If You Let Me

Her face shows the ravages of time, but Chrissie Hynde's deep raspy-edged rock voice still cuts it. Feisty, cool, angry, distrustful, trademark heavily kohled eyes under her slab of fringe, guitar pistoned against her tight-jeaned hips, she's a fucking inspiration at 57! A woman among the boys.

A survivor - 2 marriage wrecks and 2 children she brought up single handedly. Thank god we have women like this in the world who show it can be done. Life's not all sugar and spice - it's full of twists and turns and mostly hard knocks - the trick is to keep getting up, getting up!

The single is out today August 24th!

moving

A perfect fusion of music and retro imagery.

The content for She kills for thrills is certificate 18 only and will be posted on my other blog naughtyfortysville. Please also check out slinkymalinky my review website.

She kills for thrills

Carpe Diem

Him:
“Well hellooo lady in red - waiting for someone or all alone?"

Me:
(Sardonically) “Just killing time…before meeting friends.”

[He offering a hand to shake]
Him:
“Giles… but Guffer to friends.”

Me:
(coolly), “ Well hi there err… ‘Guffer’.

At this point he flashed an, ‘I’m in here!’ look over to his cronies, which made me smirk inwardly with a self-congratulatory…little does he know smugness. Lacking the complexities of the female psyche, men were easy to read. Centuries of education and civilization can’t wipe out that inane hunting instinct. They’re borne to it. You can see it in their body language, the way they stand square on, the inflection in their voice, that glint in the eye. It bigs up their ego and I was happy to play prey to slowly, slowly catchy monkey.

He had old Etonian written all over his port-reddened face and he wore arrogance like a starchy Gieves and Hawkes shirt. He came from a world of priviledge and excess, as removed from my world as Hampstead and Hackney. He knew nothing of hustling and sleeping rough, stealing to eat. It was a past that shaped my present and made me the perfect glacial, lust for blood killing machine.

I felt his pudgy, smooth white hand touch my bare forearm – it was decidedly clammy and unpleasant and his breath was wino thick with alcohol. He exuded that stale formaldehyde half cut smell that tramps on the tube give off. But it meant the Roho (Flunitrazepam) would work a treat! I’d gotten the old version from a friend in the know; the sort that was tasteless, odourless and left no blue residue. He’d done a long lunch session and was a touch unsteady on his feet, so he’d be none the wiser. But before I spiked, I wanted to make sure his friends were oiled enough not to be bothered about him.

I needn’t have worried, they were ordering an inordinately expensive bottle of Cristal – and had already zoned in on some other women to share it with.


[Motioning to the drink]
Him:
“Another…?”

Me:
“Don’t mind if I do…”

Him:
“Are you…married?”

Me:
“Single. You…?”

Him:
“I didn’t catch your name?”

Me:
“Lynn…Lynn Bracken…

I already knew the answer to this because I’d seen him discretely slip off his wedding band into his pocket before he came over. But I wanted to hear the lie – it justified his end.

She kills for thrills

The Letter S

The big station clock chimed 9 as I sat at the bar sipping my second cocktail in a cocoon and waiting...While outside gentle spit spots of rain tapped lightly against the window. As I looked out, the city was a live hive of city types with big black brollies spilling over bridges and pavements and into roads. Making their way home in cabs and buses and tubes where they'd avert their eyes in a speechless daze behind redtops and broadsheets and glossy style magazines that plied their stock-in-trade hyped images of fast cars and designer homes with the latest trendy wallpaper this, and shiny flooring that, and Italia furniture features and ads where they could play out their dreams of a shiny happy people glossy life.

Only to look up when their stop or station loomed large and the bus or train spewed them out into the glistening street or acrid-aired station where they made their way home to their flats and pads and gaffs and cottages and loft apartments and country piles in Hampstead and Wimbledon and Richmond, and the further reaches of Ascot and Epsom and St Albans and Leighton Buzzard and Epping Forest. So many people in search of the perfect world trying to live out perfect lives going home to their Persian cats or their French bulldogs or their Swedish wives or Gambian husbands.

All this against a backdrop of runaways, drug abuse, asbos, unwanted pregnancy, teenage binge drinking, sex traffickers and immigrants.

Three city traders walked in trying to outdo each other with jibber jabber of the day's acquisitions and the state of the Dow Jones and Footsie and the Nikkei and how wheat prices were rising along with the Yen and BP share prices were falling and how much they stood to make in bonuses and blah blah blah!

I observed with interested detachment, comparing their hamster wheel mainstream existence to my own rootless one. I leant slightly leftwards to catch the gist as their conversation turned more conspiratorial and they looked my way. The dagger tip pricked my thigh and a blood stain seeped dark against the silky material of dress. It reminded me of the delights of the night ahead and what sport I would have with one of these stuffed pig city traders. I could hardly contain my disgust and delight as one of them walked over...

