'm not the same. It split me. Changed me. Not all good. Not really all bad. But mostly perplexing depending on my mood. I certainly feel perplexed at the moment.

If I told you how many decades I've been feeding, you'd probably tell me to piss off. I started before the internet arrived. Some time before that too.

Suspend disbelief for a moment and have a read of this:

Imagine someone doing something to you that left you reeling. One moment you're in a normal state of awareness, aware that some serious fuckery was about to happen, but you had no idea what it would feel like, and then feeling like you're being dropped into an ocean loaded with weights. Within a few seconds of my turn, that's what it felt like. One moment I was all 'Let's do this' and the next I felt like I'd been thrown out of a plane without a parachute. My body, the sensations, how do I describe that? I could try. It won't make sense, not even to me.

I write these blogs for me. I probably read them more than anyone else, and I like them to be detailed, but I can't describe how I felt. I had a set of sensations and awareness before my turn and I didn't believe after my turn I could possibly feel much different and yet that idea was completely and utterly destroyed in the most laughable way possible. What I felt as myself before the turn and what I felt after the turn, they're not the same universe.

And then I started living as the 'new me'. Well, the 'new me' with the 'old me' trapped inside a tiny little cave inside my new awareness. That really did fuck me up beyond imagination.

I'm still not complete, there are two of me. I have a dark side and a light side. The light side I was born as. The dark side I was turned as. And they really don't get along. There is no harmony between them. The dark wants the light gone completely. The light accepts the dark as part of 'overall me' and wishes to live in harmony. The light can live with the dark. The dark will not live with the light.

My blog. My fiction. Or non-fiction. Readers choice.

Anyway, some years back, decades back, I was pretty cool with my dark side and enjoyed it a bit more than I do now, and went into that vampire life, culture, whatever, deeply. My guilt didn't exist back then, and I fed as much as I wanted to.

That doesn't mean necking strangers. I did try — in a consensual adult way — but I tell you, generally people taste like ashtrays. They taste like beer, pizza and cigarettes. They taste like a week's worth of crap they've stuffed inside themselves. Your tongue would feel better licking the road.

Of course, you have to try these things. Not licking the roads. But trying people. Not good to be honest. Not good at all. Sour.

I migrated to the club scene eventually. There are clubs for everything and you bet there are clubs for vampires. There are kinky clubs, sexy clubs, kinky sexy clubs and kinky sexy vampire clubs and those, haha! Fuck me, they were awesome! I went a lot, sometimes three times a week. Back then, I lived to party. Fucking loved it. Lived it. And eventually when I'd exhausted everything I wanted to try, I went along just to chill. I remember once I was just sitting in the chilling out area, video screens on the walls pumping out music and watching Adam's Rickett's I breathe again. I could really super-identify with the song — I felt so alive — and I felt life couldn't get any better.

However, all things came to an end and I left the club scene some time after. I simply got bored by it.

But private shindigs, with consenting adults who are careful about what they eat before donating. Small gatherings to have a mutual feed. That's one of my things.

I used to get so excited leading up to being able to just let myself go and feed. It was exhilarating in ways I can't really describe. I loved it. Even before I was anywhere near the time to feed, the anticipation itself overwhelmed me. It was all I could think about, it was all I wanted, and everything else just faded into the background. I felt alive, guilt hadn't even entered my mind. I didn't give God or sin much thought back then. I even felt good about myself, I wasn't hurting anyone, everyone I fed on was willing and wanting it, as much as me. And others fed on me, I was always happy to share. I like it.

The post-feed aftershock always deeply sucks. I always cop for that every time. The disconnect from the people I fed on hits me really hard the following day. It's depressing, miserable, even upsetting. There's an emotional gap between me and the person I fed on afterward that feels just really awful and can't quite be reclaimed unless I feed on them again. Do remember this is all adult consensual stuff — and it takes a good three days for me to start feeling a bit more like myself again after a feed.

I don't even know when things changed for me relating to me starting to feel guilty about feeding.

It's just not in my memory.

I don't have an event in my mind where guilt became a thing for me.

I remember for a long time I felt no guilt. And then I started to feel guilt.

No memory.

However, for a long time I have felt guilt when feeding, so much so that I keep trying to abstain from feeding at all.

And I keep failing.

I had a lucid dream some years ago — not the 'Satan showing me a version of myself feeding' dream that I blogged about recently.

The lucid dream I'm describing now was about God. He took me to heaven and showed me its landscape, and it was beautiful. In the vast distance and far below the edge I stood near, there were lands and cities and oceans, and it was so beautiful and so fresh and so peaceful, and God by my side and beckoned me to be there with Him.

I think that's where I started to feel guilt.

I've not been quite the same since that dream.

Time is odd. I know it never stops, but it does seem to revolve in circles. I don't seem to be moving forward though time. I seem to be simply going in a circle around time. Feed, be forgiven, feed, be forgiven, feed. I feel trapped in a circle.

In all the times I have fed, there's only been one time, just a single time, when I actually felt good about myself the day after I fed. And that time wasn't a normal feed, it was an occasion. And shortly before I fed, I was branded with the mark of Satan. Not the sigil. Not that. Something else, on my thigh. It's still there to this day, of course, but at that time, that feed, it was sublime with zero aftershock. And the day after, I was just chilling out, and I felt so serene, really felt at peace and I thought, am I going to feel like this forever? I really thought I might. But it only lasted a day.

For a time after getting branded, I was proud of the mark I bear, for a long time after, but these days, it feels more like an insult to God. I can't cut it out. It'll always be there. I have to accept it.

My mind is like a yoyo. Only a few months ago, I was going to have sigils cut into my chest. Clearly my mind is on all levels of fucked up. Like I say, light and dark, always light and dark.

Then there's the super movie-vampire tropes. Oh, if you're a vampire, you'll burn up in sunlight! Don't go outside!

Funny.

Funny, as I found out, it has merit.

After I feed, the sunlight absolutely fucks me up.

I'm putting this down to a psychosomatic subconscious response due to my mind believing that I'm committing a sin against God by drinking blood.

Therefore, I'm punishing myself by removing an aspect of my life that I enjoy, i.e. going outside.

That sounds almost sane.

Before a feed, the sun looks great to me, it has a nice hue. I love it. It warms me. I feel good in it.

But after a feed?

The sun looks utterly different to me. It looks so bright, it's almost blinding white. And everything the sunlight hits is blinding white too. It makes me feel like throwing up. I never have yet, but I have come real close.

Headaches, migraine level. They start off slowly, ramp up, and stay ramped up. I get in the dark. The pain eases off. I go back in the light. The headache comes back. Rinse and repeat.

Eventually, sometimes days and sometimes it's been weeks, things settle down for me regarding sunlight. I acclimatize back into the light. I ask for God's help, like a mouse begging for a morsel from a person's table. And God puts me back on my feet, wind's me up like a clockwork toy and sets me going again.

Or maybe my subconscious guilt is letting me go free again.

Rinse and repeat.

If I came across this blog, I wouldn't read it. It's long and may be upsetting. Read at your own discretion.

This is a miserable, long winded. depressing, indulgent exploration into my childhood.

I've posted it before in two parts. Now it's combined into one blog, for double the fun. Not.

Why type it?

Why does anyone blog? I like to, it's therapeutic. I don't know other than I want to.

Part One: Love.

I spent the first five years of my life locked in a bedroom. As bizarre as that sounds, that was my introduction to life here on Earth.

My father was a sadist. Whatever he could imagine doing to me, he'd do. My first real experience of physical pain was when my father punched me in the face shortly after I'd learned to walk. Why? The reason was because I'd passed him in the hallway of our home and as he was coming towards me, I said hello. His response was to grab me around the throat, push me hard against the wall, raise his fist to my face, and punch me. No blood, no broken bones. But I was dumbfounded. I couldn't understand why my face hurt so much. I was so shocked I couldn't even cry.

My mother, tended to me while my father walked off. My father also used my mother as his punch bag.

Sometimes, when my father had gone out of our home for whatever reason, my mother would let me leave my bedroom. I'd roam the house, and in those times, I'd often notice blood on the wooden floors. I was a child, and couldn't understand.

Mother lied about it, and being a child I believed her. Her favorite lie was that it was magical blood, and it came out of the floor. She told me all kinds of shit. Why didn't she clean it up? I think she'd given up trying.

Nonetheless, five years passed, and I spent them locked in a bedroom for my own safety. My father would leave me alone there. I was safe as long as he didn't see me. So the bedroom was a sanctuary of sorts.

Pissing in any container that'd hold my urine was a thing as I got a bit older. Before that I'd lie in my own piss till mother turned up. I'm not typing the other things I had to do to keep ticking along.

Social services? The police? Uh, Uh, they didn't exist back then, not in the forms they take today. And the term 'severe mental illness' and help for that didn't exist back then either. Maybe good old dad should have been sectioned.

You may think my mother had great sympathy for me. She didn't. I was little more than a stray cat she felt obligated to feed. She never spoke to me and when I spoke to her, she usually lied to me, probably to shut me up.

I started to fold within my own mind, there was no place else for me to go. And here's where my blog starts to get fucked up. You may think my blog is already terribly fucked up, but now it has taken a turn into real fuckery.

Satan came to visit me.

In my bedroom.

Perhaps it was a child's mind finally snapping, and creating creatures to talk to through loneliness and isolation.

Perhaps it was something a little more supernatural.

It doesn't matter which way the blog is viewed. I write from my own perspective, not the readers.

And we're not talking about some weird old pervert uncle taking advantage of me here that I've turned into 'Satan' through childhood trauma either.

I'm talking full on out of the shadows in the dark fire and brimstone smelling of shit and sulphur SATAN! Oh. Yeah!

I was a child. A young child. And yet in those times, in my bedroom, he was the only friend I had. He spoke to me. He comforted me. I had no concept of religion. I hadn't heard of God. But Satan, in that bedroom, for all those years, he spent those years comforting me. And in the end, he saved me.

My father was killed when I was five years old.

I didn't find out how my father was killed until I was 17 years old because my mother wouldn't talk about what happened. Eventually, she told me on an incredibly rare occasion she could be bothered to say more than a single sentence to me.

