I am currently in the process of winding down my various businesses and establishing myself as a private business, marketing & sales consultant. For further information please call 79498142!

This will give me a more relaxed lifestyle and above all it will allow me precious time for writing.

Although I have only just started this, I have already landed myself a few clients and according to one of my jealous so called friends, I have always been very lucky in everything I do. To whom I immediately pointed out that I don’t have blue eyes but grey matter…

My most recent client is a delightful, young, talented and enterprising women called Emily Grimaud, who very enthusiastically hand makes the most delicious and healthy granola bars on this side of the galaxy. These are sold under the brand Oh So Yummy, so please go and like her page and put in an order.

Now that I’ve earned the 2.5 million Euros which Emily pledged for that advert, I can proceed with my main story here. But as you will see it is all very relevant to my general train of thought.

This morning I managed to land myself a new client who is based in Mumbai. Yes Mumbai in India. It’s called the Internet and it actually works even beyond your village to communicate with other people and make new contacts.

So this morning my Indian client phoned me and we spoke for the very first time, and I must admit that until today I was a virgin insofar as Indian clients are concerned. And if you were wondering, no, it didn’t hurt at all.

His company sells boxes and packaging materials both to offices and to individual consumers, of which there are one million of the former and 21 million of the latter, in the Mumbai metropolitan area alone. So his first question was whether we should limit ourselves to such a small market, or extent our services nationwide to the the 1.3 billion people throughout India.

I easily anticipated what his main concern might be, so I cleverly asked him whether he had the ability of producing boxes and running a similar company outside of India. He went on and on about how easy that would be and proceeded to talk about the millions of successful Indians living in Europe and elsewhere who run their own businesses, and in his own words – making boxes is making boxes and knows no borders and was obviously based on the same principles anywhere on earth.

So sure enough, when that crucial question came, asking me whether I felt qualified enough to assist him with marketing in India, I tried not to snigger when I put on my very best wisdom voice and told him in a profound manner, that marketing was just like making boxes and if he could do it anywhere, then so could I.

The few moments of contemplative silence which followed, immediately confirmed that the deal was mine!

So we chatted a bit more until finally he started to end the conversation. And this person with whom I had never spoken to before and with whom my only association until then was purely of a business nature, went on to say, “Alex, I now consider you as my friend. I want us to make a lot of money together because that is good. But besides the money I also want us to be friends. It is more important to have good friendship and to enjoy your life than to make lots of money and be miserable. I want us to enjoy each other in friendship and respect and I want you to come to India with your wife, with your family and to stay at my house. For my house is yours. What I own is yours. What belongs to me I will gladly share with you. Because you are a friend and you want to help me. And through your expertise I will make money for my family and they will be happier, so I want you to be part of this as well.”

Yes, that is exactly what he said!

Now tell me, how on earth could you not be touched by this? What extraordinary insight into the real fabric of life. Why shouldn’t even business lead to this, each and every time? Why are we, in the Western world, so terribly stuck in our rigid ways of doing things?

I have always been very interested in what is referred to today as cross-cultural business behaviour and communication and have also recently read quite a bit about it. It is a fascinating subject for anyone who, like me, has been in business and who also has a keen interest in humankind. It combines the seemingly cold and harsh business world with the warm, intriguing phenomenon of cultural understanding and diversity. But what this man had just said to me was truly extraordinary.

I had only spoken to this person once for a few minutes, yet already he was asking me to be his close friend and opening his home to me.

Through my many experiences in life, both in Malta and directly abroad, I have dealt extensively with foreign clients. Besides the greedy Maltese, I am also used to the cheating Italians, the obnoxious French, the heartless English, the demanding Germans, the ruthless Dutch and the brash Americans. But throughout my many years, I have never come across this exceptional attitude and enlightened approach to life, emanating purely from a business contact.

