Category: Chapters

Seven Years

Presidential Election Results 2011

 

 

As we start the run into a Presidential Campaign in Ireland, it’s hard to believe it’s seven years on since I worked on the David Norris Campaign for President 2011. Seven years since I was unknowingly at the crossroads of my life in which I made a choice that was to shape who I became. It was the start of a reckless, and destructive relationship with Paul Allen. Seven years of living with the scars of mental trauma, with Paul denying, trivializing and distortion our reality. I am writing a book based on emotional abuse as a Psychological Thriller. I had hoped it would be completed and published by now.

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Paul Allen PR interviewed for TV3;  Presidential Campaign Count, Dublin Castle, 2011

What I didn’t know is that when Paul messed with my life, he was not messing with one part of my life, he was messing with my entire life, with every thread of my existence, causing my world to implode into disarray. As a result, the last seven years have been volatile, and directionless creating barriers to my ability to consistently engage with my life, impacting on the completion of the book.  Now with the wonderful Sue Leanord who edited my wildly erratic 860 pages down to just under 300 pages, creating a structure, it’s about finished. I believe it’s a remarkable story. Not because it happened to me, but because it’s an insidious form of abuse which many women experience, but don’t understand what’s happening to them. Inevitably they are made feel they are the crazy one, that in fact, that they are the abusive partner and isolated from reality.

Indeed, in my case, Paul went out of his way to paint me as ‘the crazy’ one in the relationship. My fear that people would start to believe his narrative, I fought back by writing my story, not to hurt Paul but to protect myself. I started a blog. As the blog developed, the following grew, with extraordinary support and compassion. As a result, strength, and energy flowed back into my mind and body, I no longer felt isolated. I saw my experiences reflected in other women who emerged from the depths of such darkness. I wanted people to see the abuse, to believe it, to have faith in me. I needed them to understand the devastation, to cushion the fall without preconception.

The book written as a  Psychological Thriller is foremost about the darker side of the human motivation, identity, honesty, determinism, fatalism, sanity, and duplicity. It’s the story of many thousands of people who have lost their clarity, their presence to Emotional Abuse.

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‘Why did I fall so hard? Why did I make myself so vulnerable to him?’

emotional-abuse

The Psychological Abuse I experienced is the nemesis of my book. I also write a blog and write opinion pieces on emotional abuse. Below is a piece published in The Journal.ie in the light of the legislation on why making Coercive Control a criminal offense in Ireland is so Significant.


The French criminalized “psychological violence” as have the British and now Ireland has joined ranks with the passage of the Domestic Violence Bill 2017 through the Houses of the Oireachtas to include coercive control” within intimate relationships as a crime. This has to be one of the most significant pieces of legislation to come before the Oireachtas this year.

Coercive control is often talked about as if it is a mild form of domestic violence, which is a mistake. Emotional abuse is devastating and can often be more traumatic than physical wounds. Bruises and broken bones eventually heal and may leave scars, but emotional trauma stays with you and shapes who you are as a person. It leaves an indelible injury, one that is not as visible, but physically affects and damages the brain.

The Department of Justice released a press release in which they state “The new offense of coercive control sends a clear, consistent message that non-violent control in an intimate relationship is criminal. The effect of such behavior may be as harmful to victims as physical abuse because it is an abuse of the unique trust associated with an intimate relationship.”

Coercive control creates the psychological conditions that allow abusive relationships to exist and to escalate often with devasting and in some cases fatal consequences. It is, in fact, the foundation stone on which abusive relationships are built. If a someone hit you, you wouldn’t go home with them however the nature of emotional abuse is that victim does not know it’s happening to them until they are stuck under the thumb of the abuser in a surreal existence.

I was one of those who suffered this form of mental violence, and it ravaged my life. What I remember most about emotional abuse is that it felt like I was in a tumble dry cycle; – hurled around, hitting against the sides of the drum, erratically lacerated, mangled, being knocked and jolted about some more, not knowing how bloody long the cycle would continue for or where the next blow would come from. Then suddenly, intermittently, the cycle stops. I would curl up, become smaller, quieter, detach from my feelings, eliminate people and interest from my life in an attempt to slow down the drum roll, to ease the pain of the abuse. But no matter what I did, it never stopped. And with the end of the relationship, the persecution intensified. This is a common trait amongst abuser. They become even more vindictive and offensive when their victim attempts to leave or fight back. That is why this bill is so important it offers a safe place in which to take the perpetrator to task on the abuse.