I won't type what happened to my father. He died in a way befitting the life he led. It was not a pleasant death. I've never felt anything more than indifference about it. Not happy, not sad, but in a practical sense, his death changed the course of my childhood.

I grew up with Satan. I grew with Satan. And my life has been influenced by him ever since. Some of it I've put in journals, some I'll never type of. I'm sure the Vampire Rave blog police will come along and say 'Oh why can't you type it, what evil things have you done?' I've never done an evil thing in my life. I know the pain evil causes people and to make anyone go through the pain I went through as a child? I'd rather die.

The evil I suffered? The evil I grew up in from my father? It was a compost. A compost that my love grew out of. The more pain I suffered, the more compassion I had for life. Every punch, every kick, every drop of blood, made my fucking heart burn in love. I needed to give love more than I ever needed to receive it. That was me as I was a child and that is me now. I burn within love, it consumes me.

I had a string of girlfriends growing up, my past made me more attractive not less. Yet none of them lasted. They weren't for me.

I wanted something else. I wanted monsters.

Oh, no! Monsters! You can't have monsters! Monsters don't exist!!!

Don't they?

Well, on the front page of this website it says this is a place for real vampires, so I'm running with that.

I met someone a long time ago who lapped up every ounce of love I could wring out of myself. And then, when I thought I had no more to give, she took me even further.

I write my poems about her.

I'd finally found a place for my love, and it was crucially near the end of my wish to remain on Earth, for my love was overwhelming me, it had started to kill me, consume me, and destroy me.

My love had become too big and too deep to keep shackled inside my own heart, and no one could contain it. None of the women I'd been with could handle it, the ones I knew before my wife? They feared my love. They ran from it. She didn't. And she took it, and she chained it, she chained me, and she saved me, because my own love was killing me for it had become too much for me to bear.

She took my pain away, she eased me, she gave me an ocean bed to lay my love upon, and she welcomed the waves and turmoil within me. She took it all, until I became a small star within her universe, for she is so much more than me. She holds me in a way I have never been able to contain myself. I only know peace within her love. I'm lost without her. I'd die without her.

She stopped me from screaming myself to death as my love had become so powerful and so overwhelming, that the only place it found solace was at her feet, kneeling in tears from the deepest love I have ever known. Will ever know. She is my blessing.

Everything melts away, there is only her, no universe, no world, no people, no God, no Satan. All I see is her, and we scream in unison because when we stop, our love overwhelms us, so we feed off each other knowing there is nothing but eternity to love deeper and deeper and deeper. There is no limit ever, and we fall, forever entwined, matching, meeting, biting, forever bleeding, forever healing.

My every atom, pulsing to the beat of her heart, thud, thud, thud, thud, endlessly, you reach a point where you no longer have a heartbeat. The pulse becomes so fast there is no longer anything to count, just this endless continuing thrumming sensation that emanates around us. It's beyond humanity, it's beyond life, and it's all her. She is all the universe, and I'm falling forever, inside of her love.

There are no words really. None. If you've felt it. You know. And if you haven't. I haven't the words.

Why type all this?

Have you any idea how long a day is when you barely need to sleep? I mean honestly, have you tried to fill 20 hours a day??? Most days, for what seems like friggin forever! You should try it. By 3:00am all I want to do is write.

Try going to bed at midnight and walking up at 2:30am knowing you're done for the night and dreading how you're going to fill all those early hours! Time affects everyone and there is no fast-forward button.

Insomnia sucks.

Part Two: Three Fathers.

I wrote about my father recently. This blog continues my exploration into my life as a child with him.

If you found my previous blog 'Love' distressing, I'd advise you not to read this one.

Writing my last blog was therapeutic. So I'm going at it again. And delving deeper. As I say, if the last one upsets you, don't read this one.

Was my father an evil man? I don't know. I had no concept of evil as a child. These days I try to believe my father suffered from mental illness, but when I sit and think about him, all I come up with is his premeditated and deliberate cruelty. And the great pleasure he took in my suffering.

Everything in my father's mind seemed to be about causing me physical and emotional pain.

I have no idea how I came to be born. My father beat my mother frequently. She cried every day. She never smiled. He was always angry. I still can't fathom how they ever made love. Most likely I was born from rape. But that is a subject I can't type about. It might explain why he hated me from my birth.

Anyway, on to calmer things.

Between birth and the age of five, I spent those years locked in my bedroom saving me from my father's violence.

Despite that, I had several encounters with my father when I was out of my bedroom, and he didn't physically attack me upon sight.

That might sound like a strange thing to say, but the times when my father didn't attack me upon sight were uncommon.

And those are the occasions I want to write about.
And on one of those occasions, I asked him to help me. I was around four years of age.

I had a small wooden train and one of the wheels had broken off. I asked my father for help. I hadn't been taught to ask for help, I simply reached out to him instinctively.

He looked at me with a neutral expression. He didn't speak.

I asked him for help again while showing him my broken train.

He didn't speak.

I asked him again. At this point, I'm pretty sure I had started to feel like I was getting ready to start crying. I guess even children have refined instincts about how things are going to go.

I started crying.

He started laughing. That's right. He started laughing. The kind of laugh when someone surprises you with a hilarious joke.

I cried harder. My body had taken over the situation at that point, and it was all about how my body felt, and it felt upset.

I showed him my train.

He started to roar with laughter and I mean full-on belly laughing.

I remember how deeply I started to sob. The kind where your breath starts to hitch repeatedly.

I sobbed. And he roared with laughter.

My mother came in and took me to my bedroom.

I don't remember what happened after.

It was my first experience of learning never to ask an adult for help again. It screwed up my education completely in the years to follow because I couldn't bring myself to ask any teacher to help me when I was stuck in lessons. I had to self learn everything.

I asked no one for help when I was growing up. Ever. I couldn't understand that most people were not like my father. I couldn't bear the pain of refusal.

Despite my father battering me, I still loved him. I felt a certain way about him and that was that. How he treated him didn't change my love for him.
Unfortunately, this led to some of my worst emotional times with him.

My birthdays were no events. I'd sometimes get a present from my aunt and uncle. One birthday I got a fountain pen from them. An odd present but I was happy with it. It was mine. I took it to show my father. He was sitting in his chair. I passed it to him. I may have been four years old. He looked at it, took the pen out of the lovely box it was in and gave the pen gave back to me. I knew not to say a single word to him. I went to my mother, she didn't help me get my box back. It ruined my birthday.

One of my worst memories that really caved me in emotionally as a child was when my mother bought me a birthday present.

I was shown love from her in the form of a birthday present, and it really opened up new feelings inside me as a child.

Something inside my brain switched on and it felt good. It felt nice. I hadn't accessed it before. I had an experience of feeling loved.

My mother gave me a present.

And me being me, a child being a child, I went to show my father. His behavior toward me before didn't count. I still at this point trying to bond with him.

Anyway, my mother bought me a small spinning top. I'm not sure if they make them anymore. You'd push down on it and it spins around. I took it to show father, again, sat in his chair, and as soon as I gave it to him, he stood up, took a painting off the wall, and hung my spinning top high up the painting's nail.

I didn't even ask him to get it down for me. But what happened next, was one of the worst emotional experiences I've ever experienced to this day.
It was the first time I experienced sorrow for another person. I felt sorrow for my mother.

She had bought me this present, it was like the physical entity of love that I'd felt for the first time in my life that day, and I couldn't take care of it.

The love she had given me had been taken from me and was hanging high above me and I couldn't reach it. I tried. I jumped. I wasn't anywhere near the top. I couldn't reach it. I tried to climb up the sheer wall, I clawed at the wall, my heart broke. It broke. The first time, my mother showed me love and I failed her. I screwed my eyes shut and pushed myself into the wall.

I don't remember what happened after that.

My father used to cut glass at home. For picture frames. Back then the world wasn't as it is now. And people made what they wanted. One day, a sunny day, he was cutting a small glass sheet on the floor, using a hand glass cutter, and by his side was a pile of glass shards glistening in the sun.

I already knew what blood was. I'd seen it on our floors and tasted it in my mouth. But this was something new. Father asked me to pass him the glass shards. I wanted to please him, so I pushed my fingers into the pile, a small pile, only a few inches in width and height. And then I felt a new pain, one I hadn't experienced before. And I didn't like it. It was so horrible. So sharp, and then the blood appeared coming out of my fingers. Bright fresh blood in the sunlight from the window. I couldn't understand what was happening. Why were my fingers doing what they were doing? I screamed. My mother came into the room. She took me away and washed my fingers in water. They were throbbing. They were going numb with the cold water. She wrapped them in a towel. They were still bleeding they wouldn't stop. I had glass in my fingers. She used her own fingers to take the shards from my fingers. Her fingers bled. And eventually, she let me go to bed. I don't remember what happened then. I just don't remember.

Things just got worse. My father became more violent. He started hitting me harder to the point I'd feel the heavy thud of his fist against my head and felt like I wanted to throw up. I felt wretched. I was always in pain. He always went for my head. And if I wasn't near enough, and he was sitting in his chair, he'd kicked out at my legs.

And around that point, I was confined permanently to my bedroom. I had all my meals there. I remember feeling worthless as my mother used to fry kippers for my father's breakfast every day and I could smell it in my bedroom, but she never brought any for me. I used to sit there hungry. I always got some food later in the morning, but I never got any kippers.

I spent my life in that room and before Satan came to love me I used to just stare out of the window. I felt mindless. Like a zombie.

My mother didn't even sort out basic hygiene. Looking back. She could have provided a bucket. I'm not typing how I managed. I spent most of my early childhood stinking of piss.

My father was killed at my age of five and when he died, I was released into a different life of sorts.
My mother was like a ghost. She was there, in the distance, yet never spoke to me. And I learned not to speak to her.

Instead of her, I grew up with Satan.
Make of that what you will. We're on the Vampire Rave.

I'd sit in my bedroom — even after father was dead — and I'd listen to Satan speak to me in rhyme. He has a lullaby, a rhythm within his language, and it's musical, it beats, it sings, and the words are not remembered for being words but through the rhythms they sound like, and I learned to speak the same way.

I started speaking in rhymes and eventually, tongues.

