All Blogs

This is a miserable, long winded, depressing, indulgent exploration into my childhood. It's long and may be upsetting. Read at your own discretion. I'd say to my friends and loved ones reading this blog, don't let it upset you, I wouldn't be 'me' without the childhood I lived through. I spent the first five years of my life locked in a bedroom. As bizarre as that sounds, that was my introduction to life here on Earth. My father was a sadist. Whatever he could imagine doing to

Some months ago, I came close to taking Satan's final marks on my flesh. Two sigils on my chest through a scarification process. The templates were created and sized for my chest. What the sigils look like doesn't matter for this blog. The templates were placed on my chest and my first thoughts were, you know what? These look fucking awesome. They suited my chest perfectly, one on each of the pectoralis major muscles. It might sound severe and all kinds of weird and OK, it is

I remember how I felt in the years before the turn, and how I felt during the turn, and how I've felt since. I'm not the same. There is a clear divide. I'm still that person from before, yet I'm also this person now. And I'm not the same. It split me. Changed me. Not all good. Not really all bad. But mostly perplexing depending on my mood. I certainly feel perplexed at the moment. If I told you how many decades I've been feeding, you'd probably tell me to piss off. I started

I wrote and created a song, some months after my girlfriend died to help as a coping mechanism. The song is called Baby and is track 10 on the music page. Some years ago, my wife's sister introduced me to her new girlfriend. And at first sight I felt her girlfriend was an interloper. My wife and her sister and I have a tight family, we live together, and I didn't want anyone else involved in our lives together. It may sound selfish but I was comfortable. I was happy, I felt s

After I've pleasured myself with feeding, I like to reassess my life during the following days. I need to, as there's usually a lot of emotional baggage to unpack. It's been a few days since I last fed. The bloodlust has left me. And I have to ask myself, as I do in all these post-feed-reviews, how the hell do I end up tied to a bed necking my wife's blood? What the hell? I sure don't want to do that now! Where does that come from? What molecule lies dormant in my body that t

Until a few months ago, I lived under the light of God. I had a life I enjoyed and I walked in the daylight from dawn until dusk. I'd leave home early, before sunrise, and walk into the countryside. And as the sun came up, I'd marvel at its beauty and take deep comfort in the tears of happiness that fell from my eyes. As I walked I felt like I was walking into heaven. The world became timeless. I was content. And at peace. The sky looked vast. And I felt happy. I had almost l

I'm comfortable with Satan. I can be myself. I don't have to strive to be sinless. I have a kind heart, but I'm not sinless. I strive to be, but I fail. Despite wanting to be bathed in God's light and be flawless, I am so comfortable cavorting with demons. In a way, I feel like hell is my true home and heaven is someplace I can never be, because I belong down below. This story is about Satan. Not my conflicted thoughts. Satan's love known to me before mother of womb, before f

No longer of God, my barriers broken, my morals intact, though merely a token. Has led to a path steeped in sin, free of guilt, ripping God and his sword, from my heart, by the hilt. Blade shattered through striking hell's cage around soul, its pieces no more than a memory of old. Cut through with fresh ease on the depth of my sin, and sharpened and honed through blood rites of my kin. In vampire breeds, my heart became stricken, of wife and our clan, of our truth God forbidd

Sisters in blood, sisters in passion, my morals care not of the view or the fashion. My girls in their lust, eternal in prime, both bloodied and sinful, past logic, or rhyme. My wife and her sister, two sides to my third, my standing now equal, to either their word. My turning from God, wife's gift of succession, few thoughts I have spent, on this final transgression. My role has now changed, from scornful low heel, my strength is now equal, through Satan's full seal. Mind l

You, my Beloved, may place me in chains, Your hands simple tools, to Satan's mind games. My soul just a painting, to add to His collection, His power your paint, to my canvased inception. I'm dangled as plaything, commands I hear spoken, Though long understanding, my will must be broken. I'm shattered and bitten, bloodied and wrought, no single part, escaped a fierce thought. Yet key to our unity, lay here eternal, hidden on pages, within my own journal. I could never be turn