The ponderous thought that remains with me is why. Why did I doggedly trust and believe him? Why did I get sucked in so deeply? Why did I fall so hard? Why did I make myself so vulnerable to him? But that’s the trick of the abuser. You don’t see or feel that your brain is being punched and battered, however, had I been physically boxed or hit I would have understood the abuse and would have run from him as fast as I could.

It was 2012, and without any legal recourse at that stage, the essence of my healing – my validation – was to write a blog about my experience. I saw my reality reflected in other women who emerged from the depths of such darkness. Seeing myself in their stories and without any legal recourse available, it allowed me to name my experience as an emotionally abused woman. Psychological violence is hard to define and hard to police, but this piece of legislation removes the ambiguity of this form of abuse and firmly recognizes it as damaging and dangerous. Identifying psychological abuse as a crime makes this is a powerful piece of legislation, in advancing women’s rights, and indeed the rights of anyone suffering from domestic violence.

Patricia Tsouros writes a blog on emotional abuse to inform and help families, and friends to understand the complexities of such a relationship, the trauma victims suffer and provide an insight to better help and support the victim.

It’s a Rap is my story of emotional abuse.

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Before

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Before

Looking back, can anyone ever find the moment their world turned? The minute, the second – even, when the time before tips over into the time after, and you realize that even though you didn’t see it then, everything has begun to go irrevocably, disintegratingly wrong? Thinking about Chris and me, I can’t help but wonder if that moment isn’t usually when the sun is shining at its brightest and when you seem to hold life like a glowing ball of possibility in the cup of your hands.

If you had seen me that August, in that Ibizan Villa, perched on a hill above its own private rocky cove, there for six weeks to relax with my husband, Cian, and our friends, you’d have imagined my life was perfect. And in truth, perhaps I’d thought so too. I relished my morning swims, before the others had opened their eyes, usually gritty from late night wine, and ignoring Cian’s requests to be careful out there on my own. Frequently ignoring my own cut feet too – the rocks were sharp, but the ocean always more exhilarating in that place.

At that time of day, the sea would seem to belong to me, and I would revel in it, hearing the sounds of distant traffic muted against the notes of wind and water, and losing myself in the changing shades of blue, turquoise, deep green and grey until sometimes I thought I might dissolve too, lose my body. That usually signaled something in me, telling me it was enough, and then, carefully timing my exit against the dash of the waves on the rocks, I would slide myself out, and climb back up to the terrace for my morning latte.

“She’ll never be told,” my husband, Cian, would say to our friends, different couples from our set, who would come and go over the summer. “What will we do with her?” Sometimes I felt like answering him, and sometimes, as a result, epic fights would ensue. But other times I would fight the urge to break the morning’s peace with the observation that there was nothing to be done with me, that my life wasn’t his to tell. But to be truly honest, I didn’t know either, because beneath my tan, and behind the veneer of my various bikinis in every color under the sun, the sheer evening kaftans, the condensation clustered light evening glasses of ice-cold rosé in expensive marina bars, I was well and truly bored.

That morning, I padded up the steps, leaving a trail of fast-disappearing salty footprints, evaporating in the morning sun. The villa was quiet, everyone still sleeping, abandoned glasses and overflowing ashtrays on the terrace testament to the night before. They seemed jarringly unclean against the freshness of the delicate pink bougainvillea, which grew over a trellis to drop confetti petals on the surface of the pool. Why do we always end up making everything we touch dirty? I wondered, starting to clear up.

It hadn’t taken long for that bite of boredom to catch at me. I had only been back in Ibiza for two weeks, only just settled down into the relaxed rhythms of the holiday island after the fractured strain of what seemed like the last days of the Candidate’s broken campaign in Ireland.

None of us had seen it coming. There were tensions amongst us volunteers – all working to make our candidate the first openly gay President of Ireland, that’s undoubtedly inevitable, but we were drawn together in our belief in this human rights campaigner, a larger than life hero.