Some of the more religious readers may say tongues is a holy language. Tell my mother that. She didn't feel very holy around me. Not that she listens to anyone any more. She's dead. Like my father.

Anyway I didn't know any better and I didn't have a lot of things to occupy my time, but I loved rhyming. I did it all the time, it was my favourite thing. It made me feel happier than staying in my usual mood as a child, which sucked.

I was just being me, passing my time, always with a sense of sadness under the surface, everything I did felt tinged with sadness, even talking with Satan was spoiled. Even that was tainted by my parents behaviour towards me.

My mother blew her top off eventually and became angry with me, and she told me to stop. She didn't say stop what. Just stop. Like I was supposed to know what she meant. I'd started to not like her very much at this point anyway.

It was the first real anger she had ever shown towards me and the first time she had ever shouted at me. It was my first experience of making someone angry at me that hadn't started off angry at me.

I didn't like it.

I started staying away from her.

She left me alone in my room.

I only had contact with her at meal times and felt uncomfortable around her, so I started taking my meals to my room despite my father being dead. I think she preferred it that way as she never came to take me back to have meals with her, so I stayed on my own.

I started to understand that I preferred not being around people.

When I was seven or eight, a man came to our house, from the local church. I can't remember what he was, a vicar or something similar, and I was very wary of him, mainly because he was a man.

He spoke to me quite kindly. I started to warm to him, despite all the shit my father had done to me, and I was able to listen to him. He asked me some questions. I can't remember what. I did try to answer. Then my mother took him into my bedroom. I don't know why, but I suddenly felt really sad and started crying.

I don't know what went on in my bedroom, I just sat in my father's old chair just feeling sad and crying. The vicar left. My mum seemed happier.

Nothing changed. In hindsite she clearly tried to shift Satan. It didn't work. Satan was mine. All mine. He made me happy. Satan gave me something to focus on and involve myself in. I wanted him. I needed him. He was all I thought about. I went to sleep thinking about him and woke up to check he was still there.

Was Satan physically sitting in my room?

As mentioned, perhaps just the delusions of a child's snapped mind. Or something else entirely. Readers choice.

I never saw the vicar again. My mother seemed to actively dislike me around that point. I left her alone. She left me alone. I didn't care. She made sure I had meals. I didn't need anything more. I had very few clothes, I didn't care. I spent time in rhymes with Satan. It was all I wanted.

Mother died earlier than she perhaps should have.

There's only so much shit I can fit into a blog.

Do I regret typing all this? Nope.

I don't need any comments or sympathy. It's nice, but it's not really necessary.

If I could disable comments on my blogs I would.

I've spent some time tidying up my journals and this one combines a couple of blogs about meet & greets with Ian Sommerhalder from The Vampire Diaries and Dominic Purcell - who played Dracula in Blade Trinity.

In the UK, we have a company called Monopoly Events who organise awesome comic cons in most of our major cities throughout the year. And every actor you can imagine from every show on TV seems to end up there at one time or another.

Stephen Amell of Arrow, Jensen Ackles of Supernatural, and The Vampire Dairies cast regularly end up in Britain promoting their meet & greets, photo ops and autographs. They're all good guys to meet and chat to, especially Amell, whose charisma is off the scale.

But this blog is about Ian Somerhalder who attended Comic Con Scotland in the fall of 2023. Held at the Royal Highland Centre in Edinburgh. The place was packed with actors, but Somerhalder was so cool, I barely remember who else was there. Paul Wesley was, but I hadn't booked anything with him, and I didn't get a chance to see him.

Somerhalder is a sweetheart. If you've booked a photo opportunity with him, you absolutely are gonna go cheek to cheek and get a hug warm enough to boil a kettle. He's pretty awesome and knows how to fluff his fans up into a frenzy. He loves it, the fans love it, and the whole thing is just so much fun. He's one of the best meet & greeters on the comic con circuit. He'll go that extra mile to make the event that bit more special for you.

And! For extra coolness, I got Ian to sign as "Damon" in addition to the auto, when he was simply doing smiley faces for others. So cool. Love it. If you do get the chance, go along to a con and meet him. You won't be disappointed.

Stephen Amell is a close second, he's a warm dude too but I'm on the wrong forum to chat about him, although he did a guest appearance on The Vampire Dairies so I guess that works for this forum after all.

Jospeh Morgan, who played Klaus in The Originals is a cool guy too. But that's another blog and a different photo.

I'm off to meet Gillian Anderson from the X-Files at Comic Con Liverpool next month. That one is a biggy for me. I mean Scully??? C'mon! Dean Winchester and Arrow are so cool but this is Scully lol! The X Files is my all time fav show.

Also, check out my Dominic Purcell autographed photo from Comic Con Liverpool 2021. He played Drake/ Dracula in Blade Trinity some years back. I like the actor a hell of a lot but I have to say he signs a lousy autograph, barely a squiggle. Ian Somerhalder gave me a kiss (on the photo X) a decent autograph, and penned 'Damon' underneath. All I got from Dom was a squiggle lol. Fair enough he had been sleeping under a pyramid for 500 years but c'mon lol. Haha! Not that I tried to mix it with Dracula for signing a crap auto, did you see what he did to that girl in Trinity looool! I do have fun at these events. Getting Dracula's autograph was a must. And who wouldn't want that, if you're a vampire fan.

Somerhalder and Dracula's autographs are in my portfolio. They're not for sale, I have been asked, so no pms.

I've got a great autograph/photograph of Joseph Morgan who played Klaus in The Originals. I'll pop it into my portfolio soon.

COMMENTS

-

---

Cadrewolf2
18:48 Apr 16 2026

Enjoy comic con. I always enjoy them.

---

Adain
09:05 Apr 17 2026

A fellow fan. I Love it.

I haven't gone down the costume route yet. A lot do. It's not really my thing.

I love the meet and greets though.

I have a routine of staying until the end of a show day until everything is winding down.

That's when the you see which actors are happy to hang around and which need to fly off.

Highlights include.

Grabbing a coffee with Dracula - Dominic Purcell.

Having a light sabre fight with Merle from The Walking Dead - don't ask lol.

And doing a mutual fist-in-palm bow with Jean Claude Van Damme mirroring a scene from Bloodsport.

I've not met an actor yet who wasn't open to connection with fans. At these events they're paid to and some really enjoy it. They get as much a buzz out of as the fans do. So good.

---

POST COMMENT

Vampirism is all about romance, darkness and lust. And yes, also obsession.

I think the longing for those things has to be born inside you, they can't simply be chosen, creating an unfulfilled chasm that is always there no matter how many friends, lovers and places in the world you pass by. All of it seems empty, until you find your place among the likeminded who understand your depths, because they feel them too. I suppose it's the same for most people. Like attracts like and until then it's an empty void of a world that a person inhabits.

Perhaps a vampire's bond is deeper because they know what they've had to sacrifice in order to simply be. To sometimes turn away from God and indulge in what some might suggest are sinful acts. To share blood with a lover, a companion, the greatest love of your life, it's almost impossible to resist. That's not quite true, it can be resisted, but it's so good a person just doesn't want to resist it, at all. A person wants to just fall in and sink, and experience the heady aromas of connecting with their lover in ways that are dark and taboo and feels like our whole bodies have become something more, something ecstatic. It's beyond euphoria, it's like looking over heaven with everything you could ever love by your side and they themselves, by their blood coursing through your veins, becoming you, and you, through them.

I think a soul needs to be twinned, I think it has to be. I know I felt like half a soul all my life until I found my one, and when I did, I found a whole new world. It's exists within this world, the neighbor, the schoolteacher, the doctor. They'll never tell you, they'll never tell you what it feels like to just abandon yourself to the dark places with your kin and just ....BE. But they're out there, and I'd say, never stop looking, because when you find your one, all of those empty years, and empty tears and struggling with half a soul will make sense, because it's not just about your own search, it's about your 'one' looking for you too. And when you find each other ... wow ... it's better than any vampire film, it's better than anything you ever read, it's sensational.

Although there is a graveness to that connection, to give up perhaps a part of yourself that is Holy, to turn from God while knowing you still adore Him, yet when faced with the kind of depths of beauty that come from hell itself, its so hard to say no. I gave in to my beloved a long time ago. Yet I still have a connection to God. He is still caring, like a father waiting for me. But for now, I live my life with my own kind. We all have kinds. It really doesn't matter what they are, as long as a person is fulfilled without harming others. That's how I lay my guilt, at least.

I hope you find your one. They are out there. And that romance, that dark gothic beauty of a lover who has known a distant time can bring all of those things into your present. Rose petals on a bed, beautiful aromas burning by the hearth, music that can make your very heart hitch in mid beat, it's all out here. And in some ways, it could be forever.

I'm not promoting that life, it'd be wrong for me to do so. I love God. But that life, and the things that are in it, it could make a person feel like climbing onto a mountain top and screaming forever to diminish the euphoria and ecstasy that builds up inside one.

We make the worlds we live in, and I wish for you all things in finding a world you want to be in.

COMMENTS

-

---

Cadrewolf2
19:56 Apr 17 2026

Long read but worth reading

---

POST COMMENT

I, too, love when the sky darkens. My whole world feels different. I feel different. More relaxed. At peace. The quietness. Sometimes I wish it to be night forever. Candles lighting a cold room abandoned until the evening, a fire lit anew in the hearth, and the excitement of the evenings journey into the dark.

Your Master seems kind and patient. Perhaps the best qualities for his kind to have when holding you within his charge.

I have known the scent of such men, overpowering, hypnotizing, alluring. never able to resist when paired with a deep warm command, ancient, yet fresher than the morning dew, and quite as beautiful.

Some kinds are meant to be bowed to, devoted to, and, loved in ways a person could never share with another living soul, lest their tears may never stop.

Your writing resonates. I too, have felt the warm intoxication of the barest breath on my skin lasting an eternity before the softest lips caressed my neck as I fell into almost slumber before realizing the scent of blood was my own. I didn't care. I could have died and not cared. There's no resistance to your Master's kind.

I, as you, remember the after. I felt like I'd never again know the absolute certainty of being protected, cared for, and loved at that moment for the rest of my life.