The closest I ever got was with this mad Polish investor, when I was organising international conferences, who attended a world business congress I had handled. On his last evening in Malta, he suggested that I, in turn, hold congress with his wife, whom he soon intended to divorce, and this purely to collect evidence of her infidelity. I immediately declined, not least because of her scary muscular physique and terribly hairy armpits. She was truly one intimidating Polish lady. I wouldn’t Lech her Walesa if he paid me, although she probably had quite a Solidarnosc.

But I digress… I learned a lot today. I learned that even in the seemingly ruthless domain of business there can be more, so much more. Yes it all boils down to money in the end and any business which is not making good money is destined to fail. But whatever you business case, this in no way should prevent you from making friends, appreciating and respecting each other and enriching your life not only financially but also spiritually. Yes I think that here in the West we still have a lot to learn…

I must admit that each time I meet Emily she always insists on paying for my coffee, but is this enough? Shouldn’t I also be able to assure myself that if my wife ever kicks me out, I would be able to go and stay at her place for a few years at least? And to set the record straight, I say this purely as a misbehaved father, who needs setting straight by his level-headed daughter.

To conclude and based on my interest in these cultural business affairs, I will dare to say that this might be a prime contributing factor to the relative success of Jewish businesspeople. Many of them somehow combine shrewd, cunning and clever business skills with strong traditional values of family, friendship and loyalty. This only makes them better businesspeople and better people in general too.

Nurturing a skill in life does not necessarily have to be detrimental to another. We can be excellent businesspeople and excellent people too.

I walked further and further away into the countryside over smooth and rough terrain. The brisk exercise gave me a sense of accomplishment and also provided me with a constant challenge not to stop.

As I regulated my pace and my breathing, my mind gradually floated further and further away…

I perfectly manoeuvred through paths and fields and groves of trees, without really noticing where I was, or where I was heading. It was like being on autopilot, oblivious of my surroundings, as my thoughts flitted from one dimension to another, in total randomness.

The elements around me gently caressed my senses. Cool air flowed around my face, the rhythmic tap of my feet on the ground formed imaginary tunes in my head, so many fragrances and scents regaling my nose, as I progressed in a trance like state, seemingly elevated, removed from the physical reality around me.

It was hard to tell how long this really lasted, but then suddenly something unknown snapped me back rudely to my senses. It must have been the defence mechanism in my mind, which automatically sensed some form of danger.

We are all wired up to instinctively be wary of the dark. The dark means peril and the unknown and I suddenly realized that the sun had long set and that only a weak glow of light still lingered on in one small corner of the sky.

Our night vision is very limited and as we rely so much on our visual sense, we are not properly geared up for a dark environment.

As we slowly venture into sombre places, we feel our mind automatically heightening its defences. We are suddenly on guard, we are wary and hypersensitive to all stimuli around us.

Every shadow, every movement, every sound and smell, even the slightest differences in the air’s movements and temperature are suddenly obvious, matters which are usually fully ignored.

Instantly I was thrown into a state of alert. I looked around me desperately trying to get my bearings. There was a high clump of trees directly in front of me and large open spaces on both sides. Behind me was a low lying hill which concealed anything beyond and from where I might have come.

I was alarmed and confused. I was totally disorientated and had no idea where I was. And my heart sank even further with the harsh and terrifying realization that there was no way I could get out of here in the dark.

My heart started racing. I ran around desperately in circles not knowing where to go. I searched in vain for a solution, for some comfort in my fear.

Then I decided to continue walking. Walking further away. Purposely losing myself into the wilderness beyond. I did not reject my fears but I embraced them. I opened myself up to them totally, letting them permeate my inner soul.

Come fear, come to me. Enter into my heart. I want you inside me, I accept you as part of me. You are I and I am fear. We are one and the same. I welcome you within my heart. I want you deep inside me.

