Rush Of Blood To The Head

Everything started with the damn notebook, I bought it…No, let me be honest for once, I lie too much anyways. Lying has become such an essential part of my life. I am not even sure how or why, but it has, slowly and deliberately, bit by bit lies enveloped, engulfed every aspect of my being till there was nothing else left, only lies. I see it so vividly now. It all seemed innocent and simple at first, it seemed nothing at all. I didn’t have any nefarious reasons or plans to lie, all I wanted was to look better, to make others want me, appreciate me, love me after all. It never occurred to me that I could be loved, appreciated or accepted the way I was, I absolutely had to pretend and one would lead to the other, like a web. I would tell stories about who and what I was to intrigue people, make them curious about me. Truth was too simple, too mundane. The truth was that I was a thief, a lier, a fucking whore, but I needed to seem, I needed to be something better, lies were small price to pay. If I couldn’t become a worthy human being in reality, at least I could be that in the eyes of others, for a minute, an hour, a few days.

It seems to me now that I never really existed. I was playing roles for all the people that I met, something different every time. When I was all alone I disappeared until it was time to meet someone new. That’s why I was good, that’s the reason they paid me so well and came back all the time. They wanted the fantasy, I could become a perfect one, since in reality there was nothing underneath the mask. Don’t get me wrong, I am not stupid, I speak six languages, I educate myself on all kinds of topics all the time, not because it interests me, just to pretend better, to be closer to the ideal fantasy of what somebody might want to see in me. I worked out for hours, did yoga, would starve myself if necessary just to feed the illusion. In reality there was nothing.

And still I look older than my age despite all the efforts. I have been pretending so much, have embodied so many women, someone slightly different every time that it must have taken its tole on me.

I am writing this for myself first and foremost, to understand, to figure out where the truth is. After all the lies I don’t know what’s real anymore, the idea is terrifying. So where and when and how did it start? Uh, let me think… My first inclinations is to tell a flowery fairy-tale. Why would I want to lie even now when I am basically talking to myself? The answer is simple - I lie to myself first and foremost.

The damn notebook, yes. That’s where it all started I think. I bought it… Oh no, I stole it. You see, I am not just a lier, I steal as well. Stealing things always excited me, it made blood rush through my veins faster, hotter, the idea of being caught made me feel alive, present, made me feel as though I really was there, not just someone pretending to exist but really existing.

I liked writing in my diary, it’s was habit. I would write down all kinds of things: plans for future, ideal day, ideal week, ideal life. What does you perfect life look like in 10 years from now? Stuff like that. To know where you want to end up you need to know where you are going. So I would plan my days and months and weeks, my years. I liked my notebooks, writing in them made me feel good about myself, made me feel as though I had control over who I was and where I was going, as though I could decide. Well, I have written myself into a corner, let’s put it this way. Sarcastic smilie goes here.

The notebook was simple, black, but elegant, elegant things are always simple, it had two wide ribbons on top. It was expensive too. Not that I couldn’t afford it, I was making good money, better than the majority of people in that store for sure, but coming from a poor family, it was never enough, nothing was enough and the idea of spending that much on a simple notebook didn’t appeal to me or maybe I simply needed an excuse to steal it. Things were more meaningful to me if I stole them, they made my heart beat faster, made my blood rush, I earned them. Money could never get it or do it. So I stole the little black notebook, It was simple, as usual.

I robbed men too, sometimes women, but mostly men. I like men better, they are more exciting to me and making them like fools was more fun too. I’d drug them and get all of their money after they fell asleep, sometimes it wasn’t much, sometimes it was a lot. I didn’t do it too often and not to my customers. My reputation was important to me, too important, reputation is everything in every business, especially for a service provider. Uh, yes, service provider, a nicer way of calling a hooker. That was the service that I provided, sex, pleasure, entertainment, many things. Those who think that prostitution is only about sex don’t really get it, they will never become good and I was good. I couldn’t really drug and rob my customers, that would ruin me but there were other ways.

You see, when you sleep with people for money the key is to make them come back to you, make them hunger, lust after you and you alone, not only your body but the way you make them feel, physically and mentally. They would return to you like chained dogs, unable to leave, bring more money every time. I could pretended to be exactly what they wanted for exactly as long as they wanted, got my money and, in their eyes, turned into something better than what I really was. They would get pleasure and the woman of their dreams, she didn’t exist in real life, she wasn’t me, but inhabited me for a bit and then was gone as soon as the man was gone. Many of my customers were in love with me never really understanding that what they loved or thought they loved was a lie. They paid me for the fantasy so that’s what I was, a damn fantasy.

I had fantasies of mine too so I would go out hunting from time to time. They say women can’t be dangerous, oh we can be very dangerous perfectly well. You see, men tend to think with their dicks, when they see a woman that they want, in that moment, that particular woman can do anything to them, to him whoever he is, she can play him like a fiddle. That’s power too, big beautiful power that some of us don’t know how to use. I might not be running corporations but I am perfectly capable of bringing you to your knees without moving a damn finger. If someone doesn’t know how to do it they should learn, that’s the best weapon that a woman has, it’s in man’s pants.

So…Where was I? Uh yes. Hunting. I would dress up, find a guy that looked interesting. I could read them quite well, they were open books to me, longing, hungry, horny, angry, sometimes it was such a pleasure to play with an angry, aggressive one, see how far he’d go, how far I’d go. A couple times I ended up with two teeth knocked out and a broken rib or face. There was still thrill and pleasure in it hunting nevertheless. I was in pain, of course, but I was alive too, I could feel something except emptiness. I could myself for a bit and be punished for it.