Your Master closed your wounds. I used to be left to bleed.

Nothing is as full as devotion.

I believe there is no happiness or love in this world until it arrives. All things arrive. The sky so vast, a person could get lost within it and the last raindrops of a passing storm missed as deeply as a lover. Perhaps once, they didn't exist at all and, in their place, emptiness.

I have known those empty places and found they were not empty at all. I was simply too early, and all the things I wished for, had not yet arrived.

Time is forever and we are so fleeting. Some, far less. In this vastness, emptiness is not the tormentor, time itself is. And all of those lost moments will remain forever unspoken while waiting to simply feel.

Each season brings anew, for good or bad, and all that matters is the strength to travel this earth, and it's time.

A flower will not grow no matter how many tears fall upon it, yet in time it will flourish, and sitting by its side waiting for it to arrive, is I feel so much better than losing oneself to the cruelty of time, and all hope within it.

For you, to see time as I do, and seasons, as I do, for the anticipation of what can be, I wish these things to be.

Months ago, I came close to taking Satan's final marks on my flesh. Two sigils on my chest through a scarification process.

The templates were created and sized for my chest.
What the sigils look like doesn't matter for this blog.

The templates were placed on my chest and my first thoughts were, you know what? These look fucking awesome. They suited my chest perfectly, one on each of the pectoralis major muscles.

It might sound severe and all kinds of weird and OK, it is, but I was still having fun with it.

I went to the mirror and looked at myself and the designs and thought cool, I love them, and I continued to admire myself a bit more, knowing I wouldn't get much chance to show them off in public short of getting thrown in a loony bin.

And I have to say, even the templates alone were starting to affect me, in a really indescribable way. I don't quite have the words. I'm not sure words have been created to offer a description. It was a combination of exhilaration tempered with an urgency to throw my lunch up. It wasn't a very pleasant feeling at all and my head felt like it was filled with helium.

Nonetheless, I was set to go ahead with the scarifications and settle myself down for the process.

I blog about vampirisms, but there's so much more, and while typing up this blog today I had to chuckle because sometimes real life is just like this website, the Vampire Rave. Here you are a creature of some description based on your level and out here in the real world, there are all kinds of power-ups you can get on top of your vampirisms, and come what may, I was ready for mine.

All this was going on a few weeks after I lost a loved one. I'd started feeding again, and I was in my deepest "what the hell!" mood going, I just wanted to bury myself inside hell, it was the only place I knew where my grief couldn't follow me, so what do I do? Yup, let's get scarified.

Anyway, I'm there trying not to throw up. Those templates, they just suck power out of hell, and it's hard to rein them in at first.

And then the world dropped out of my existence.
If anyone has ever had any experience of God getting right in the same room as you and giving the severest of warnings possible? Well, that's what happened to me.

My stomach dropped to the floor and my brain was filled with terror over what I was about to do.
And despite all the crap I get up to in life — all the consenting adult stuff, Mr-Vampire-Rave-Blog-Monitor, God made it solemnly clear that if I took the marks, through scarification into my flesh, I'd be lost to Him. Forever. No rewinds. No second chance. A final and irrecoverable goodbye.

I have to say, I don't often feel terrified, but I fucking did then. Shit. I felt like I was about to throw myself off a cliff.

Also, the demons had turned up for the induction party and were pulling me one way while God didn't pull me at all. He waited.

I became scared. Bone deep scared.

I saw the deep chasm that awaited me.

I saw the life of the deep.

And the edge I was on.

The demons pulling me over it.

And God behind me told me it was the final choice. A final and irrevocable choice.

And despite all this going on? Guess what I was thinking about? Despite being shit scared I was thinking damn, I'm not going to get these awesome designs on my chest now!!!! That's right, all that was going on and all I wanted to do was to jazz my chest up with some rocking designs. I'm an arsehole.

So I decided there and then to refuse the scarification, then some other things happened that I couldn't type. It wasn't exactly a 'hi & bye' scenario. However, I refused. I moved away from the edge. I choose God.

Things calmed down pretty quickly then. The templates simply became templates and the helium head and throwing up stomach issues vanished, and I pulled the plates off my chest. Kinda looked at them lovingly, but they're not worth losing God. What is? I fuck around with the blood, and he's been forgiving of that, but the Sigil is something else.
You may think my refusing Satan would have grave implications for me, and perhaps in some cases it's true. Satan should never be underestimated or misunderstood and anyone who disagrees, is a fool.
However, I refused, and have gone on with my life since then.

On no!! Why didn't Satan 'Omen 2' you and cut you in half in an elevator????? For dissin' his party and ruining everything???

In answer, I'm often reminded of a film The Devil's Advocate and its ending. After a character refuses Satan, as I did in that instance, Satan simply created a path into the person's future where he would be faced with the same choice again, perhaps endlessly, until he fell and took Satans offer.

Let's face it, it was my second attempt at taking the Sigils. The first time I went further, and I begged God to save myself during the process. He ... saved ... me.

I mean how much love can God have for a person.

God, Satan. Their depths are unfathomable. And that's coming from someone who takes holidays in hell. I did go to heaven a few times. It might sound crazy in a blog, but what the hell? Unfortunately, I haven't been invited back, sadly.

Like I mentioned in a different blog. I'd climbed to the top of the snake and ladder board and fell to the bottom several months ago. I'm about three rows up atm, and there is a big snake coming up this weekend, so I'll probably drop off the fucking board lol.

The act of consuming blood. I think it should be called 'drinking', but who am I to go against 19th century folklore?

In this blog I'm going to concentrate on the act, the ritual, the event, and ultimately, the cost to the person who feeds.

When I feed, I treat the event with great reverence. It's a 'Christmas Day with family' level of reverence. It's special. It matters. It means something. This isn't Lon Chaney Jr. jumping out of a doorway and sinking his fangs into a passing screaming woman and then disappearing into the night. And if things get fucked up through lack of care in its preparation, it can ruin the entire feed.

Feeding for me is an incredibly magical life-altering event, not life- changing, life-altering. And always has been despite the 1000s of times I've fed. And there have been 1000s. And every single one. Every one. Has meant the absolute world to me. The anticipation, yes. During, yes. After? Not so much, but that's another story.

Recently, after abstaining from drinking blood for six years, minus one or two minor infractions, I've fallen. I'm feeding again. I don't have the words to describe that in a simple paragraph, but I described it here.

I'm not going to pretend I didn't enjoy feeding on Red Riding's blood. I fucking loved it. I love her. Deeply mutual. She makes me feel utterly inconsequential. I'm a molecule occasionally orbiting her pleasure, and I've known her, always.

I do remember how lovely it felt to feed, and how deeply it mattered to me at the time, but I also know what it's cost me. The folklore is true, drinking blood fuck's up your ability to be in the day.

During my six-year abstinence, after my bloodlust went dormant, I spent those years walking in the day, walking in the sun, walking in the towns and the cities and enjoying all of that life. I loved it. I really loved it. I felt normal. I felt wholesome. I felt whole. And during that time, I watched the dawn rise and each time it felt like nothing I'd ever felt in my existence before. The dawn connected with me so deeply I felt God himself had reached down and pulled me into heaven and, for a time, for a most beautiful time, I felt I had a place in His world, but since falling and feeding, I've lost all of those things now. I've lost them, and I'm back to living in the shadows.
I've written of the shadows many times and the pleasures within them.

Nevertheless.

I want the light. I want the day. I want the sun and until this bloodlust leaves me, this addiction, I'll not know the day again. And I need those days and the daylight within them, I need to be in all of that again. I want that more than anything right now and until my body is cleansed, or my penance is served, I'll not know the day again in the way I experienced it before my last fall. It was so beautiful, and to lose it has hollowed me out.

To live the way God wanted me to live, and then to feed myself and lose it all. To become, once again, a creature in fear of the sun. I'm ashamed. Deeply. I have been since I fed.

From experience, I know in time if I abstain from feeding, I'll be able to walk in the sun and the day again. But I'm not there yet. The migraines and light sensitivity are still ruining my pleasure of being outside and the sun seems very distant.

I'm sorry God. Truly. I am. I miss you. I miss the dawn. I miss the world.

It doesn't matter why I drink blood, or how it started. The story is too long to give it justice in this blog. I wrote about it in my journals, and I'll upload them to my website one day. For now, I want to write about my bloodlust.

I've fed too many times to start from the beginning, to explain, every time, every action, every emotion. It goes back decades. I wasn't born into bloodlust, I was taken into it. And it wasn't entirely my choice. I certainly fought against those who corrupted me, but eventually, through becoming completely overwhelmed by their insistence, I gave in, eventually, through love. And as I said, it was not entirely my choice. Cascade upon a cascade of overwhelming pressure to become something I wasn't born as, didn't want to be, and knew I shouldn't be, meant nothing to the people who turned me. I simply became their plaything, their clay, to mold into what they wanted me to be.

They knew what they were doing. They had a clear agenda. They didn't care about the implications for my soul, my future, my life, anything. None of that mattered to them. They just wanted to turn me, and in a real life sense, turn me, they did. Turn me. Turned me into something else. A different creature entirely than I was born as. If people really knew the depths of what I wrote here they'd be shocked, or even cry.

And during my turning, when I was so gently and so femininely introduced to what blood was to become to me, what it would mean to me, it shattered every reality I'd ever held about life, my existence, people, time, space, everything. Nothing remained untouched. It blew my soul apart.
Even now decades later, I've never in my life smelled anything quite as nice as blood. Often, it's enough to bring tears to my eyes, make an exclamation to God, look up at the heavens and weep with joy. It's not just the smell, it's what the smell makes me feel. It pops open my awareness and everything becomes deeply organically clear. Suddenly, I'm living in a 360 degree world instead of a 3D one and no matter how many times that happens, the novelty never, ever, wears off. The rest of what the smell of blood makes me feel, I don't want to type. It would be mentally exhausting trying to put that into words.

After being turned, I started to like it. A lot. More than a lot. I wrote about that in my journals too.

