Hunting Venus

Blood was everywhere.

She stood there, naked save for those fluids splashed against her ivory skin, lit by the moonlight like a goddess stepping onto our earthly realm. Her long mane was dark in the night but I could tell it would be the colour of flame in candlelight. She eyed me with the sensual cast of a predator, like a spoilt cat eyes a mouse with casual interest before it half-heartedly rips the life of it away. The ruined corpse at her feet showed she had already done as such.

I stood there paralysed with terror but also somehow thrilled with the delicious sight of her. Never had I been so scared of anyone, every fibre of my being screaming to run away. But never had I desired anyone so either.

I am no hero, indeed I play the brave man to impress others but when things get out of control I am swift to break and run and hate myself for my weakness. When I heard that shriek coming from the dark alleyway, walking home after my drinking session at the local, I know not why I found myself investigating. But sure enough my traitorous legs took me down that dark and gloomy place and this was my reward.

She casually stepped towards me, her every body movement, be it the slight swing of her hips, the bounce of her breasts, or the swish of her long hair, sent a thrill of desire through me. Everything about her was graceful, too perfect for such an ugly and unsophisticated world. But it was her face, oh that face, that held my gaze. She looked young but those emerald eyes revealed that she was ancient beyond understanding, and the slight smile on her ruby lips promised all manner of horrors as well as delights.

She reached out with gore-stained hands and wrapped her arms about me. The touch of her body to mine sent my mind reeling with pleasure as well as disgust, the scent of rose and sandalwood intoxicated me. Her lips met mine and our tongues danced, or rather hers, I was still rendered immobile from her presence. All my senses were in override and my heart beat so painfully I thought I was going into cardiac arrest. It was likely only a few seconds but it felt like we were together for an eternity before she finally stepped back and smiled viciously.

She seated herself on one of those large, wheeled bins as though it were a throne and, with a throaty laugh, opened her legs to me. Her obvious shamelessness made me harder at that moment than any blushing virgin could ever hope to do. Entranced, I found myself walking toward the gore-slick nymph, fumbling madly at my trousers.

I paused however, for the scenery around her began to shift. The bin, the pavement, the plain brick wall, even the corpse all shifted as though the world were a computer monitor about to glitch. A new scene was briefly flickering into my vision, as though another world were trying to overlay itself over the current one. Were horns appearing on her head, or was it a crown? What I saw of this other world I cannot fully remember, the mind has a knack for protecting itself from such memories, but it was so nightmarish that the distraction interrupted the woman's hold on me and I became fully aware of the madness I was about to participate in.

Like any good coward, I ran screaming.

01/06/15

That is how this insanity all came about, sweet reader.

Before that night I was a failed poet who wrote trashy novels that other people took the credit for. Ever wondered how some authors somehow manage to release so many crappy novels in such a short amount of time? Bingo. When an author has a big enough fan base it matters not how bad the story is, slap their name on it, the fans declare it a masterpiece and the publishers bury themselves in coin.

That changed for me after that night however. The sight of that woman still left me yearning for her, despite the fear that came with it. Indeed, no other woman satiated me the way the mere sight of her did. It also ignited the creative flame in me again and before I knew it I was considered up there with the greats in modern day poetry. Turns out all you need is a tortured soul to be a successful writer, who knew?

I had the tasteless pen name of Drake Rouge, my real name was Doug Finly. Apparently my work is considered ahead of its time, unafraid to use taboo imagery to express its image. Truth be told it was the bold sexuality of that woman, it opened a door of depravity in my imagination that I had long ago sealed away, with the chains of morality that society hands us. My dreams slowly turned dark after that night, and I fantasized things that would have decent people vomit at the sight of it. De Sade of the modern era I think one critic said of my latest anthology.

For the next three years I continued on with my life. Naturally I saw reports of a torn up corpse on the news, but it seems the killer was never found, nor did the authorities come knocking at my door. I know I should have gone to them, tell them what I saw, like as not the woman had drugged me in some way. Yet I felt myself refrain from this, somehow I knew there was more to it than that, and instinct told me seeking the police would only cause more problems.