She kills for thrills

The Letter S

It took me silently along the river to Shoreditch and the sort of bars where the hardcore city boys hang out. The types who wear their egos like a Hugo Boss shirt – loud, proud and obnoxious. Bolly swigging, learing, groping fools. The sort who’re limited by their Home Counties accent and their boarding school upbringing, all back-slapping old boys’ club guffaws. The sort who dated and married nice Emilies and Charlottes and Samanthas but secretly bedded women for sport and wore their misogyny like a badge of honour.

They were left brain. I was right.

They measured out their lives in stocks in shares.
They dad danced to a different tune.
Their were blacks and navys and greys.
They hung out in packs.

I hunted alone.

Dressed to kill in a long strawberry wig and tight red, curve skimming forties-style dress and black satin raincoat, I looked the part. Ce soir, I was that Kim Basinger femme fatale, Lynn Bracken in LA Confidential – all swishy, long curled hair, red luscious pouty lips and stocking tops in a mischievous mood to murder.

A flick of the hair, lip of the lips, discrete glimpse of bestockinged thigh and resistance would be futile. Cameleons, comedians, corinthians and caricatures, they thought they were oh so clever, oh so worldly wise...these suited and booted arrogant boy-men, but that was before they met me. One of them would not be returning to the comfort of friends tomorrow. He would be my crimson quarry!

"Tainted love, tainted love, touch me baby tainted love..."

...it rang in my head as I staked out the bar plying the barman with small talk as he mixed me a mean martini and did a great line in bottle spinning. A big heavy fly buzzed circuits lazily around the spinning ceiling fan overhead. I watched its mesmeric dance of death as it droned round and round just skimming the blades. Slowly and deliberately, I swirled the olive with my tongue, taking it in my mouth and biting into its silky smooth oily skin, whilst savoring the feel of the steely silver warmed by my thigh and secreted in my filigree killer stocking top. And I felt a piercing, plunging, pronging, pricking, shanking, sticking shiver of excitement.

Because S was for stabbing!

She kills for thrills

In the beginning

You either exist or you live! I took a walk on the wild side – struck up a love affair with suped-up recreational excess, if you will. In life, there are those who settle for a comfy, sedate sofa ride in a family saloon. And those who lust after a need for speed shot of foot-to-the-metal, pulsating, heart-pounding, 2-litre white hot ride that gives you a headjolt of adrenalin, and makes your body tingle with sweaty anticipation. Faster pussycat kill kill!

Yes, the first time was murderously, velvet-sweet. But just like dabbling with substance, sooner or later you get drawn down into a whirlpool that sucks you in and spits you out. You kick, spit and struggle...no, resistance is futile. Looking back, I always knew I was going too far and that sure as night follows day, life would fade to black...

But hells bells, I’d already decided not choose a beige future. Just pull a letter out of the hat and see what gives. Life just took a turn for the weird.

Welcome to my vermillion twisted stream of consciousness.

she kills for thrills

I’d just given birth to triplets, two girls and boy – but soon as they were born, a white masked, unknown somebody took them away to a glass room in the far corner of my vision. Exhausted and still sky-high on the pethidine, my reality was blurred, not unlike the sensation of swimming underwater with scratched goggles. “Bring them back, they need feeding. Bring them back they need feeding… bring them back…”said the drum and bass voice in my head on a rhythmic loop. The girls were vernix waxy with waa-waa Siamese cries and I nuzzled them instinctively into my heavy, milky breasts. But where was the third – the boy? They brought him back to me as I fed but his body was lifeless…

Bang! Bang! Bang! Urgent, insistent, determined knocking in the distance. It kick-started my reality. “Noooo! Don’t answer it, I shouted – for fuck’s sake, don’t answer it!” Too late…three masked men burst my bubble of maternal heaven.

Loud, loud, louder, unbearable Guns N’ Roses – ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ blasting out. Psychological torture – menacing, they’d planned it perfectly – even down to the sounds.

The girl babies – innocent…oblivious in a nirvana of milky feed. Ear-piercing music jolted their startle reflex and stilled their bird-mouths. Then they swooped like black crows, violently snatching the girls from my breast, a Beretta ’34 fitted with a modern silencer to the tiny temples and two final dull kthuds…

She's got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain
I hate to look into those eyes
And see an ounce of pain
Her hair reminds me
of a warm safe place
Where as a child I'd hide
And pray for the thunder
And the rain
To quietly pass me by

Sweet child o' mine
Sweet love of mine

Where do we go
Where do we go now
Where do we go
Sweet child o' mine

Newport (Ymerodraeth State of Mind)

Class act from from the welch pairing and cracking lyrics! Be scared Alicia & Jay-Z...be very scared! New York is sooo over!
Let's hear it for Newport!