So, welcome to my world my innocent *winks* Drama Queen. Here is a posting from my erstwhile lover and quite literally Angel Of Delight *bows and allows her to step forward* (nice butt)
It's always exciting popping round to Goth’s place. It’s so dark and the walls scream with the possibility that anything could (and does) happen. I’ve been here to confess that Boyfriend likes me to wear long black leather pointy boots naked and slithered right back to my Palace with my lipstick and reputation perfectly in tact.
Coming for a quickie is one thing but panic has set in at possibility of staying here all day, hanging around afterwards to check exactly how was it for you, listening to your feedback and promising to satisfy you harder next time. I feel vulnerable, dirty and used.
I kind of like it.
*Strokes her tight rubber cat suit*
So, as you tell, I’ve decided to let my inner Gothess out, sometimes the pastels and the curls can be so restricting. I guess they also lead you up a path of virtuous removed from the little vixen of a Queen who calls her Jesters for a quick servicing.
So #ahem# how does one go about being a Gothess?
My only interaction with Goths lies in the famous Cockburn Street* in Edinburgh. Infested with white faced, purple haired, studded youths, walking each other like dogs on metal chains. Some wear t-shirts referencing Devil worshipping and I do believe they’ve met him since how could they survive in summer with hoodies, tights and floor length leather jackets if they weren’t already familiar with fiery climes.
* not kidding.
As a fully fledged adult these kids scare me, so imagine what it was like being a young indie kid cutting through this street, making my way to the vintage area of town. All conversed out and flared up only to come face to face with a Goth boy clad in steel and leather. Bang into them and you get no apologies, they just stand their ground and grunt (possibly praying for an invisible gutting tool so they can spew your insides on the pavement and eat them).
I guess I just don’t understand them and what I don’t get, I fear. But they really don’t help their cause with all their bat eating and random acts of submissive sex.
*hunts for erotica and instruments of terror*
#ahem#
What’s this?
*Picks up a photo of two little stars*
It's Goth’s kids, smudged with a Gothic tear of longing.
Surely it’s not possible that amongst that ‘I don’t give a fuck, I’m a Goth’ attitude there lies a Father aching to be with his children. He who stores his sanity in a bag with some squirrels and who rewrites The Bible making Noah a pot-head doesn’t need these little people to feel, well, complete.
Nah, when the Devil made Goths he took away their compassion and gave them extra hair foiciles.
I mean seriously look at those children. There they are all smily. And all happy and normal and everthing. And well very, very beautiful.
And so obviously very muched loved by their proud Father.
*DQ sheds a tear for Goth’s longing*
Lesson learnt I guess. Don’t judge a Gothic book by its black leather cover. Don’t come over to Goth’s place and expect tales from the underworld (but some times do). Don’t be surprised to see the Dark One lurking about my Palace simply admiring the prettiness (but sometimes looking up my dress).
Navigate about and stumble into a room where a blonde Queenie is having tea with an appropriately suited Goth. Find another one where is his getting her drunk hoping he'll get laid.
Let the Internet break down your preconceptions because real life doesn't allow much opportunity for it.
Oh, and don’t be scared to wear rubber, it fits quite nicely.
We wuv ooo Goth.
*DQ takes a bow and exists with mariposa's nipple clamps*