And I walked. Deep into the darkness, into the darkened woods, into the great unknown. Bt now I was fear and I was darkness. I was shadow and I shone the unknown. I was one with my shadowy surroundings, one with the unseen. I moved with stealth and with purpose. I walked into danger, into death and beyond. But I surmounted every obstacle, I overcame even death. For I was not afraid. I conquered the most evil and the vile. For I was invincible…

It was soft and warm and pleasant to the touch. I gently rubbed my arms and legs and back against the soft silky fabric. My eyes very slightly opened. I could see the warm golden rays of light streaming in from the window. As I took a deep breath I could smell the strong morning body odour of my loved one lying sleeping right beside me. Resting, in perfect peace, slightly bent in a protective foetal position. I turned towards my partner’s warm body and placed my face up close to feel the warmth, the smell, that gorgeous heavenly smell which no one on earth could ever imitate. I love you, I adore you – I thought as I moved up close and rubbed my entire body against that body that I so much loved and desired.

My love had made me strong. It showed me the way forward. It showed me the way to be. I could not harm or be harmed.

I remembered my wondrous dreams of countryside, fields, rolling hills, blackened horizons, scary woods and terrifying paths, which I had also tamed.

For my love and my resolve were unconquerable. For I was invincible.

I simply love Maltese women. If anyone of them will not take my word for it, then I most certainly encourage them to contact me for more concrete – well at my age shall we say semi-concrete, proof.

I say this because in spite of my keen attraction towards our many luscious and mouthwatering specimens, I have been married twice, but never to a Maltese woman. The first was French, the second Russian, and who knows what the future may hold…

I must have a nondescript international face, as wherever I have lived or traveled to, everyone always automatically assumes that I am from that same country. With my current Russian wife, everyone seems to think that I too am Russian. When I lived in France, not one single person ever thought I might not be French. Trust my luck to be whorish and easy not only in nature, but also in looks.

But with my present wife we speak English, so people only believe that I am Russian until I open my big mouth, which is admittedly rarely shut. So although the illusion is common, it is always short-lived.

With my first wife, on the other hand, we always spoke French, so everyone always assumed I was French, more so when we were living in Malta together.

Now the Maltese have so many qualities that I cannot even remember any of them right now, so I will focus on their defects, which somehow are always so much easier to recall. One of them, which has thankfully abated but not totally disappeared, in recent years, is the extraordinarily dumb habit of certain local neanderthals to throw in seemingly imperceptible swear words and insults in Maltese, within sentences otherwise in English, when talking to foreigners, simply for their own dimwit amusement.

Back then this was even commonplace and as may be imagined I was the target of such pathetic practices many a time, when out and about with my wife and audibly speaking in French. A few of the more amusing examples spring to mind.

During her first year here we played a lot at tourist, which didn’t help, as we ended up in typical locations frequented by tourists where we were even more target to such linguistic abuse. Naturally, in my typical fashion, I don’t only give as good as I get, but usually give much more and happily and skilfully take it a few levels further!

Once in one of the prehistoric temples, we approached the ticket booth talking in French and when it was our turn, this elderly sour looking man looked at my wife and said “Hello, zejza how many?” (boob) to which I immediately replied “zejziet tnejn ghandha imma daqqa ta’ ponn go mohhok wahda intik” (she has two boobs but I’ll only need to give you one punch in the head”. He slithered down all the way in his chair mumbling obscenities to himself as he handed us our tickets with greatly trembling hands.

On another occasion I decided to take her to the Good Friday procession in Rabat. This can get rather crowded and a very young and rather short couple were squashed directly behind us, unable to get a good view of proceedings. They went on to call us all kinds of names in Maltese of course, such as bloody foreigners, why don’t we cut our fat heads off so they could see, we should have remained in our country rather than coming to Malta and spoiling their view, they should have stayed in their native Qormi rather than coming to Rabat to stand behind two dirty tourists, etc, etc.

