Saturday, September 20, 2008
Come on over to my new website....
My new blog is Recovering Beauty http://recoveringbeauty.blogspot.com/ come and link to my new work and experiences. Love Miss Nikki
Monday, March 19, 2007
Sunday
Tommorow Dave and I are going to the Princess Alexandra Hospital for his consultation with the surgeon. I'm hoping that we get a date so we can plan the next few months. Once we have a date, I'm going to make arrangements about living. I don't know what to do, it's been over a month and the house is really cramped for the people living here. Both of the guys (dave and T) have been sooo friendly, so accomodating and I'll miss them like crazy and they know it.
But I have to spread my wings soon, I know my time is up.
Let me tell you about T. He's a man's man. He has a booming voice, broad chest and doesn't use seven moisturisers before bed. (That's dave) He has presence. He is charming. Disarmingly so.
I love living with T, in fact I think if it wasn't for T , I wouldn't be here at all. Which probably annoys him because he has been living here for a year and is quite happy to have just the two of them there. It was dude heaven, even Larbo is a man. It was good for Dave to have someone here to keep him company not to mention pay rent and bills that I used to pay.
But now I am back and there is 3 people living in a flat that is designed (well suited, it's a sixties flat and nothing in it suggests 'design) So anyway, I, human hurricane, have blown in and disturbed the peace. But night, normally around midnight is our time.
It's a time when the world is quiet, the kids have gone home and the adults have time for each other. We have starlit discussions on the back steps, I puff on a smoke and guzzle coke from the bottle, whilst he looks up to the stars and waxes poetic about everything and anything. It's little moments of intimacy and friendship that make me feel young. The cold night air covers my shoulderblades like an invisble cloak, sometimes I smoke four or five cigarettes in a row, especially if we are talking about my life and what direction I am taking.
He always asks the hard questions and I like it that way. He makes me want to listen, not just yammer on and it's a skill I really need to learn. The whole 'two ears and only one mouth' thing that my Grade three teacher used to bleat on about - I don't even know if that's the saying as I wasn't listening - seriously.
T is (and he would hate me to say this) like me, we are both misunderstood romantics and he humours me on a lot of things. He knows everything about me (and I mean everything) and yet he doesn't let past mistakes get in the way of a great future. Just like me, he is passionately loyal and infuriatingly determined to speak his own mind and sometimes I agree with it and sometimes I don't. Alot of women can't handle being wrong, or having a guy constantly tell them what thier feelings should be - I'm not one of those girls and I am glad.
But I still love proving that I am clever. That I am right. That I am insightful and that I am intelligent. I'm still a woman, in many ways.
HG
Grey's Anatomy tonight - I have IQ and got it taped, I hope it was good!
But I have to spread my wings soon, I know my time is up.
Let me tell you about T. He's a man's man. He has a booming voice, broad chest and doesn't use seven moisturisers before bed. (That's dave) He has presence. He is charming. Disarmingly so.
I love living with T, in fact I think if it wasn't for T , I wouldn't be here at all. Which probably annoys him because he has been living here for a year and is quite happy to have just the two of them there. It was dude heaven, even Larbo is a man. It was good for Dave to have someone here to keep him company not to mention pay rent and bills that I used to pay.
But now I am back and there is 3 people living in a flat that is designed (well suited, it's a sixties flat and nothing in it suggests 'design) So anyway, I, human hurricane, have blown in and disturbed the peace. But night, normally around midnight is our time.
It's a time when the world is quiet, the kids have gone home and the adults have time for each other. We have starlit discussions on the back steps, I puff on a smoke and guzzle coke from the bottle, whilst he looks up to the stars and waxes poetic about everything and anything. It's little moments of intimacy and friendship that make me feel young. The cold night air covers my shoulderblades like an invisble cloak, sometimes I smoke four or five cigarettes in a row, especially if we are talking about my life and what direction I am taking.
He always asks the hard questions and I like it that way. He makes me want to listen, not just yammer on and it's a skill I really need to learn. The whole 'two ears and only one mouth' thing that my Grade three teacher used to bleat on about - I don't even know if that's the saying as I wasn't listening - seriously.
T is (and he would hate me to say this) like me, we are both misunderstood romantics and he humours me on a lot of things. He knows everything about me (and I mean everything) and yet he doesn't let past mistakes get in the way of a great future. Just like me, he is passionately loyal and infuriatingly determined to speak his own mind and sometimes I agree with it and sometimes I don't. Alot of women can't handle being wrong, or having a guy constantly tell them what thier feelings should be - I'm not one of those girls and I am glad.
