THE MAN STORY...

The year is 1870. The Masoch revolution begins.

 

The Scene. The girl. The dark horse.

You're a man. Wealthy, calculating, with an insatiable lust for power and everything indulgent. The estate is built from your fathers' exports of the exotic and alcoholic. A trade in demand made famous by carrying the body of Admiral Nelson in casket of rum. Time hasn't waited, it's dark and the day has been long with torrential downpours, a sigh of relief upon your return to the manor in the English countryside. Sodden and exhausted you open the door, every step a newly formed puddle on the parquet floors. A dark, smokey, dim lit room with your favourite rum awaits. Mans' ruin. Put the coat on the hook, hat on the stand and drink in the hand. Light the kindle and watch it go up. The leather squeaks as you sink back into the chair to stare at the dancing flames in the fire. Home at last and you're reaping the rewards of your hard work.

 

But nearly napping, there's a rapping at the door to disturb your comfort, unappeased you open the door to find an angel in tears. Without question you usher the girl in. She speaks of woe and tells you of her struggle to get home through the thick mud on her dying horse. Finally the horse collapses, desperate and in shock she tries to move the horse in vein. It was a long way from home and that's when she saw the light from the fire.

 

You fall to your knees after her sweet perfume. Like the opportunist you are you comfort her and lead her towards the fire to dry out. Your heart is pounding, it must be her eyes and long flowing ebony hair. She really was an angel adorned with innocence and everything money can't afford. Offer her the rum and watch her sip from the crystal, after all a girl like that deserves the finest.

 

The angel is warming up, no more words are exchanged as the two of you are at ease in the silence. She turns to the fire and you slouch behind her in the chair eyeing up her silhouette. Your usual nasty ways are hindered to stop and think that an angel shouldn't be looked at in such a way, turn your attention and pour yourself another.

 

Taken by surprise she is more brazen you thought, the opportunist returns. Angel rings out her hair and she takes off her cloak, the poor girl is drenched, her clothes were filthy. She slips the dress to her hips, the rest of the water running down her full firm breasts. Try to keep your breathing from a heavy sound, should you be the gentleman and leave the room or stay if you know what she really wants? You choose to stay. She asks for another rum but the words distort when her portrait perfect pink lips move, imagine what to do with them. Still you get up and serve her again, maybe she's not an angel. You return to her side to smell her perfume once again, her eyes make you feel uneasy and irresponsible. You see her nipples through the mesh of curly black hair. Fuck, she's a goddess and you can't hide wanting her soft skin on yours. She smiles at you in a way that makes the blood rush down. 'Thank you' says the angel, you laugh and retire to the chair. She's on her knees, the silhouette continues, the haunting sounds coming from her wet finger running around the lip of the glass. She bends over to not get out of the heat of the fire, the dress goes past her ass. She arches her back to flick her hair behind her.

 

She could make you do anything right now. Stroke your moustache and look down on her. She knows what she's doing. Thorough voyeurs entertainment and you've made no advances... She must be a Courtesan.

Whisper in my ear

Let me know you're there

Kiss me on my neck and stroke my hair 

Touch my hand, make us feel so alone

Let every hallway, room, every city see our clothes

Let everybody know how to make skies fall

Dripping out our love

Share around the taste

Early morning haze breaking us again

Hold me close make me feel so cold

We've broken every rule, every law, we've crossed the line

Now everybody know we are banned from god

Copyright The Courtesans (Sinead La Bella, Saffire Sanchez, Agnes Jones, Victoria Brown)

Raven story part 1

It's fuckin cold. Pissing down with rain. Unknown train station in the middle of nowhere. Winter...

I'm staring in awe at the picturesque vomit on the floor while trying to understand... how come that amongst so much crap in my bag only one thing  got soaked... thing that I need the most now - fags.

"Polish girls are slags", "D-day crew was here", "Cameron is a cunt",  "Candice suck my dick" etc.  Letters scrawled up the walls like little black bugs, funnily enough couldn't reach any higher than an average ten year old's arm.

There is even a tiled stove but it doesn't burn fire anymore, it's covered with gazillions of cigarette butts and some other shit, origins which I wouldn't even dare to guess... I'm so fuckin cold...

Black clock face appears to be the only spotless and virginal space of the station but not entirely... some fuckers raped it... by tearing off the clock's hands they bereaved it of time indication ability and ultimately - it's being.

- Now it's like a black hole- I'm thinking while being sucked in the dark corridor by it's gravity - Can't see fuck all... -

And then I met raven...   
 

Before the Renaissance, courtesans served to convey information untrusted to servants to visiting dignitaries. In Renaissance Europe, courtiers played an important role in the society. As it was customary during this time for royal couples to lead separate lives — commonly marrying simply to preserve bloodlines and to secure political alliances — men and women would often seek gratification and companionship from people living at court. In fact, the verb "to court" originally meant "to be or reside at court", and later came to mean "to behave as a courtier" and then "to pay amorous attention to somebody".

In Renaissance usage, the Italian word "cortigiana", feminine of "cortigiano" (courtier) came to refer to "the ruler's mistress", and then to a well-educated and independent woman of free morals, eventually a trained artisan of dance and singing, especially one associated with wealthy, powerful, or upper-class men who provided luxuries and status in exchange for companionship. The word was borrowed by English from Italian through the French form "courtisane" during the 16th century, especially associated to the meaning of "court-mistress" and "prostitute".

Today, the term courtesan has become a euphemism to designate an escort or a prostitute, especially one who attracts wealthy clients...