I purposely let it go on for some time, just to let them really and truly put their massive foot into their ghastly mouths. Then after perhaps half an hour of them amusing themselves entirely at our expense, I turned around calmly, looked them straight in the eye and told them in Maltese “I am from Rabat, I am not going anywhere, I am not cutting my head off, next time you stay in Qormi and kiss my ass”. Which of course in Maltese has the added advantage of rhyming. I turned around calmly and continued chatting with my wife. As many know, the Good Friday procession is long and tedious, very long actually. For the several hours that ensued they didn’t utter one single word. Nothing not one, probably still reeling in shock.

On yet another such pleasant occasion, we were dining in a mess of a restaurant disguised as a high class establishment, which thankfully no longer exists. We had a terrible meal all round from beginning to end. I very rightly complained throughout, but to no avail, as things just continued to deteriorate throughout the evening.

At the end of the meal, this scruffy, dirty looking chef shuffles clumsily out of the kitchen, busy foraging deep into his nose as he approached one of the waiters who was standing right next to us, and asked, pointing towards us “Are these the idiots who complained?”. And without even waiting for a reply, especially the most important one that I was actually Maltese rather than French, which the waiter knew perfectly well, but the chef didn’t, he continued by telling the waiter “Ara kif ser nitnejjek bih” (watch how I’m going to fuck around with him). So he came up to us and said “Good Evening mur tnejjek, was everything alright?” To which I just let out a calm and eloquent monologue which simply never ended, in Maltese, while I literally saw his face changing colours as I spoke, glaring deeply into his eyes. It went something like this. “We have never eaten in such a pigsty in our lives, you gave us your worst table, although you are half empty, the service was totally shit, we were served the wrong wine twice, the food was disgusting, we couldn’t eat the starters as they were vile, the fish was definitely not fresh, the potatoes and vegetables never arrived, the gateaux were still frozen, the coffees were cold, the wine decanter is chipped and I suggest that you go and fuck around with your mother or you’ll be wearing it soon” (u ahjar tmur titnejjek m’ommok ghax sa nlibbisulek).

I am a nice, gentle, even loving person in my normal state, but don’t try to take the mickey out of me because Mr Hyde is never far away.

But just seeing his face was priceless and I just couldn’t stop laughing compulsively all the way home. I even remember having laughing fits for most of the night, that at some point my poor wife simply gave up trying to sleep next to me and went to sleep in the spare bedroom.

But I must admit that nobody is above such childish nonsense. No nobody, not even me. We were once at St. Lukes Hospital for an outpatients visit and had to take the lift. And just after us walked in this extremely scruffy woman, dressed like a secondhand scarecrow. I don’t know what the hell got into to, it could have been some form of stress therapy or self-preservation reaction to our miserable surroundings, but I looked at my wife and let out as many derogatory and vulgar expletives against this poor woman, in French, as could come to mind. To the tune of “Look at this dirty slut, what a fat slob she is, I wouldn’t fuck her if I were blind drunk and she gave me a million bucks”. The doors opened half way up to our desired destination, and this poor woman looked at me coldly with a glint of hatred in her eyes and told me in perfect French “Excusez moi monsieur, je voudrais sortir malgre que ca ne soit pas mon etage” (excuse me sir, I would like to leave, although this isn’t my floor).

I didn’t laugh then. Oh no and nor did my wife either. Although she did sleep in the spare bedroom again that night, but for entirely different reasons.

But perhaps my favourite memory of the sort was when I took my wife on a Comino Cruise with one of the better known cruise companies from Sliema. It was one of those red boats, named after a well known rum, whose name starts with the military rank which lies between Lieutenant and Major and finishes with the word for morning in German, but I’d rather not make it too obvious now.

There was a small bar on the boat form where you could purchase different drinks and which was manned by two middle aged orang utan lookalikes, both from their physical appearance as well as their total deficiency of intellect. I turned around towards my wife and asked her in French what she would like to drink. One of the primates ambled on his knuckles towards me, gave a quick naughty grin to his pen mate, gave me his best crocodile smile and uttered “Yes demel”, to which I immediately retorted “Hopleaf hara”. Demel being manure and hara being shit. But the funniest thing of all was that in this case it was he who was upset at me and scolded me for not having warned him beforehand that I was Maltese. Do not even try to figure this one out.