And it was going well. Public support was high, the poll ratings were up, and financial pledges rolling in. My role as fundraiser seemed almost easy, I knew all the right people, and they were keen to contribute, wanting to be part of the history we felt we were making. I told a good story, but the story was there anyway – we were backing a maverick, and the public loved it. I made promises, depending on what people needed to hear, knowing the value of being at the heart of things. Then, rumors emerged, like little wisps of mist at first, then thickening smokily, turned into flame with speculative newspaper articles. Mutterings became accusations. Were certain letters written by the Candidate in existence? Could he confirm their content? Would he like to make a comment: come on Sir, the public have a right to know… In the absence of clear fact, the story grew, and in the first days of August, the Candidate withdrew from the race. Quoting Beckett, it may have been his finest hour: Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. Listening to him then, his rich voice rolling the words around the crowd, an instinctive orator, a born performer, I wanted to weep.

I stood beside the campaign manager, outside of the range of the pointing, thickly clustered cameras, and microphones, I wondered if the rumor mongers, the scandal merchants, the tabloid columnists felt any twinge of regret about what they had done. The campaign had felt like it was ours to lose and yet they had created what appeared to be Everything out of the hint of what wasn’t even quite Something. A few words knitted together to weave an implication, a few implications intensifying into innuendo. In the process they had orchestrated the Candidate’s downfall in the name of news, playing with lives to get their story. I wondered angrily who they’d go for next.

“Come back to Ibiza,” said Cian, when I told him on the phone. “You don’t need to be there. Alex and May have just arrived, and the Whites fly in on Thursday. Everything can be done from here,” he added when I demurred, mentioning the loose ends that needed to be tied up, people who should be thanked, books that had to be balanced.

“You don’t quit just because it’s over,” I said. “Well, don’t quit here, with us,” he said. “I worry about you.” And so I went, and now, two weeks later, here I was, in the bright, sleekly modernist living area of our luxury villa, surrounded by the debris of everyone else’s night before, and suddenly jolted out of my reverie by the sound of my ringing phone. I ignored it.

And yet there was still that boredom. The phone rang again. Something told me to avoid it, so instead, I walked up the steps from the lounge area to the chic and sleek kitchen, where nothing seemed to work correctly, and every appliance came with far more switches and dials than must have been strictly necessary. I poked at various buttons on the impossibly complicated coffee maker.

“Will somebody get that bloody phone?” yelled a voice, dense with sleep and irritation, from down the bedroom corridor. That would be Alex, our latest guest who, by day four had already overstayed his welcome, as far as I was concerned. Cian liked him though, and so while I contemplated letting it ring some more, just to annoy him, I decided against precipitating a day of veiled remarks from Alex, coupled with plaintive looks from Cian. Usually, I’m not one to shirk a scene, but we’d had one just last, although for the life of me I can’t remember what had kicked it off. Keen, for once, to keep the peace, I went to ferret the phone out of my bag.

“Kim? It’s me. Can you talk?”

There was something about Brian O’Neill that had always made me impatient. Slight, with delicate features that made him appear younger than he actually was, he had blondish hair inclining to red, thinning-ish at the temples. Everything about him was ‘ish,’ and he wore suits that didn’t quite match his aspirations. He was cocky with no substance, a fast talker with little to say, inexperienced in politics yet utterly convinced of the rightness of his opinions. Was he entirely to blame for what had happened? A sense of fairness made me admit that there were others at fault, and yet he was the kind of man that blame seemed to want to zero in on and attach itself to.

I sighed, tucking the phone between shoulder and ear, prepared to half-listen while I tamped coffee into the metal holder, wedging it into place. I certainly couldn’t handle Brian without, at least, a latte.

“The Candidate is thinking of making a comeback.” That caught my attention. I put the spoon down and walked back out to the terrace. “I couldn’t let it go,” he said. “I knew I could bring him in again. I commissioned a couple of polls, we’ve been collecting signatures, there’s massive public support. Ten thousand people have signed, they want him. Kim, they want us back.” Somehow I wondered if it had indeed been Brian who had made this happen. Maybe it had, I knew the campaign had quickly become his whole life, and his devotion to the Candidate had come to border on the foolish, like an adoring puppy keen to please. Brian had a wife to whom he seldom alluded, and who we never saw. I got the impression he had married her before his ambitions had made him grow, in his own mind at least, but sometimes, when I caught a glimpse of one of his glances thrown in the Candidate’s direction, it looked a lot like love.