I'd been turned and started to have a great time with that. And, it was and is a great time. I started to feel free from the world, everything mattered, yet ultimately nothing mattered, it was all nothing more than time passing through me. I became distant from the world I knew, and I only cared about my new world, a furtive world with furtive people in it who hide within society and live in a very secular way. But that's another journal entry.

Staying up all night, which ran into days on end, was done without even thinking about it. The days and nights became one long party, and they were parties. Parties where I cried tears of joy at how deeply happy I felt. They were incredible. I'd never known a world like it, and as when you explore a new world, the experience itself changes you and lingers, so apart from having boundless energy, semi-eternal life, and a new set of friends, I had a really chill new environment to hunt and play in. Hunting meant figuratively.

I suppose if a stranger happened upon one of our shindigs he'd almost certainly be shocked and probably horrified. Yet there are no illegal activities, only consensual everything between consenting adults. And it has to be consensual. It has to mean something to the person you're drinking. It has to be deeply special, mutual love level special, otherwise the connection is one of sadness, and drinking blood tinged with sadness, it's enough to make you cry.

Blood is so fragile yet holds so much power over me. All that matters is that the blood came from someone who loves me as much as I love them. Their love. Inside me. And you drink. You drink so deep. Your mind becomes lost. Becomes empty. Of you.

And you see. So much.

I see. So much.

I see heaven all around me, I see hell as clear and walking through time has become timeless, and all things seem suspended within it and I see all of it. The distant past was a moment ago, and I feel it, all of it, every year, every decade, every moment, held, in timelessness. It's heart-wrenching and yet it's the most beautiful thing I have ever felt, could ever feel. Could ever, see. This isn't Satan, this isn't hell, this is heaven, and my journey towards it, and when I reach it, will I know the difference between my life here and now, and there, for all things seem the same to me. All eternity is spent looking over a landscape and feeling the loss of things gone and waiting for new things to arrive. I feel everything. And its beauty is almost intolerable. It's like being held on the brink of orgasm, forever.

I look at the ground beneath my feet as I walk, knowing how old each single step I take is and how long the earth has known my footfall. I look up and gaze upon all the people I see near and far and realize that if everyone whose life at that moment was shorter than mine vanished, there would most likely not be a soul left to see.

The world is a pleasant playground and kindness is at the heart of my life. I have a smile for everyone, kindness for everyone, time, for everyone, and I wander, timelessly, content and happy. I gift money to the homeless, converse with those who engage, and the pleasure of seeing a woman's instant attraction upon asking an innocent question never tires. The flush of her skin, the sheen on her face, the deep, faraway somehow sleepy look. The smile. I smell her, sense her, know her, and sometimes, with scant words exchanged, love her. There is no horse & cart jarring her to the bone over a rock- encrusted ride back to my barn to fuck her in the hey loft in this day and age. These days I drive that SUV and live in that ****. I wear the brand, I buy the cologne, I do everything I can to add to my already irresistible aura, and it works, it all fits together so nicely, it's so nice, I'd fuck myself if I could.

And when I meet the world, sometimes, I just want to fuck. Forget the blood, forget the mysticism.
Sometimes I just want to fuck, fuck all night, keep the curtains closed and fuck all day, and when I've had enough, I fuck some more. It helps with the pain of knowing every person I see and all the things they ever were and will be, are already ghosts lost to time and to me. I mourn for a world yet to die and the people within it.

I walk alone.

I walk in a city full of people yet I'm free from all of them.

I have beloved places of refuge.

I sit and drink coffee while looking so far into the sky, heaven itself appears, knowing full well hell itself sits beneath me.

Despite everything bad and broken in this world, most of the tears that fall from my eyes are of joy, and not pain.

Writing is the occupation of choice for vampires. Writers often have unusual personalities, so we often go unnoticed.

Vampirism is certainly a popular genre and has been since the 19th century. Back then dip pens and quills were more popular than word processors and TV shows, yet the essence of the story rarely changes, and eons of experience on earth gives you quite a story to tell.

Years of emotions briefly elated yet inevitably destroyed time upon time through centuries of loss on seeing everyone you love buried beneath the ground you once shared makes for a lucrative income when writing accounts.

Mourning the deaths of lovers you are yet to meet. To see death in their eyes while they are still in full bloom. To see the grave upon them before they felt the first pains of ageing and knowing within a few moments of my own life, I will never know their kindness or love again.

To grieve by their graves and wishing I was buried with them yet knowing I will live on, wandering through time from one grave to the next.

In time, I met a woman of such beauty, such vulnerable, needful, eyes, that I became lost to love again.

The years tumbled by, seemingly days to me, she aged and became frail, yet I loved her. She had little time left, and yet I loved her and at her life's end, as I held her face and pushed my cheek against hers, I begged her to believe that her death was okay. "It's okay Baby, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay," and then she was gone. She left this Earth and took everything she meant to me with her. Yet for her life in the briefest of moments, I gave her everything.

Big sleep, sweetheart.

It was one death too many and it finally broke my heart. And in the following weeks, and at my most vulnerable, the essence of vampirism, Satan himself, took me back to a place I once abandoned in favor of God so many years ago. I plunged head first into that hell with no thought of God at all in the hope of buying respite from the grief I held so deeply inside.

My kin, my clan, had been waiting for me all along, days to them since I left, a lifetime for others.

I note the decades passing by with as much value as what I leave in the toilet, and find despair in each aging line on a loved one's face, knowing I am the most helpless of all. Time stands still in those moments, until it takes another part of me to the grave. Piece by piece.

I am imprisoned within time itself and eternally burdened with layer upon layer of grief and hardened misery suffered throughout my existence. The miles traveled long, the wear hard, not the kind of injury that ever softens, only thickens.

I like to think I can still hold onto compassion for all life, mourn an injured bee, place a dying plant in sunlight to live a few moments longer, or give my unvalued decades freely to another, knowing what it would cost at the end.

That said, monsters are dangerous, we're not to be taken lightly, yet even monsters need to be known. Without, can I exist at all? We all crave mirrors to look into, even if it withers before our own eyes.

After I've pleasured myself with feeding, I like to reassess my life during the following days. I need to, as there's usually a lot of emotional baggage to unpack.

It's been a few days since I last fed. The bloodlust has left me. And I have to ask myself, as I do in all these post-feed-reviews, how the hell do I end up tied to a bed necking my wife's blood? What the hell? I sure don't want to do that now! Where does that come from? What molecule lies dormant in my body that takes over me to the point where all I can think about is that? I know it's in me, and I can never get rid of it, and that it's going to wake up again, but after three hours of mental pontification, all I ever come up with is, WTF?

Six years was my longest gap between feeds. It wasn't even six years. I fed within the first year of starting my abstinence. It wasn't a deep feed, I didn't go full on vampire, I just licked around the edges a bit, and about two years ago I fed harder, but that was nothing compared to my Red Riding Hood extravaganza. That one was a friggin' concert! So it's not been six years at all if I'm accurate. It's probably been two. 18 months if I narrow it down. 18 months. And here I am again.

I really felt I screwed up my relationship with God this time. I felt so empty. It went beyond sadness. I felt such remorse that I had decided to carry 30 pieces of silver with me as a mark of my betrayal so deep was my guilt. I felt wretched. I'd broken my word to God. Again. And I was feeding. Again.

Yesterday I decided to go on a spiritual journey to look for Him. I felt sure this time I would not find him. But I needed to try.

I did not know where to begin, all the paths looked the same. The kind of paths you visualize in your mind spiritually. And within my mind, I set foot on one of those paths, not caring if it took an eternity to find God, knowing that if He did not want me to meet Him, I would never find Him, but I took solace in trying to find Him. I needed to. I love him.

And as soon as I stepped foot upon the path, God appeared, and He told me he'd been waiting for me on all paths, he'd been waiting for me to set foot on one of them.

I hadn't been able to face daylight in weeks without eyestrain and headaches and at that moment he told me to go into the daylight. I went outside, and there was no pain. Only God's world and God's love. And while I am so lowly that I can't keep my own word, God, I thank you, for having the strength to give to me that which I don't possess to give to you. My word is nothing but my love for you is great.

I'm making preparations to travel the way I did before I fell. It's tentative. I still feel weak, I feel humble. I feel like a bantling needing to hold God's hand to walk in His light. I'm starting over. I've had many beginnings and this seems one of the brightest of all.

I'm anticipating.

I want to soar. I want to live in the sunlight and see the vastness of the sky and its horizon.

I was defiant. I believed I had the strength to live in God's world regardless, and now that I am humble, I feel that I'm starting to heal. A thorn has been removed from an infected place in my heart.

I don't blame Satan for nudging me back into falling and feeding over the previous months. How could I? He wanted me closer to Him. I love him. And I take warmth in his attention in pulling me towards him. And when I fed on Riding Hood, it was one of the best feeds I'd ever had. It was perfect. Even while feeding, I was amazed at how perfect it felt. It couldn't have been better. However, all good things come to an end. And the aftershock ruined me.

The sensations of the dark have split my world in two. I have frequently been broken through feeling the deeper levels of love through shared blood, yet I have never reached a limit. There is an ocean of feelings held within the blood, and it is never too much, there is never enough. Like air, food and water it is a constant.

I know I will return to the dark again. It holds the essence of my most delightful, needful, beautiful existence-enhancing sin, and I'll never be able to turn away from it fully for I have lived in the dark much longer than I have known the light. I just didn't know any better when I lived in the dark. Now I do. All the pleasure of hell or popping into Waterstones to buy a book to read with your coffee? I know what I often prefer.

I want to live in the light of God. I want to stay close to the dark. I need both. They are both a part of me and I can't exist without either.

I love the daylight, I need it. I want the day, yet the power of the dark, I want what it affords me. To walk with Satan, you have the best protector — barring God Himself — and as a traveling companion, Satan rocks. Why? Because people don't fear God in the same way they do Satan, people fear being hurt, they don't fear being forgiven.

When I'm traveling I make a point of walking through the worst areas. I don't know why, I don't have any reason to, I just like it. I like how it makes me feel.

I like being within Satan's power, I like feeling protected, I like feeling safe and I like feeling strong. I've seen the films, the TV shows, and none of them encapsulate the fear you can put in someone who isn't very nice, or thinks they're a potential threat to you. I'd go to the worst areas and find the worst people to gauge their reactions simply by being there. I enjoy the 'I'm going to look at anything but you' expressions I often come across and, better yet, some people, not many, but a few, treat me like they have known me forever. I often feel the same about them.