I sometimes miss being insulted in such endearing ways by my fellow compatriots. I can speak a bit of Russian and should really make an effort with my current wife not to speak English when out in public. Such wit and instant repartee should not be reserved for Facebook chats alone.

We all have our crosses to bear and one of my most recent ones came in the form of a business contact with whom I have in vain been trying to conclude some form of deal, in the few weeks since I have met her.

So far it has proved to be simply impossible to pin her down either businesswise or otherwise, as her mind seems to flit aimlessly from one idea to the next, often sprinkled with a bit of uncalled for sarcasm and vitriolic remarks, which come out of nowhere.

So she called me late yesterday evening, because she feels like she owns me, and as she must have been in one of her foul evening moods, she suddenly and for no apparent reason, lashed out at me and called me all sorts of unkind names, just to vent her bitterness. I was on my mobile and even broke out into a sweat and what must have happened was that my sweat trickled inside the mobile, rendering it inactive. I was so upset at the whole episode that I went to bed very early, sulking and planning to get it fixed the next morning.

When I woke up I found a load of very friendly messages from her, which although not quite an apology, where obviously over-friendly, which meant roughly the same thing. I never ever hold a grudge against anyone, so I chatted away happily with her, when again all of a sudden, just because I was being nice, she suddenly lashed out at me telling me that I should learn my place. I chose to ignore her then, I mean how much can you take? But I later found out that the reason for her bitchiness and acting like a drama queen was mainly based on her sexual frustrations. At least that is what she hinted to me in a very discreet and indirect manner. It seems to bring out the worst part of the Maltese in her.

So I took my phone to be fixed in Gzira, left it there and went to briefly meet my mini monster to continue discussing business at a cafe. She was calm and friendly, even quite endearing. Except when several large drops of condensation from my beer glass fell onto my shorts and right at the wrong place, she couldn’t help saying that I would now feel virile, sporting such marks on my shorts. I really cannot say what motivated her to say that, but my guess would be that she herself was dying to get into them…

Suddenly noticing the time, I rushed back to Gzira to pick up my mobile, but shoot they were now closed! And I had two and a half hours to kill, which with today’s traffic really didn’t make it worth while driving all the way home and back again. So I walked down to the seafront, bought a large beer, found a comfy bench on the water’s edge, lay down totally in a horizontal position on the bench and fell fast asleep beer in hand. I don’t usually play at tramp, but frankly as with virtually anything else these days, I really don’t care.

Without my mobile I couldn’t call, I couldn’t answer calls, I couldn’t SMS, or chat, or go online, or check my diary, or even tell the time. So when I woke up I asked the time to a passing little cutie with immensely tight shorts, who most definitely was a bactrian and not a dromedary… And wow, it was exactly reopening time for the mobile repair shop.

So I get there, walk in and have an instant shock! Standing there at the counter was this big imposing man with whom I have had sexual relations. Well, not really I suppose, as in Bill Clinton’s words we only had oral sex. And to go a step further, I will also point out that he had oral sex with me and not vice versa.

Until this moment in my narrative I really had no intention to go into detail about this rather extraordinary sexperience. But now that I blurted it out, as I always tend to do, I suppose that I really owe you all an explanation. So here goes.

We have loads of gay friends. Overall we find them great company, good fun and they certainly know how to party, often making straight couples pale in comparison. Yes they can be a pain and a tad bitchy and drama queens, but so can my very Maltese female pseudo-client-perhaps-one-day-to-be. So both my wife and I love mixing with our gay friends and going to their fantastic parties and also frequenting gay establishments form time to time.

Many years ago there was a gay club in Paceville which also held drag shows, which was a total scream. We occasionally went there for a fun night out and always had a great time. I must admit however that I always ensured that my wife was there with me, purely for protection purposes.