I enjoyed my new found success, but I never felt content. Frequently I day-dreamed of encountering that woman again and all the things we would say to eachother, usually ending with a passionate entangling of our two bodies. I had long suffered from that Madonna-whore complex, when I fell in love with a woman I felt no lust for her, when I lusted for a woman I felt little love. But she was love and lust combined into perfection.

Then, on this dark night it happened again. A scream from another dark alley as I stumbled drunkenly home. I had been invited to a discussion on modern poetry and that usually had me drinking myself to a stupor, a preferable alternative to cutting my ears off.

Terror filled me, yet I ran toward the sound. I feared for my life, yes, but I just had to see her again. Even if it meant being ripped open like the other victim.

There was nothing but the corpse when I arrived, another young man looking as though he lost a fight with a tiger, or rather that he tried mating with one seeing as his trousers were around his ankles. I heard a husky laugh and I found myself calling after her, heedless of who else may hear. I caught the vague scent of sandalwood and knew it was her. I called and called until my lungs were raw, but to no avail. I stopped only when I saw the stained wall beside the body. The shout died at my throat at the sight of it.

Using blood, a heart with an arrow shot through it had been painted on the wall, like teenagers carving it on a tree. Just like said teenagers, there were initials within that heart. Mine, and another character that I could not make. It was certainly in no language I was familiar with. Realising the implications if I was caught with this grisly artwork, I fled again.

11/06/15

Prostitution laws are a confused thing, here in merry old England. Whilst it is not exactly illegal to be a prostitute, god help you if you are caught using one. Those laws are so confused and gargled they will find some way of punishing you. It's almost as if the politicians were rather into hookers but figured they best throw in some laws against it to appear somewhat decent, not that politics and decency ever mix well.

At that time I lived in the shabbier area of a dock city, so there was no shortage of them. Once that sun can stand the sight of us no longer, out they come, scantily clad and the property of anyone, for a while, to whomever has the currency. I never used them myself, not that I was not tempted, but tales of various diseases kept that coward in me taking control and steering me well away. I had a drinking friend who was not so fretful however, and never caught anything either.

Why am I discussing street prostitutes? Well, after hiding under my bed sheets for a few days, and realising that neither the mysterious murderer or the police were coming to take me away, I somehow built up some form of bravery and began asking around. I still desperately yearned for her, you see, and knowing that she was still in my vicinity, in this very city, filled me with hope of seeing her in favourable conditions.

Luck was not on my side, few people could, or were willing, to help. Being limited to what I could reveal was a disadvantage also. I was attempting to drown my sorrows at one of the inns, knowing full well it only made me more miserable, when my hooker using friend came in. As we began drinking together and making merry I asked him if he would be visiting those ladies of the night, to which the merriment all but fled him. "No way, not done so for a while now." He grumbled, "Dunno what happened but they changed, they've been acting weird." Unlike me, he had not the benefit of a fine education and could not really explain why they were so weird. Since I was hunting who had to be the queen of weirdness I realised I had been given a lead.

So I went to that famously impoverished area of the city, began questioning those barely dressed women, and learned that my friend was indeed correct. Hookers were often a nuisance here, boldly taking your arm whilst reaching for your wallet, but now they worked with a strange sense of urgency. Each one I approached had a feverish look about them, they were quick to offer me all sorts of experiences without talk of the price. In fact they seemed rather uninterested in the money and offered themselves at ludicrous rates. If I did not know better, I would say they had gained a hint of that brazen shamelessness that I had seen in the woman I sought.

As I continued my search I began to realise that these prostitutes were not so much weird now as plain mad. Whilst the night wore on they grew more frantic in their search for clients, some stripping themselves of clothing completely, others spreading their legs to those passing. I verily had to slap one who tried to drag me into a dark corner, offering all manner of sexual delights. My jaw verily dropped when I saw one lead a customer away who gave what must have been little more than a penny. When I tried asking questions few would answer, no matter how much I offered them. Unless I intend to fuck them they were not interested. What is going on here?