But I still love proving that I am clever. That I am right. That I am insightful and that I am intelligent. I'm still a woman, in many ways.
HG
Grey's Anatomy tonight - I have IQ and got it taped, I hope it was good!
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Monday, June 06, 2005
Click Here To Be Redirected
Hello and welcome to my archived blog. This was myvery first online journal and very special to me. You may find my early begginings as a writer - beware the mulitple spelling errors and grammar crimes. I now have a new, constantly updated journal and you can find this
Sunday, June 05, 2005
The Score
John The Romanian had been our dealer for six months now, which was most appreciated given the amount of dealers that were getting busted lately. John was a fat, middle aged grumpy old man, he filled out the front seat easily, his hairy belly leaking out onto his tailored pants. Every moment in the car with him was tense, his accent wad thick and at times incomprehensible which made for some interesting albeit frustrating exchanges. To be honest, most of the time I just nodded and smiled politely at the right times - John was God and he knew it. Whatever John wanted he normally got from us, whether it be waiting 45 minutes at a bus stop or bringing him a packet of cigarettes or chocolate bar.
John didn't have a habit so he wasn't as desperate as us, he didn't know what "sick" meant and he didn't care to either. He was in it for the money - that much was obvious. John had a round and oily face, his eyebrows wriggled like two hungry caterpillars when he mumbled around the cigar that hung from his ample lips.
In that Romanian accent he could often yell those horrible words, "Don't call me anymore" to some hapless Junkie on the end of the other line whom had said the wrong thing or waited at the wrong bus-stop. Unlucky.
Because he never knew the desperation, I would remember thinking - "Does he know that someones life just fell apart?" But of course I kept quiet and agreed with whatever he said and just hoped that would NEVER be us. I had to be one of his favorites, you know how it is. I knew he wanted to sleep with me - but I also knew I would always get the best deals as long as I had something to offer. So, I would often be coy and act flattered when he placed his dumpy hand on my thigh, a tense smile on my lips as it slid down in between my legs. You couldn't say no to God.
It was a regular morning and I was in the car, doing the obligatory lap of the city when he asked me to leave my boyfriend. He refused to see The Ex because according to John - he stunk.
"You such pretty girl - you could live with me in Penthouse" he drooled.
I smiled nervously and muttered something like "Oh that's too kind."
That was a curly one to explain to my boyfriend, even though I agreed with John, he did in fact stink of wine and sweat and dope. Just a junky kind of stench - the smell of old gear and chemicals oozing from our sallow skin. I probably stunk as well but I could wear perfume, that was how it was.
Of course being a sex worker and the sole scorer wasn't easy - I had my hands full as it was.
But rather than argue with John (no such thing - you would just get cut off) I made sure that from now on I would be the one scoring the dope.
One of the few good things about having a dealer that didn't have a habit was their schedule could be quite reliable. Junkie dealers tend to work as long as they can (in between naps and themselves scoring of course) but ones that didn't could rise early and normally stick to the times. However, it also meant that they would finish early - normally around five thirty in the afternoon. Just like a normal job.
John kept to this times, dealing out his infamous capsules filled with Dope (those capsules were placed inside a water balloon, then sometimes kept in the mouth or perhaps in the anus of the dealers..I didn't think about it too much.) As long as it was gear, I couldn't really complain. And such good gear it was, the hard rock variety that took longer to mix in the spoon, with a lovely taste and colour. A slow crawling stone that spread through the chest and crept down to your tingling toes.
Sometimes I would ride in the car with him - if I was asked to of course. He had two Nokia's that buzzed continually - even I was surprised at how adept he could be at answering the phones, driving the car and listening to the police scanner that was under my seat. I would only ride in the car when I was stoned (of course) and for keeping John company I would normally score a secret balloon full of coke, which was John's weakness alongside pretty young girls. Even now when I see the model of the car that John used to drive, I remember this man and how much our neighbourhood feared/respected him. If he didn't like your friends, if he didn't like the way you waited for him to call through - you would change whatever he didn't like about you, just to keep on the A list - scoring that fabulous Heroin.