So on one of these visits the place was absolutely packed solid and heaving with people of all forms, shapes and sizes. There was a show going on performed mainly by a tall and large man-cum-woman-cum-everywhere sort of queen. And trust my effing luck, right after the show s/he ends up right next to me at the bar. Now I very very (very) rarely flirt, in fact it is such a rare move on my part that I even flirt with gay guys without even being gay! Now how’s that for being a compulsive flirt. But like most of my other countless defects, at least I admit it and most importantly of all, I wear it well.

Besides Danny la Rue, I also had a couple of other keen suitors around me, compelling me to constantly look around to ensure that my wife was never far away, in case things get a bit ‘sticky’.

At a certain point I really needed to go the bathroom, so I excuse myself and push through the many bodies and groping hands, most of which aimed to perfection… I get into the loo and much to my horror I realise that the door lock had been removed. How more gay club than that can you get! So I quickly start doing my business when suddenly the door bursts open and there barges in Madame Frigging Butterfly. In a flash and before I could say I’m happily married and really don’t want my penis in your mouth, he was on his knees with my anatomy exactly where he wanted it. Although I was horrified, I must admit that somewhere deep inside me, there was also a slight tinge of remorse, because the manner he immediately leapt down on his knees, flipped me around and caught me – or should I say ‘him’, exactly in between his heavy lipsticked awaiting lips, just from its natural swing, was ample proof that he must have pulled this stunt so many times before, making me feel that little bit less special.

However I can assure you that the terrifying feelings of shock, alarm and fright were at least a few millions times stronger than my remorse. And I can assure all the lucky men who have not yet succumbed to this experience – as if I could ever use another word in this context to that!!, that even with your eyes closed, the rubbing of very distinctive male facial stubble on your parts, coupled with very deep voiced moans, does not quite do it for you, if you are not into that sort of thing.

My biggest problem was that this bastard was a very big man and also exceptionally strong. He had managed to pin me right in the corner, very romantically wedged between the filthiest WC and a grotty chipped sink. I pushed and pushed with all my force to get his unshaved head off my petrified penis, but all my efforts were in vain.

I was literally starting to panic, and within seconds I really couldn’t take it any more. I let out the loudest possible girl-being-raped-scream in the history of sexual abuse. Now image a heaving club, packed full of people, music so loud you can’t even hear yourself being blown, oops sorry I meant – think. And the toilets were literally at the other end of the club. This is the sort of place where you literally had to place your lips firmly onto someones ear and scream at the top of your voice, if you wanted to stand any chance of being heard.

This is all true, and then there is being raped!

I somehow screamed so bloody loud, that somehow Maria managed to hear me from the other end of the club!! So she marched in my direction, savagely punching gays, kicking lesbians, karateing bisexuals and unveiling transexuals, on her epic journey towards my dying dick’s salvation.

Suddenly that door was kicked open, and there stands my amazing Amazon in defiant rage. I had really used all my force to save my weeping willy, but this guy was like a rock – yes a regular Rock Hudson. No matter how much I pushed with all my force, he simply wouldn’t budge. But this was one of the most extraordinary moments of my life, when I saw Maria literally lift this hulk off his feet, swing him round and hurl him out of the bathroom. It was fucking awesome! Just amazing! Where she suddenly found such amazing superhuman strength from is still a huge mystery for me until today.

I felt so good, so protected. It was great that my strong wife had managed to save me and ironically I suddenly felt so so gay tongue emoticon So she grabbed me determinedly by the arm and marched me triumphantly out of there.

So basically this is who this guy was at the mobile repair shop. As Maria wasn’t around, I hid in a corner, face down, until he left. Then finally I got my mobile back, which cost me a total of €120 to fix, just cause of my friendly little chat with Princess Grace the night before!!

Hey and this is Gzira, with €120 I could have got at least ten blowjobs!