I've found some of my closest and most dangerous friends in those times. Some have become family to me. Having friends who would put themselves in peril for you? And the deep sense of love that it generates? The irony is not lost on me that the most dangerous are often the most loving. I have cried for the depth of sincerity and care given by some of the people in my life I have befriended in the worst of places.

I'm reminded of a quote from the film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves,

"I've seen knights in armor panic at the first hint of battle. And I've seen the lowliest, unarmed squire pull a spear from his own body, to defend a dying horse. Nobility is not a birthright. It's defined by one's actions."

And isn't that the whole point of existence itself? To love? To care? To find people who are worth more to you than life itself?

Isn't that why I turned towards the dark in the beginning? Because of love?

Isn't this entire existence a carousel endlessly revolving through the light and the dark to experience the deepest love in both?

I am not cursed. I am blessed. I am blessed by all those I love and love me. Perhaps in the end, when God puts me down, and he will, for we all die eventually, I hope I get a chance to remember my loved ones before oblivion. Assuming that is my fate. I'd like to believe I'll get angel wings but can't help but wonder if it'll be a pointy tail.

I understand the dichotomy of loving and adoring God and Satan. Some tell me that I'm 'sitting on the fence' or 'playing one against the other', but it wouldn't be true. I simply won't abandon either of them, and in the end, at the end, if it rips me apart, my last thoughts, I hope, will be knowing I gave myself to both, because I loved them.

Perhaps if I was offered a banquet of blood wrapped in the sweetest of things, I'd indulge myself fully. Unless I was abstaining. Which in this wonderfully vampiric world may happen. And before a paid a visit to Red Riding Blood, I was six years clean:

Those around me, my kin, my clan, my fellow vampires, have already fallen. The kind that'd happily lick the rim of a toilet if they took a fancy to the girl whose period spattered it. The kind of creatures that could bring you to your knees simply by staring. Through orgasm. Or terror. Or both. Depending on their moods. Inside they're like the dustbins of life, and every dirty little dark desire you hold they cover in a sticky glue and throw at you.

And as in the case of most life-altering things that happen to a vampire, they almost always start off as a small, inconsequential little thing. A kiss on the cheek, a handshake, a welcome back into the fold of the clan after an extended departure, slowly ever so slowly drawing you back in, like a fish on a hook.

The slightest movement of a stocking'd knee due to a skirt slightly adrift. An incredible perfume freshly glistening on the flawless skin of a slender neck surrounded by chestnut brown tousled hair accompanied by the barest hint of cleavage slightly pushing against her blouse. Little toes with blackberry coloured nails flexing in stocking'd feet, as shoes were casually kicked off during the welcoming kiss backed up with its superhuman wingman — the perfume. Her lips were equally dark, plump and pouty. These demons are artists at an attraction. And just like having one or two drinks at a party, my abstinence felt itself slipping.

Perhaps there was still a small thread of humanity left in me there, right until the naughty little blood donor, we'll call her Little Red Riding Blood, tipped me over the edge. And it was never a long edge to reach. And then every sensation I'd ever felt, fused together into a humming, overpowering machine that just sucked me right in, and I knew, as a drowning man so far from shore, it was simply better to just let go.

Perhaps Red Riding Blood was just as willing and just as corrupt as me, and there, right at that moment, I fell.

I had become accustomed to living in the light of the day and had found a peace I never felt in the dark. Six years. Six ... years of abstinence! I felt I'd reached the very top of that Snakes & Ladders board I'd spent an eternity tumbling down and believed I'd never fall down again. And when I did, when Red Riding Blood made sure I did, the monster inside me, the monster I truly believed had left me, made me realize it was only sleeping and when it awoke, it was uncontrollably ravenous, a glutton, it wouldn't have cared if it had burst before being satiated as long as it could plunge as deep down as it possibly could sucking up every atom it needed. It went beyond being satiated, it became the living embodiment of the act itself, it lived only to feed. There was only the feed. Nothing else existed. And Red Riding Blood made sure I took every last drop.

And when it was over, and I came to my senses, I cried about what I had done. It wasn't my first time, or my second. It ran into thousands and every time after, every time, I regretted my fall. I didn't cry for myself. I wept at God's feet for what I had made Him watch.

Can you imagine how dirty I felt after doing something like that? Bone deep filth that can never be washed off or completely erased. In a sense, you become the filth itself, rather than it being a part of you.

It almost feels like you've caused yourself some permanent damage, and it feels horrifying, almost as though you've cut off your own leg, or more in truth, perhaps you cut off your own soul.

After cleaning up, I left and wandered into the daylight. They are my family, my clan. And family is always family, no matter the distance I sometimes try to maintain. I knew the sunlight would not feel the same as it did before I had fed and as soon as the sun touched my eyes and my skin, I felt sick. I started to feel like I was coming down with a cold or a virus, and I'd known that misery before. Not intolerable although the familiar niggling headache that would soon turn into a migraine level pain added to my woes. I knew I'd have several days of feeling that way before I felt anything like what passed for normal in my life, and rather than dreading it, I accepted it, like a person might accept they have the flu, and it would take some time to recover.

Unlike in the films, I felt no afterglow, there was no walking into the sunlight with a great piece of incidental music playing in the background while the character basks in the sunlight and feels fully energized.

I went home to where the curtains were still closed and opened them. I looked at the sun that seemed so jarring and sobbed as the rays warmed the wildlife I had fed and sat among a few days earlier. I closed my eyes and imagined the warmth of an embracing sun, knowing all it could offer me now was pain and a bitter reminder of how I had fallen. I wished I and the sun were friends again and knew in time we might be, but for now, I knew solace could only be found within the shadows where at least my flu-like symptoms would ease.

And so I write, I write all night long and dread the daylight and when it arrives, I goes to bed. My curtains are lined and every scrap of light is carefully shut out. Sometimes even a sliver of it can make me nauseous. And the pain in my head is as bad as a migraine. I cower under my quilt trying to find the deepest darkest blackness I can and there, at least there, I can find a little rest. Sometimes I wish I would never wake up and often fall asleep remembering so long ago when God showed me heaven and my place within it. And now I feel so far from it, and God. For this part of my life, until I will be welcomed by the sun again, I rest in Satan's grasp.

Until a few months ago, I lived under the light of God.

I had a life I enjoyed and I walked in the daylight from dawn until dusk.

I'd leave home early, before sunrise, and walk into the countryside. And as the sun came up, I'd marvel at its beauty and take deep comfort in the tears of happiness that fell from my eyes.

As I walked I felt like I was walking into heaven. The world became timeless. I was content. And at peace.

The sky looked vast. And I felt happy. I had almost limitless energy. At least, I had not found its limit. And I'd walk. And during those years, I spent more money on boots than on tyres for my car. I felt like my body was the vehicle while I journeyed, and I needed nothing more.

Eventually, as per my routine back then, I'd end up in a city, and walk the city too.

I felt God was watching me and approving of my life and everything in my mind, heart and soul felt balanced and right and pure.

I loved life.

I loved myself.

And for a time, for those six years, I felt I had everything I needed within myself.

I felt free.

As I ventured into the city, my first port of call was always coffee to welcome the morning. I knew the most wonderful places, where I could sit and watch the world, and gaze at the sky. I was like a child seeing the father of Christmas flying through the air in his sleigh the way I gazed at the heavens. I loved the light. I adored it.

And when the sun came out, I had to stop the tears rolling down my face. For how do you explain to those passing by that the sun has such power over you? Who could possibly understand that? Sadly, only the few, but the few, to my soaring heart, still remain within life's blessing.

Last year, during winter, I sat with my coffee outside a coffee shop, marveling at the overcast sky and the briskness of the air. And a lady in her 30s, noticed me.

And when women stare, you have to wonder if you've got a coffee cup with a hole in the bottom. You might be sat there happy with your image, all the while you've got a piss-shaped coffee stain appearing on your crotch. So I checked the crotch and no issues there phew. She continued to stare and as I didn't appear to have pissed myself, I started to enjoy her attention.

She gazed at me. I didn't return her favour. I didn't need to. We were connected in a different sense. We enjoyed each other. I drank my coffee. She drank hers. Her gaze never left me. Not an instant. And as I left, as I glanced in her direction, we shared a single beautiful moment. And it was glorious. Really, no words. For she saw the sky too.

I moved deeper into the city. I seek the homeless to add a little care to their days. I gift them money and know many by name. Some have become friends and ease my journey as even the most desperate and dangerous are kind to those who help and love them. And I do, love them. They add to my heart as much as I to do to theirs.

The city I walk in, I've known for a long time, and I've known it in many ways. I've seen it in many ways. And these days, everything you could possibly imagine you could need or not need is there. You can buy an autograph of a person in a faraway land that you've never met, or ever will, and it will cost more than the price of a ticket to fly halfway around the world. You can buy technology that allows you to speak to anyone in the world that can be held inside your ear. This is wondrous, and I equip myself with everything an urban explorer at this age needs, or thinks he needs.

Do I need my wife to talk to me through a microchip every half hour wanting updates on where I am, what I have seen, what I'm doing next, and when will I reach wherever? No. But it's nice.

Eventually, I'd get lunch in one of the great places I keep a mental list of. Not because the food was any different than anywhere else, but because I loved the surroundings. To be with people. To enjoy the life of those around you. I'd travel with books and find corners of solitude amongst people and read. I was so happy. It was perfect for me.

And then I'd travel onward.

I'd always have a final destination. A loved one's home. Often staying overnight with them, before returning to my wife the following day. And that life, that routine. It was the best time I'd ever had, and I believed I'd be happy in that routine for the rest of my life. It's all I needed. I'd found my perfect balance. I was at peace with God. I was at peace with Satan. I was whole.

Until a few months ago.

I lost someone. My wife and I lost someone.

My wife managed her grief in her own way.

I managed my grief in my own way. I hadn't considered breaking my abstinence and feeding as a way to ease my own grief. It hadn't crossed my mind.

