I didn't use to think I could date a girl outside of the inter webs. I didn't even think I was capable of love.
I simply wanted my world to end, even just a little bit at a time. I grew a kind of resentment for the mortal life. I crawled into my own inner cave, found myself preferring to read middle grade novels. I wanted to hold onto some vague notion about childhood, childhoods that could never dream of having. I wanted to fly on air balloons and airships. I wanted to hump girlfriends who stood in the pillory, while bopping them in the head with pink Teddy bears. I wanted my entire life to be different, beyond anything I ever known.
Yet when I met my Anna-Marie she helped me understand I wasn't a product of my own past, that I could do many amazing things if only I made myself. She hugged me tightly and insisting on sex nightly, and yet unintentional on her own end through intercourse I would gain triggering sensations and it would bring back weird memories of time when I didn't want to be touched down there. Yet I needed someone that could set me free. She was able to help me understand myself, like nobody else. And help me come to terms with my darkest of kinks. In dreams were shared a mutual messaging system, recalling our own life stories about life after abuse. She would always make jokes about poisoning her brothers, although I never took it seriously at the time. I simply felt sorry for own situation. We could mutually explain each other past and reassure each other, there wasn't anything that we needed to hide.
And yet I wanted to relive my own childhood, yet she wanted to live in the present. She kept in this world, while I helped her visit the worlds beyond the dreamer's edge. And we would close up the nights, at the darkening of the lamp. And then we would each other midnight kisses as I descended into a deeper nightmare. Meanwhile dream-scanner haunt me in my sleep, and she is nowhere to be found. At times I feared the worst, and would go looking for her.
And then I would wake up.
I would feel so alone.
If I could describe myself, it is something similar to a female offspring whose mother was Elizabeth Bathory. Only I live about a few hundred blocks away into the 21st century, with no specific blood relation. I like girls severed heads, even though I actually approve of the practice personally.
For a long time I had considered myself someone without any deserve for loving. Even when I tried to write middle grade stories, they would always end up as simply young people who sounded like adults. I would have them wear two little wooden shoes and little cotton cap, really more resembling the stereotypical Dutch. My kinks in my bloodstream were running fast for Dutch girls for years, although I had researched at one point that generally the Dutch used hanging as a means of capital punishment. Plus they had a system in place that has some of the best policies for trans women like myself. And for me, I could never hate lust after women in countries that were so noble. Leave it to Southern countries to not have these practices.
I remember when I was a kid, and I would visit the vending machines in school. I would always ask for them serve an extra serving of decapitated egg head, sunny side up in the morning. I considered the blood on their necks a kind of yolk. I would indulge in the somewhat garlic taste of the flesh. The highly iron taste of the flesh. And when I read some children's fairy tales it would depict decapitation as something to joke about rather than have it something to be taken seriously. Even in some cartoons I used to watch, you might have kids decapitating somebody and tossing the decapitated head about as if it were some kind of volley balls.
The idea of being a necrophiliac was something of an idea that I was getting used to thinking, and even still it feels strange the idea that I'm not. For so long it had been the longing for human blood and contact, loving that singular aspect that tied one to their original birth.
So for a long time I gave up writing kid lit.
I was just not mentally ready for it.
But now here I am going to visit the ero guro vanilla latte machine. Where you can order Vanilla Lattes, as well as a side of severed head of a cute girl blond girl. Although the scenery is warping, and I can't quite hold onto its reality anymore. I felt a sudden weight on my shoulder.
I couldn't hold on.
"Oh hey Anna-Marie, what's up."
"I told you not to let your mind wander around me," she said, hopping on top of me on the floor, and then gradually lowering her hand below my belly. "I can't have sex with someone sad."
My Anna-Marie, who is always there.
I want to be there for Anna-Marie.
The guilt of possibly liking dead girls was a kind of sense of girls I never really could shake away. It wasn't like I actually wanted them to be dead, so much as I liked the images on the inter webs of them getting their heads cut off. It became something of a kink I had that grew over time as I began to romanticize the idea of pretty little French girls going to the guillotine to their deaths. I would get constant erections from pictures in my mind blond girl getting it in the neck, and their heads rolling into my lap. And yet I felt nothing but emptiness and sadness inside for the lost Anna-Marie. Who deserved nothing to be beheaded for.
It was my own personal lament.
And there were hints of other things going on that I chose to ignore, and eventually lived with the guilt of no rescuing the lost Anna-Marie in time. We could have started a family, raised some kids, salvaged their milk, and yet instead the lost Anna-Marie died to young to survive with her and me.
I felt like a shell without my soul.