Come to me my love. Come and hold my hand which is always open and which will never close, unless yours is in it.

Come and fill my heart with joy and with that rare passion which only you can bring. Let me hold you in my arms and hug you. Let me show you my innermost feelings which shine from deep within.

I love you.

I am not afraid of pain and sorrow. I will not limit my feelings and restrain my love. I will love you if you love me back, or if you don’t. I will devote my thoughts and feelings entirely to your existence. I will sacrifice my mental freedom for you. I will not think of flowery meadows, of sunny days, endless horizons or shimmering seas. Only of your gorgeous face, your graceful features, your inner beauty, which spills constantly from your eyes.

I will never hold back my emotions. I will tell you over and over again how much I love you. It matters little what you respond. I do not love you to be loved back. I love you because I do. I love you because you are.

You have enormous qualities, kindness and generosity. You exude goodness beyond belief. And that is why I love you. You also have many faults and defects which characterise you. You aren’t perfect, just like anyone else. And that is why I love you. I love you more for your faults and weaknesses, for your moods good and bad, for this is how I can tell that it is true love I have toward you.

You fill my mind with mystery. Your image evokes wondrous thoughts of strength and warmth and happiness. I cannot disassociate you with good with joy with everything great and spiritual.

I love you.

I do not wish to live if I could ever die for you. For death will come to me as it always does to everyone. And I want to die for you, again and again…

Your presence in my thoughts is overwhelming. It exceeds the reality around me. It gives my aimless life scope and direction. It fulfils my every dream and provides a reason for my existence.

I love you but my obsession is not perverse. It is one which only breeds joy and relief. It is one of satisfaction. I need your love to exist and to survive. You will never take it away from me no matter what you do and how much you try.

It is not important for you to understand. I myself do not even wish to understand it. I only want to accept it and embrace it, no matter its purpose and its origin.

For I will always love you more than anything else on earth and more than the earth itself. More than life.

It is a spiritual love. And a mental love. A logical and illogical love. It is a carnal love. It is love beyond control and beyond belief. And it is not important in itself. It is simply a state of being. It is a form of love which encompasses all others.

You may one day decide to leave me, to abandon me, or to stop loving me, or even to hate me. But I will always love you so I don’t even care. Do what you wish and what you may, for my love won’t waiver. It won’t bend to your whims and fancies. It is much stronger than your or anyone’s resolve. It lives on its own outside your realm of influence. You have absolutely no power over it. You cannot subdue or kill it, for it will always be there, shining through every argument, every mistake, every heavy darkened cloud. It is far stronger than you or me.

I love you.

Come now, come to me. Let me hold you tight and feel your pulse. Let me embrace you strongly and press your body hard against mine. I don’t even care if I hurt you. You will stop me and push me away when I press too hard, but meanwhile I would have expressed my strongest emotions that little bit further.

Let me kiss you firmly on your lips and take your breath away and suffocate you until you pull away frantically gasping for breath. Let me take you firmly by the neck and choke you. Until you are bright red and on the edge of consciousness.

For my love knows no bounds and the only way it will supersede you is by killing you.

Come to me my love, come let me take your precious life away. For only in this way will we always be one.

I love you.

For I am already dead and waiting. Waiting for you to be with me once again.

Come to me my love come.

I love you.

I drove that stake savagely straight through its heart again and again, with all my force. It screeched madly in a shrill and deafening way, banging its ugly head on the ground and lashing it’s scaly tail frantically from side to side.

Its forked tongue hissed in anguish, slipping in and out of its horrid putrid mouth. As more and more of the repulsive grey and brown puss seeped out of its evil heart, I aimed at its beady eyeballs and stabbed at them repeatedly until they were no more than a bloody mess.

She doesn’t care, she doesn’t need you or me. Accomplished, sexy, avant garde, outspoken and above all established, she can choose how she wishes to be.

Some sort of concentrate, the essence itself of sensuality and femininity. She exudes the exotic and brims with all that is erotic.