All the working girls slept with him, he had the pickings. Although I never did as such, I did give him a blow job in the back of the car - not one of my finest moments. As expected, it was awkward, his penis was small and he was obviously high on coke and it was a big fumble. In my mind, I figured that I would only be sleeping with clients to give him the money anyways - so it cut out the middle man to just favor the dealer and get the drugs as compensation. But it was an exchange of power as already he had my life resting in the palm of that sweaty hand - as he dealt in not only dope but dealt with our lies and desperation to not only him - but to ourselves and each other.
I never knew what happened to John as we had to move from the area and we finally got an introduction to a bigger dealer (that did use) and rode a bike, who did home deliveries and slipped us some joints.
His name was Chris and that was that. We never asked anymore, as now he was God.
That's just the way it is.
John didn't have a habit so he wasn't as desperate as us, he didn't know what "sick" meant and he didn't care to either. He was in it for the money - that much was obvious. John had a round and oily face, his eyebrows wriggled like two hungry caterpillars when he mumbled around the cigar that hung from his ample lips.
In that Romanian accent he could often yell those horrible words, "Don't call me anymore" to some hapless Junkie on the end of the other line whom had said the wrong thing or waited at the wrong bus-stop. Unlucky.
Because he never knew the desperation, I would remember thinking - "Does he know that someones life just fell apart?" But of course I kept quiet and agreed with whatever he said and just hoped that would NEVER be us. I had to be one of his favorites, you know how it is. I knew he wanted to sleep with me - but I also knew I would always get the best deals as long as I had something to offer. So, I would often be coy and act flattered when he placed his dumpy hand on my thigh, a tense smile on my lips as it slid down in between my legs. You couldn't say no to God.
It was a regular morning and I was in the car, doing the obligatory lap of the city when he asked me to leave my boyfriend. He refused to see The Ex because according to John - he stunk.
"You such pretty girl - you could live with me in Penthouse" he drooled.
I smiled nervously and muttered something like "Oh that's too kind."
That was a curly one to explain to my boyfriend, even though I agreed with John, he did in fact stink of wine and sweat and dope. Just a junky kind of stench - the smell of old gear and chemicals oozing from our sallow skin. I probably stunk as well but I could wear perfume, that was how it was.
Of course being a sex worker and the sole scorer wasn't easy - I had my hands full as it was.
But rather than argue with John (no such thing - you would just get cut off) I made sure that from now on I would be the one scoring the dope.
One of the few good things about having a dealer that didn't have a habit was their schedule could be quite reliable. Junkie dealers tend to work as long as they can (in between naps and themselves scoring of course) but ones that didn't could rise early and normally stick to the times. However, it also meant that they would finish early - normally around five thirty in the afternoon. Just like a normal job.
John kept to this times, dealing out his infamous capsules filled with Dope (those capsules were placed inside a water balloon, then sometimes kept in the mouth or perhaps in the anus of the dealers..I didn't think about it too much.) As long as it was gear, I couldn't really complain. And such good gear it was, the hard rock variety that took longer to mix in the spoon, with a lovely taste and colour. A slow crawling stone that spread through the chest and crept down to your tingling toes.
Sometimes I would ride in the car with him - if I was asked to of course. He had two Nokia's that buzzed continually - even I was surprised at how adept he could be at answering the phones, driving the car and listening to the police scanner that was under my seat. I would only ride in the car when I was stoned (of course) and for keeping John company I would normally score a secret balloon full of coke, which was John's weakness alongside pretty young girls. Even now when I see the model of the car that John used to drive, I remember this man and how much our neighbourhood feared/respected him. If he didn't like your friends, if he didn't like the way you waited for him to call through - you would change whatever he didn't like about you, just to keep on the A list - scoring that fabulous Heroin.
All the working girls slept with him, he had the pickings. Although I never did as such, I did give him a blow job in the back of the car - not one of my finest moments. As expected, it was awkward, his penis was small and he was obviously high on coke and it was a big fumble. In my mind, I figured that I would only be sleeping with clients to give him the money anyways - so it cut out the middle man to just favor the dealer and get the drugs as compensation. But it was an exchange of power as already he had my life resting in the palm of that sweaty hand - as he dealt in not only dope but dealt with our lies and desperation to not only him - but to ourselves and each other.
I never knew what happened to John as we had to move from the area and we finally got an introduction to a bigger dealer (that did use) and rode a bike, who did home deliveries and slipped us some joints.
His name was Chris and that was that. We never asked anymore, as now he was God.
That's just the way it is.
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