A few weeks later, on October 31st — All Hallows' Eve of all dates, I'd gone to bed, fallen asleep, and had a lucid dream. I had full awareness of myself within it. And by my side was Satan, showing me a version of myself feeding. And as I watched this unfold, I felt every sensation of the act itself as I watched myself feed. I felt all of it from start, to finish, and it was so overwhelming that even in the dream, I'd already decided I was going to feed in waking life.

That morning, there was no doubt in my mind about arranging a feed. Not at home. Not with my wife. Not at that time. Elsewhere.

I was on a rail track with no brakes. I justified breaking my word to God and my promise of abstinence by leveling it at the deep sense of sorrow I held due to the death of my loved one.

I'd lost people before but not like that, and not as quick. It took me to a place of sorrow in my heart that I didn't know existed. And I didn't think about the implications of how breaking my abstinence would affect my life at that time. It just wasn't in my mind.

I'm feeding again.

I'm no longer whole. I never will be without God balancing my darkness.

I'm simply not strong enough to pull myself back into the light yet.

I need to prove myself to God.

Again.

I see Him at the edge of the shore of this ocean of blood I bathe in.

Watching.

Waiting for me to find the strength to swim towwards Him.

I can abstain.

Again.

Perhaps my path never truly leads away from the dark and is but a simple circle. And as a circle, can my plight ever end? For I have been here before, time and time upon time.

Satan has always held Hell's door open. Not only to enter, but to leave.

You have to want to leave.

And that is the strongest chain and padlock of all.

No longer of God, my barriers broken,
my morals intact, though merely a token.
Has led to a path steeped in sin, free of guilt,
ripping God and his sword, from my heart, by the hilt.

Blade shattered through striking hell's cage around soul,
its pieces no more than a memory of old.
Cut through with fresh ease on the depth of my sin,
and sharpened and honed through blood rites of my kin.

In vampire breeds, my heart became stricken,
of wife and our clan, of our truth God forbidden.
With lust and desire, with hunger and thirst,
with love in my heart, I cared not for curse.

Beyond any foodstuff or finest of wine,
my need crude and based, raw, unrefined.
All thoughts pushed away, until deep urge is spent,
no care within mind, of others dissent.

Heart pounding and pounding and pounding and pounding,
the cost to my soul, is in Satan's accounting.
Mind cloudy, elated, true focus is feeding,
licking and lapping, and sucking wounds bleeding.

I'm lost in the scent of sweet fruit and lime,
of wife and her sister, their scent is sublime.
Our bond within trinity, sealed through their blood,
I'm lost to their taste, and the warmth of vein's flood.

I knew you would find me, my wife, my Beloved,
my destiny waited, uniting in blood.
I remember your scent, sweet fruit and lime,
at time of first meeting, it felt by design.

Held to your whisper, etched on my heart,
deeper than any bite, brand or mark.
Met with a kiss, on the left side of neck,
by that time I knew, my soul was lost cheque.

Both knowing my truth and my depth of devotion,
matured from my love of Satan most cloven,
as leaf from its tree, helplessly floating through pain deeply woven.

I waited through years to find life through your whisper,
my soul alone, a simple drifter.
While searching through time for your place in the crowd,
searching each day for your name said out loud.

Truest Beloved, your beauty strikes heart as the wind hits a sail,
my love for you, my holy Grail.

Sisters in blood, sisters in passion,
my morals care not of the view or the fashion.
My girls in their lust, eternal in prime,
both bloodied and sinful, past logic, or rhyme.

My wife and her sister, two sides to my third,
my standing now equal, to either their word.
My turning from God, wife's gift of succession,
few thoughts I have spent, on this final transgression.

My role has now changed, from scornful low heel,
my strength is now equal, through Satan's full seal.
Mind lost to the blood, the thirst and the need,
my thoughts not of Lord, but on ravenous creed.

Both sisters amused at my dignities loss and begging bowl pleas to lap at their blood, both taunting and teasing yet never refusing, indulging my urges through laughter that drowns in my tears and my screaming, and crying as child through craving breastfeeding.

My addiction to bloodlust seems far from complex, simply an urge to ingest sister's essence, to taste living cells, the scent of life's blood, heightens arousal to lengthening presence.

I'm lost to addiction as never before, my bloodlust outweighs, to greater percent, wife's hunger well sated, through sister's consent.

My need of their blood is something quite new, another indulgence to add to my angst, another string to add to my pain, except pain is the wrong word, within it I grow, within it I flourish, and add to my gain.

My warmest of tears born of greatest of pain, my need not of comfort but fire and passion, of tears lost to rain, of cries lost to thunder, of need of my pain.

Of knowledge I asked for, past man's understanding designed to be flawed. How much I now love, how much I now feel, my shackles are broken, true consciousness thawed.

I'm determined to write within journal this moment, perhaps a battle simply ill chosen. My flag of surrender, most sexual trek, carried to wife's slender fingers, all camped within sight of the base my neck.

Her breath on right ear, has ended this battle hardly begun.

I can barely form rhyme, let alone keep my mind and thoughts clear.

Wife using her tongue as a scout leading teeth to the site of my turning, nuzzling my earlobe with tip of her nose, enticing my head to expose side of neck, flicking her tongue on wounds fully healed, and biting anew, yes, it fully appealed .

My pulse lost to quickening of fear before turn, now wife's bite is simply a comfortable burn.

Old slippers by fire, a favourite song, a cosy warm bed welcomes sleep to the lorn. My seed, lust and hunger, indulged, fully sated, my conscience no longer still pricked by Christ's thorn. In ways beyond words, in ways never spoken, my peace within mind belongs to newborn.

Within sunset of focus, I try to recount, through words, and thoughts, to add to my journal. To salvage last page, to give it true worth, of my turning and union, and life in rebirth.

How easy my words now fall onto parchment, vying for space against recent blood spatter, yet losing their ground to sisters dark matter. Their blood tells a story far deeper than words. Their blood tells a story most men find absurd. A name known as legion heard throughout Earth, from child of cot, to man on deathbed. From Son of the morning, to beast cast of dread. On tongue of all language, from first breath till last thread.

We have our union, my Beloved.

You gave me a free pass to the entire world. And it's become my playground. It's so vast. I feel like I can do anything, go anywhere, be anywhere, see anything. Everything is so beautiful, so peaceful now, because you gave me the strength to see it that way.

All of those lives and places to meet and see and explore and everything I see, I see with love.

I adore life. I adore everything. Everything matters. Every sunset, every smile, every kind word, every single connection, no matter how small.

Everything means the world to me, because everything is the world, and now, I can finally see, and feel, freely.

Desperately seeking, and needing their whole,
yet something is missing and taken from soul.
Denying their feelings, all held from the truth,
for minds of most men are still locked within youth,
in keeping their thoughts, where heart never delves,
or asking the question to God or themselves,

the question of questions is simply, what if.

You, my Beloved, may place me in chains,
Your hands simple tools, to Satan's mind games.
My soul just a painting, to add to His collection,
His power your paint, to my canvased inception.

I'm dangled as plaything, commands I hear spoken,
Though long understanding, my will must be broken.
I'm shattered and bitten, bloodied and wrought,
no single part, escaped a fierce thought.

Yet key to our unity, lay here eternal,
hidden on pages, within my own journal.
I could never be turned, through pain or enticement,
My fate ever rested, in words on old parchment.

You, my Beloved, at last saw the truth in my heart's deepest song,
The truth of my journals, the clues all along.
You, my Beloved, found power to turn me with two simple words,
As I fell to my knees, in tears long deserved.

My ripped open heart, no longer resisted.
Your sobbing hitched breath, said those words as you whispered ...

'"Love me"

'I wept. I screamed. I howled. I was in emotional agony. Like never before in my life. I never knew how much pain I could feel until that moment. The fire I felt, the anger, the fury, the strength, right then, I would have burned the world to save her. No matter the cost, my life didn't matter, my soul didn't matter, nothing I had mattered. All I wanted to do was take a creature that needed me and give her everything. And none of the pain was for me. It was all for her. Every second of it, every tear, every scream, I wanted to save her in a way she couldn't save herself, and I never knew I could ever be so broken until I looked at her face and saw the longing she held in her eyes to finally be in a world she wanted to live in. My emotions exploded. I was finished. I was finally torn from life. And all that was left, was my love. For her.'

My final acceptance, of rites lost to journal,
Brought You fallen Angel, to matters infernal.
To give life and soul, true love and its need,
To bond with Beloved, through blood rites and her creed.

My Satan, protector, and cruelest of lovers,
My dearest most cherished, and thoughtful of brothers.
Appearing through wife, opaque within eyes,
Her flesh simple vessel, my turning, was time.

Your energies taken, through wife in host form,
Added my soul, to your lost legion's swarm.
With You fallen Angel, accepting my turn,
While knowing for her love, I'd willingly burn.

Ripping through mind, ripping through soul,
As ripped open heart, joined blood spilling toll.
Showing existence of plane rarely seen,
And taking my hand through dimension between.

Turning me into Your child of commitment,
Taking me back to the mind of an infant.
My mother and father and sister all dead,
Past lovers, remembered yet long ago fled.

I'm fired and tempered in all that I've lost,
Your presence destroys me, I'm ripped from the cross.
I screamed my goodbye to God and his nation,
My soul then turned, into death's false salvation.

I fell into blackness, no sense of perception,
Or God and his law, or man and his mention.
My last human thought, Satan's hand was not offered,
but mine using soul, through the writings I authored.

'I found myself in a dimension between life and death.

My feelings are whole in ways not of man, the universe mine, to explore beyond life.

The deepest and blackest of the vast oceans, I can breathe, with no need for air.

I feel no cold, yet see wind barren land, forever obscured by man's arrogant blight, his buildings, his structures or imprudent plans.

A desolate place of no human colour, I see forever, a monochrome hue, of blacks and greys, a similar blue, dark and slick yet quagmire, viscous, drawing me into its cherished embrace, making me part of its perfect contentment, adding my thoughts to its own very placement.