"Are you DF?" a voice inquired seductively. I felt a hand gently brush my shoulder. I jumped and spun round, ready to beat away another of these insane whores. Despite myself, my breath caught upon seeing her. Like the others she had that feverish look on her, and she was completely naked in public. Whilst she had red hair, it was not flame like the mysterious woman, her eyes were more blue than green, and her pale skin was freckled. A desirable woman, but not the one I desired. "Are you DF? I must find DF!"

I blinked, "Depends what DF stands for."

Even as I said it I knew it was lame, I had veritably screamed that my initials are DF in saying that. Seems she had the brains to see that too. She jumped up and down excitedly, causing her breasts to move in a most mesmerising manner. She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward a narrow street, "She told me I would find you. She told me you would fuck me better than she did."

The street she led me down was full of whores with their clients, doing all manner of things. Some were performing the good old-fashioned methods, some went for doggy-style, some settled for the use of their tongues, others went for anal. But all of them did it with the frenzy of animals; the air was filled with the raucous of pleasure. Knowing full well the answer, I would not have let her drag me along otherwise, I asked, "Who told you?"

She ignored me. She pulled me through a door into a small room with only a mattress at its centre. Panting with desire, she all but threw herself onto the mattress. "Please. Fuck me in her name. None have satiated me like she did. But you, she said you will." She groaned in frustration and desire, "It feels so good, so awful. Please use me." Would you believe, with all the strange behaviour, I found myself turned on? As she lay back and revealed herself to me I felt my body flush with lust and found myself willing to use her as requested. I kneeled and grabbed her thighs, taking in the wonderful sight and made ready to put my tongue to something more pleasant than discussing literature.

I paused when I felt something under my hand.

I looked and, to my shock and revulsion, I saw carved into her flesh the same drawing that was painted on the wall. I looked to the inside of the other thigh and my heart skipped at the words cut there:

WHEN IN ROME XXX

"Fuck me like she did." She said again.

I felt my stomach lurch. I realised then that doing her in the traditional fashion would not be enough to satiate her. I began to realise that the woman had done far darker things that made this hooker mad with lust, and nothing less would satisfy her now.

I heard her screams of fury as I ran out the room. I cared not. I ignored the various positions being performed around me and fled back to my little flat. I am done, enough is enough. My chase for the bloodthirsty nymphomaniac is over.

14/06/15

Yet here I am, on a plane bound for Rome. Seriously, what is wrong with me? Clearly this can come to no good end. Well, reader, at least you can rest easy knowing the world will be rid of at least one more moron. I felt like a fish being pulled on the hook. I may struggle but sure enough I was slowly being pulled to shore, my only hope being that the line snaps.

That's why I'm writing these entries, in case you're wondering. If my insides end up being strewn across some mad woman's tits, hopefully someone will find this and find the answers I failed to uncover. Or they will wonder what drugs I was on and toss it aside, still, one must try.

15/06/15

"Feck, feckity, feck, feck!" Ever since watching Father Ted as a young boy I started using that swear word. Mainly because I could use it and not be berated for it. I did the same with the word 'zounds' ever since I studied hamlet, a good play but it forced me learn far too much of Freud's Oedipus theories.

Anyhoo, I was cursing because I could only afford to stay another couple of nights and had little luck in locating the woman. Naturally I had researched on the location of prostitutes in the area and began asking them, only to have the polizia threaten to imprison me for harassing them.

I also learned that some new act introduced a few years ago had reduced the tolerance of those workers in the cities, the majority now being found in rural areas. So I rented a car and drove off, only to find they knew little English and I bugger-all Italian. So I tried visiting the tourist attractions, might as well make the most of my holiday, but it was also in the hope that I would find her visiting the sights also. Not that I could picture her wearing normal clothing and wandering about nonchalantly. I eyed the women in St Peter's Square of the Vatican city, receiving glares from those who caught me and leaving me blushing. I cooled off in the shade of the Arch of Constantine. I wandered the interiors of the coliseum. Rather despondent, it was not until I trudged to the Temple of Venus and Roma on Velian Hill that I finally got a lead.