Last night I was taken, in blood lust and raw, To help replenish, wife's soul draining maw. My blood, simple remedy, taking her jeopardy, On well hewn path, to her satisfied rhapsody. My heart is in pieces, I wonder to cope, Of wife's endless needs, fulfilled at my throat. My blood often drained, my very soul hurt, It’s becoming less often, my mind can assert. I’m trapped, beaten chained and stricken, I cry every day, from neck being bitten. I prayed to God, an act of repenta

My wife is a temptress, enticing, indulging, Reducing my morals, yet glans still are bulging. Leading me through, needs without measure, And leading by hand, to my hell sated pleasure. My wife is of clan, pure blood and true, Her kin indeed, are steeped in rue. For lifetime of mine, I held onto pride, Refusing to join, and trying to hide, My will became weak, over many a year, Desire much greater, than morals so dear. My wife found and broke me, at weakness so low, Her endowm

My wife and her sister, my bane and my strife, They fight over me, my body and life. I'm merely the wood, to either their awl, And pulled one to the other, as rope between all. My say has no meaning, my choices redundant, My thoughts on the matter, no use most recumbent. I'm taken not forced, used in ways of not kings, My body and mind simply toys, or playthings. Yet love does not bring, peace to my mind, I wish not to be shared, married wife not her kind. Her sister most bea

The act of consuming blood. I think it should be called 'drinking', but who am I to go against 19th century folklore? In this blog I'm going to concentrate on the act, the ritual, the event, and ultimately, the cost to the person who feeds. When I feed, I treat the event with great reverence. It's a 'Christmas Day with family' level of reverence. It's special. It matters. It means something. This isn't Lon Chaney Jr. jumping out of a doorway and sinking his fangs into a passi

It doesn't matter why I drink blood, or how it started. The story is too long to give it justice in this blog. I wrote about it in my journals, and I'll upload them to my website one day. For now, I want to write about my bloodlust. I've fed too many times to start from the beginning, to explain, every time, every action, every emotion. It goes back decades. I wasn't born into bloodlust, I was taken into it. And it wasn't entirely my choice. I certainly fought against those w

I look at the ground beneath my feet as I walk, knowing how old each single step I take is and how long the earth has known my footfall. I look up and gaze upon all the people I see near and far and realize that if everyone whose life at that moment was shorter than mine vanished, there would most likely not be a soul left to see. The world is a pleasant playground and kindness is at the heart of my life. I have a smile for everyone, kindness for everyone, time, for everyone,

Perhaps if I was offered a banquet of blood wrapped in the sweetest of things, I'd indulge myself fully. Unless I was abstaining. Which in this wonderfully vampiric world may happen. And before a paid a visit to Red Riding Blood, I was six years clean: Those around me, my kin, my clan, my fellow vampires, have already fallen. The kind that'd happily lick the rim of a toilet if they took a fancy to the girl whose period spattered it. The kind of creatures that could bring you

Writing is the occupation of choice for vampires. Writers often have unusual personalities, so we often go unnoticed. Vampirism is certainly a popular genre and has been since the 19th century. Back then dip pens and quills were more popular than word processors and TV shows, yet the essence of the story rarely changes, and eons of experience on earth gives you quite a story to tell. Years of emotions briefly elated yet inevitably destroyed time upon time through centuries of

I believe there is no happiness or love in this world until it arrives. All things arrive. The sky so vast, a person could get lost within it and the last raindrops of a passing storm missed as deeply as a lover. Perhaps once, they didn't exist at all and, in their place, emptiness. I have known those empty places and found they were not empty at all. I was simply too early, and all the things I wished for, had not yet arrived. Time is forever and we are so fleeting. Some,

I note the decades passing by with as much value as what I leave in the toilet, and find despair in each aging line on a loved one's face, knowing I am the most helpless of all. Time stands still in those moments, until it takes another part of me to the grave. Piece by piece: I am imprisoned within time itself and eternally burdened with layer upon layer of grief and hardened misery suffered throughout my existence. The miles traveled long, the wear hard, not the kind of i