One within the land, yet still free to travel, deeper and deeper into its oceans, now part of me, as I am to it, yet Satan beside me, supporting my need to explore and discover, supporting my need to maintain unique feelings, not found within body of weak human flesh, traveling further and deeper than ever before, long past my belief of even return, taken from mind, my wife's adoration, no thought to my soul, of God's restoration, or people of Earth, all lost from elation.

I cared for nothing besides fallen Satan, so far away from God's book of creation, further and deeper, far beyond time,
even space disappeared, to finally see,
within Your very centre, a simple reflection, of You, beside me.

Only a return to physical form allows human feelings of life on Earth's floor. I'm restored to my shivering body, ice-cold, out of sync, my life force unsettled though back from the brink. Not only have I changed through knowledge accrued, but Earth's motioned orbit, strange and askew.

The Earth is not how I left it, something is missing, the part that is missing, is missing from me. For I conscious being, I have not returned whole, most part left behind, my other world soul.

You gave me sight, my fallen Angel,
No longer constricted to simple organics, my vision sees through Earth's distracting mechanics.

You've changed me, in the deepest of ways,

You've changed me, everything is so very beautiful because of You, I see and feel, so deeply, a sound becomes physical, tangible, palpable, my sight, so deep, of vibrant hue, of energy, life force hidden from view, feelings, cascading, from souls in their passing, all knowing the truth of this world's fallen blessing, from taste as a texture, a scent or a feeling, its energy felt within mind for ingesting.

I now see the truth of beauty withheld, through all senses combined into vivid reality, no longer smothered. All that is left is to simply,

be.

Last night I was taken, in blood lust and raw,
To help replenish, wife's soul draining maw.
My blood, simple remedy, taking her jeopardy,
On well hewn path, to her satisfied rhapsody.

My heart is in pieces, I wonder to cope,
Of wife's endless needs, fulfilled at my throat.
My blood often drained, my very soul hurt,
It’s becoming less often, my mind can assert.

I’m trapped, beaten chained and stricken,
I cry every day, from neck being bitten.
I prayed to God, an act of repentance,
Wife cackled at plight, and uttered a sentence;

'Where is your God?'

'Where is your saviour in great time of need,
where is your Jesus to help you be freed?
He left and abandoned you, lost to our creed!'

Tears come anew, thoughts look within,
My doubts now arising, believing her sin.
Beyond all the pain and the biting and taunting,
This single great blow to my soul is most haunting.

Her words cast a shadow, her words start to seep,
A shadow on heart, and settle in deep.
Why does God leave me, with creatures from hell,
Unless he approves, of my soul at death's knell.

Despite the bites from wife's endeavour,
My wounds, the blood, now lost forever.
My broken heart, its barren blight,
My miserable thoughts of mind and its plight.

It isn't my wife I blame for soul hurting,
It isn't my wife I find disconcerting.
Despite her taunting, and endless beating,
Despite her temptations, and cruel way of speaking.

My bane isn't placed at feet of wife,
It's firmly based, within my own life.
For wife, I love her, heart and soul,
My bane is own failure, taken whole.

My endless refusal, accepting wife's gift,
Has left our union, broken, bereft.
My endless refusal, her love never earned,
I refuse to surrender, my will, and be turned.

For God is a mountain I can't overcome,
For I can hear heaven, beating its drum.
I’m locked forever in Christ’s bound halter,
And restrained from visiting, Satan's altar.

It’s breaking my heart on hearing wife’s cries,
She wishes to take me to Satan, as prize.
And every time I ready acceptance,
God comes to me and reminds of allegiance.

I'm lost dear Lord, in heartbroken purgatory,
Let me be free, I'll remember your true glory.
Cast me from your shore, and let me be turned,
For my wife is crestfallen, and I'm already burned.

Our hearts are now fading, time is now passing,
My soul needs her breath, my age now amassing.
My soul needs her turning, we've waited so long,
We're both slowly dying, in agonies song.

Two broken souls, one of light, one of dark,
I need wife's hidden world, not convenant's ark.
My need to accept, I'm no longer auxiliary,
I no longer deny, wife's heart and pained misery.

She's dying, dear Lord, without me by her side,
She will age and be lost, she chose me to provide.
I'm past return, just pass me by, my heart is crushed,
As fate apart, will turn our souls, to tears, in dust.

Dear God, let me go and trust in my soul,
It's need to grow love, is born in your role.
Let us now leave, to a land lost in sin,
To live in peace, with our truest of kin.

My wife and her sister, my bane and my strife,
They fight over me, my body and life.
I'm merely the wood, to either their awl,
And pulled one to the other, as rope between all.

My say has no meaning, my choices redundant,
My thoughts on the matter, no use most recumbent.
I'm taken not forced, used in ways of not kings,
My body and mind simply toys, or playthings.

Yet love does not bring, peace to my mind,
I wish not to be shared, married wife not her kind.
Her sister most beautiful, truly most stunning,
An angel, true angel, yet heart of the cunning.
Enticing, convincing, agreed by my wife,
That carnal desire is simply our life.

Never to find, peace in our home,
Both wife and her sister, endlessly roam.
Restless, unsated, unable to sit,
Their pleasure is felt, beating me with a stick.

Forever tormented, I'm never alone,
Nor truly I wish it, desire is known.
My life as a pawn, in their conquest of man,
A simple chess piece, moved from God to Satan.

Yet here I complain, of life such as ours,
Sometimes I need, rest a few hours.
I'm human, hence tired, I'm frail and weak,
I cannot meet, their satanic spawned feats.
Not even for seconds, minutes refined,
To resist them is pointless, and such waste of time.

Despite solemn love, it's held within trinity,
My soul is not spared, its Holy virginity.
And times in our cellar are vicious and cold,
And often my heart left broken, untold.

I'm naked quite helpless, vulnerable, prone,
And taunted by demons, their wish to dethrone.
Of losing my God, my Jesus, my saviour,
And placing my soul, with love, upon Lucifer.

My greatest fear, yet strongest desire,
Combined together, confusion, most dire.
These feelings abused, by sisters demands,
To give up my Jesus, through endless commands;

"Give us your will, your mind's human fallacy,
Ask, nay beg us,
To bite you and turn you,
Ask, ney beg us,
We give you our legacy."

Shackles and chains strained against gift,
Strength useless, pitiful, weak and bereft.
While anchored to wall,
Their mocking cruel laughter most accursed of all.

Their beautiful scent, sweet fruit and lime,
A delicate fragrance, told will to lose mind.
Teeth lingered on throat, gripped desperately tight,
Yet can't take my soul, until I give right.

Despite temptation, at sisters haste,
To take me to Satan, beaten, blooded and abased.
I'm yet to surrender my soul or my will,
I'm yet to pay that final bill.

I cannot utter that final betrayal,
I cannot wound one, so mighty, yet frail.
Clansmen, wife, Satan himself, all await my final tithe,
To turn my back, and shun Lord God on high.

Oh Holy Lord, never let me forget,
My heart is yours, and owed to, in dept.

I loved my wife before she knew my existence,
I felt she was there, always there, out of reach,
So painfully sharp and bitterly harsh,
Invading my dreams, pervading my sleep.
A shadow, a phantom, a symbol of love,
Awaiting my heart, awaiting my soul,
Awaiting my mind to give up resistance.

A jagged sting, a cut, uncovered,
I yearned in painful need,
To touch, to feel,
To know, that sadness, true,
So deep of soul and great of love.

Beyond this life, it's miserable ways,
Beyond thy God, his infinite days,
Beyond this small damn world and its barren haze,
And its pointless role in destroying my soul,
I wanted to feel, truly feel,
Such a love to take my heart,
Even at cost of destroying me whole.

I was lost, no man or woman satisfy,
Their empty souls, their shallow lies,
My need to give, to share a hope,
To show a life, beyond their scope,
To show the truth, of mans content,
To show the way, to true portent.

More than life could return,
Even God could not hand,
My need to complete,
Myself though my stand.

I knew they would find me,
My wife and her kind,
In ways always with me,
I felt them through mind,
A whisper, a glance while going through motion,
Of being of heart, in the Christian notion.

I knew they were watching, waiting, elated,
To offer a home, to a soul in commotion,
Not rushing or pushing, yet guiding my path,
Led to their doorway, a place known as wrath,
Not of Devil or kin, but of God and his due,
Upon finding me lost, to Satan's review.

Trying to write of clan on this night,
My wife, my beloved,
I think only of you,
To remember your sorrow,
I remember your pain,
Cemented within,
Gods holy reign.

Why must this be, I prey God lauded high,
To banish our love, to hide us from eyes,
To state we are dirty, evil, and sated,
To damn us and rue us, and make us your hated.

My wife is of love, pure blooded from cot,
Which creature she is, should matter you not,
For what is a soul, without true compassion
And what of your soul,
Lost from love without ration,
Left wondering why we have fallen from grace,
When the truth is in love, of our need, of our race.

We are not lost to you, thy father of Jew,
You have been lost, because of your rue,
For not understanding, the need of the flesh,
For not understanding, the strength of pure love,
For not understanding, our need of unrest.

The cruellest thing, God ever did,
Was give man love, to make him bid,
To bond another, very close,
To take them with you, throughout life,
Forever knowing, they will die,
Within your arms, within your cries,
To watch them wither, at your eyes,

To watch them leave, your very side.

I dread your death, my true beloved,
I dread to think, this life alone,
There is no other, for me now,
My heart is yours, to you, I bow.

To wander this earth, without you, I find,
Is too much to ask,
Of my heart and my mind.

I love you beloved, as a child needs a mother,
I love you beloved, as a man needs his lover.
I cannot be without you, I cannot face a life from your gaze,
My heart would be twisted, ripped, broken and caved.

My mind forever tortured in seeing your face,
Once more, just once more,
To look in your eyes, so beautiful, dark,
To see you smile, your teeth, that marked,
Not only my body, my neck and its veins,
Also my soul, where your love, always reigns.

This my beloved, is why God always loses,
He can't comprehend of true love or its uses,
A mind is not born into faith of thy Jew,
A mind is most born into hate of one's rue.

To love one another, is all that matters,
Not God or Christ, or this world in tatters.
Beyond any deed, life or death knell,
Not heaven, nor God, or time itself,
Will ever extinguish, true love born in hell.