All splendour and beauty of the place was now lost, with only ruins to hint at the greatness it once had. Dedicated to Venus and Roma, I heard that Hadrian mainly wanted it dedicated for Venus, that Roma was in fact just Amor, Latin for love, backwards. Very clever, but I found it hard to believe. I wandered the cella where the statue of Roma had been, but it was when I entered the cella of Venus that I struck gold. A group of young English speakers, American by their accents, were discussing their frivolities of the night before. Naturally I was disinterested at first, until they mentioned a secret brothel full of creepy prostitutes. Apparently their eagerness had been too much for them and they made their escape. As a poet, I could give the ancient fili a run for their money, and before they knew it I was with them at a nearby restaurant, conversing and laughing at their jokes. With subtle words that would make the best car salesman proud I discerned the location of this brothel. I soon excused myself and made for the place at once.

Brothels are illegal in Italy, but operating from apartments is not. Apparently this place was owned by a landlord, and the tenants but whores who work at home. A façade that kept them just out of the authorities' reach, though likely the odd bribe helped also. Feeling a growing excitement I reached the surprisingly normal looking building. Apparently the main door was open to my American friends and they had no trouble entering. I was disappointed when I saw the place closed up. Not just the door, but every window also. It was full dark when I got there so it was not to keep the heat of midday away. Unsure of myself, I knocked at the door. I did this several times, not getting an answer but refusing to leave until someone came.

At last, I heard the sound of several locks clicking before the door opened a jar. A rotund, bald man shouted at me in Italian and made to slam the door. I thrust my foot in, wincing at the pain as it was crushed, "I am looking for a woman."

The man cursed several times, "No women today, come back tomorrow." He crushed my foot further, threatening to break bone. I made a note not to wear sandals in future.

Perhaps it was the pain in my foot, the man shouting me, the heat or the frustration of the chase, but I found myself hissing at the man, "I'm after a particular woman. Red hair, green eyes, skin paler than bone? Likes to walk around naked and kill people after fucking them? The way things are going for me killing is starting to be just as appealing as fucking."

The man's eyes widened, he swallowed dryly and whispered, "Go, sir, it is dangerous here."

I shook my head, "Where is she?"

He grit his teeth, then he nudged my foot away and slammed the door closed. I batted at the door in rage, thinking he had refused me entry. Turns out he was removing the chains. He opened the door wide and let me in, "On your head, sir. The girls have been acting strange since she came." He pointed to the stairs, "Top floor."

I made my way up the stairs, sweating and cursing the place for not having an elevator. Yet as I neared the top floor an excitement began to build within me. The scent of incense, rose, sandalwood, and possibly a hint of jasmine. I had an ex who was into new age mumbo jumbo in case you're wondering why I am an expert on scents. Fear and desire warred with each other as I reached the door at the top floor and entered.

I had expected a corridor full of apartments. Instead it was an open area, probably rented out for parties and meetings. Tonight however it was as though I had entered a temple. My eyes stung from the thick smoke of the incense burning, but I could make out from the doorway I stood at to the door at the other end a line of women kneeling to either side of me. They were all naked and some chanted unintelligible words. Not a single one looked up at me, instead they all seemed to be focused on the other door. Various candles lit the gloom, enshrouding much of the area in shadow.

All instincts telling me to leave, I made my way along the trail of whores to the other side. The air felt strange, like I was wading through mud. I was expecting the world to fall away, like a curtain ready to reveal the truth that lay behind it all. I touched the handle of the door, my hands shook, I knew she was in there. She was waiting for me. If I had any sense I would have turned and left. Instead I entered.

There she was. On a luxurious bed circled with candles she laid there idly. She smiled at me knowingly as I came in, naked as the night I first saw her, except less gore, though I was expecting that to soon be remedied with my own. She was as magnificent as I recalled, if not more so. I found myself once again paralysed with fear and desire. All I could manage as I stared at her like a drooling pervert was "Hi."