Usually I would get the upper hand, trick them, seduce, drug them, rob them. Cash was good, but cards worked too, finding out pin codes wasn’t a big deal, you only needed to be attentive when he paid for something with his card. It got more complicated with taps and all that…To be honest, though, I wasn’t doing it for money, I was making enough as a respectable Service Provider. I only wanted the rush of blood to the head, the thrill, aliveness, being present, being excited, worried, terrified or in pain, but feeling something.

So that was it, I was stealing money from drugged men. I was stealing everything: clothes, jewellery, books, cheese from department stores if it seemed too expensive, but I wanted it nevertheless. I would steal something without even thinking twice about it. I could pay for it all, but there was no fun in paying. It tasted better, looked better, felt better if I stole it. I wanted that damn black notebook too. I wanted it to be mine. I wanted to fill it with my plans for the next ten years, I wanted to write in it about the kind of person I would be, could be, should be, but wasn’t so I stole it.

I forgot about my notebook for a bit, a couple of month I guess. I had the old one for a bit, to plan the bright glorious future that was awaiting me somewhere in the parallel universe. Winter passed, it smelled of spring and warmth already by the time I got to writing in m new little black notebook. It was waiting patiently for me, sitting in my drawer, such a beautiful, powerful thing. I didn’t know it then, of course.

«I am getting 20 thousand dollars», I wrote in it, at the top of the empty, virgin white page. Writing in new notebooks is difficult for me. It’s like moving into a new house. You don’t know where everything is at the beginning, you bump into furniture so I wrote just those few words the first day. Can you guess what happened then? I got it. That 20 thousand dollars, that very night. It was my hunting night. I need them from time to time. It’s not about liking or loving or choosing, I need it, I had to do it. It’s similar to having an itch that you can’t scratch, it’s driving you nuts, the rush of it, the danger of it, uncertainty of it. Something worse than broken ribs or knocked out teeth could happen to me, I knew it and still couldn’t help it. I went on my hunting escapades a couple times per month, more often if I was distressed or upset or my regular customer mistreated me and I wanted to take revenge on him but couldn’t so I would take it out on someone else. That’s how it went.

The guy I met that night in a bar was nothing special. He looked out of place, older, grey haired, elegant, well dressed, expensive, I see such things, I like such things. I like older men, they know what they want and how to get it. There were little things about him that attracted attention, about the way he moved and talked, smiled knowingly, his eyes hiding behind glasses, he had good white teeth and hard, strong body under the white shirt. I liked him. He was a fine specimen. I wanted to play with him.

I wear wig when I go hunting, I wear glasses to cover my face, a lot of make-up, clothes that I wouldn’t normally wear. I want to become someone new. I don’t sleep with men I meet this way. If I sleep with them they get what they want and I loose. Sex is a winning and loosing game, money makes us equal for me, it helps me stay on top. It’s a message. The message says «I don’t really want you. You must pay to get me so I win». That’s why I don’t sleep with them on my hunting nights. I need to be on top. I need to take revenge.

We didn’t talk much. A few drinks, a smile, you send a message with a look, a little light touch on the thigh…Bodies speak better than words, they don’t get misunderstood if you don’t put too much thought into it of course. Too much thought can ruin anything. Rush of blood is the best adviser sometimes. My blood rushed, oh it did, it was singing songs in my veins, it was whispering in my ears.

He got us a hotel room not far from the bar where we met.

«Let’s have a drink», I said, or something similar to that. From that moment on everything went smooth and simple, just the way it should, like a well-oiled machine. I put a drug into his drink. It worked well, always does, never lets me down. Drugs are dependable, not like people, you can count on drugs to do the job. People is a different story.

Then my favourite part came. It’s not sex, I have enough sex in my everyday life. It’s the feeling of power that you have over someone. Knowing that he is helpless, vulnerable, weak in front of you and you can do whatever. You can. You don’t do anything crazy, but if you wanted to, if you ever decide to you can. I looked through his phone. It was protected with a password, but he’d looked at it a few times in the bar and like that I found out out what the password was. The phone was rather old, maybe the guy kept it cause he was used to it, not the safest thing in the universe, passwords to the bank account autofilled as well, but I didn’t bother with those, just checked. I had more fun looking through his pictures of his children, his wife, his dog. I searched through his pockets and there it was, 20 grand in 100 dollar bills. Uh, what a beautiful present. The sight of money excited me then and excites me still and forever will probably.

I had never stolen this much from anyone before, couple hundreds or thousands here and there, a bit of cash from credit cards, but not this amount. It was a lot of money to me. I am a small town girl, we didn’t have enough to pay rent or buy food sometimes, twenty thousand is not a joke. I hear this little voice in my head to this day «Steal if you can, take it if you can», it whispers. « If they can’t keep it it’s yours». That guy didn’t know how to keep his 20 grands so it was mine. I took it of-course. That was a very good night, it made me feel alive.

As I was driving home my heart was thudding like crazy, I felt relieved, nothing bad had happened, nobody had choked me, raped me, nocked out my teeth, I had lots of money in my pocket and could take some time off, maybe I’d go to somewhere warm, somewhere with no people, there I’d relax and rest. Then I remembered my little black notebook. I remembered the first thing I wrote on its virgin, white page that very morning. «I get 20 thousand in an unexpected way» The memory was so vivid, it demanded attention, all of my attention.

And something happened then, from that moment on, everything I wrote in that notebook came true, all the little, silly things and crazy unbelievable things. Sometimes I wrote something incredible, like pink lakes and rains of frogs and rivers of milk and it would come true somehow, built itself into reality, moulded the reality, changed it into the image born out of my imagination. So I want to know now: is it true or am I mad?