As I listened to Brian’s renewed enthusiasm, the shoreline and sea in front of me seemed to dissolve, and I had the strange impression of being out of my body, transported back to Dublin, even the scent and substance of the air around me somehow changed to incorporate exhaust fumes, city dust, the urgency of hundreds of thousands of people making space for their separate lives within its confines. Part of the reason I had been keen to come to Ibiza for so long had been to escape entirely, from all that dirt and noise, and from the incessant badgering of people, both in politics and the press, who had wanted the inside scoop on what had gone wrong with the Candidate and his campaign. Yes, I had been right inside, but no, I wasn’t going to dish the dirt, not then. “So can you?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I apologized. His words had run through my head without stopping to be heard, and I dragged my attention back.

“Can you be here tomorrow? We’re meeting. At the Candidate’s house…” Even the way he said that made it seem like a special treat, a school outing to some place of magical importance. “He wants you there. I want you there,” at that his voice dropped a little, a note of anxiety creeping in. “There’s a new PR guy, the Candidate’s brought him in. I don’t like him. Please come, I need you there.”

“Who was that?” Cian asked, emerging onto the terrace, wearing a white toweling bathrobe and holding a perfectly made foamy latte out for me, last night evidently officially forgotten. Even after two decades of marriage, I was frequently surprised by how handsome my husband was. Tall and dark, with green eyes and a habitually intense expression, he had the build of a rugby player – the game was one of his passions – and a schoolboy sense of humor that I rather liked. He had been only the second significant relationship in my life, he made me feel cared for, looked after. Every morning that we had lived together he had brought me a cup of tea in bed. It didn’t matter whether we had ended the evening in companionable calm, or whether I had been ranting and raving over something that had driven me and my Greek temper mad, or whether he had been out on the tiles with his friends; he was always solicitous of me, sometimes to the point where I wondered how capable I would be without him. And he hadn’t made love to me for more than ten years.

“Brian. I need to book a flight.” His face fell. But if there’s anything that twenty years of marriage can teach you, it’s when to back down. I went along with Cian’s plans in many things, usually because they tend to chime with my own, but I have a look that I keep in reserve, it’s the one that says: don’t argue with me on this one. It goes a step beyond determination, and it came out now. He was about to speak, thought better of it, put my coffee down on the terrace table, and went back inside exuding his thankfully silent disapproval. When we were first together, our fights were wild and explosive, and, if I’m honest, I found them rather thrilling. Now he mainly didn’t bother. I would still push his buttons to see if I could ignite something, but just as often I didn’t bother, and neither did he.

So the next morning found me back in Dublin, alone in the tall townhouse Cian and I had shared for most of our married life, its walls somehow stiller without the bustling presence of our two dogs, fluffy Shih Tzus, little hurricanes of energy, who ruled our lives and were my major love, Cian’s too perhaps. They were currently presiding over my parent’s house, it had been too late to pick them up when I’d got back in, and to be honest, I didn’t see myself staying too long. Check out the new PR guy, placate Brian, see the Candidate, and then bow out gracefully had been my plan.

But that was before I saw Chris Kennedy.


Please follow the blog for latest on book release and special launch offer.

My Blog to Book is about completed. It’s been hard getting here. I have left behind the person that I once was, I have changed from the person I once knew,
I’ve wasted days and nights on rotten love.
I’ve traded happiness for sad, and trust for paranoia. But I believe as I complete my pilgrimage it will come right again. This is the story of emotional abuse as a psychological thriller.

 

It Stays

Bleary, shoulder muscle knots, fading energy. Five solid hours of editing my blog to book as the new year closes in are taking their toll on my mind and my body.  I am drifting in and out of focus, trying hard to give the editor what she wants. I am alone, only with my computer open to the screen of blog texts. My blog writings at the time took on the rawness of the abuse I felt from the impetuously unhealthy relationship with Paul Allen. Now connecting the dots, the storyline from bits of canvases and secrets—the deep-rooted scar in my brain seeps open and bleeds through my veins.  The reflections are chaotically painful just like the time spent with Paul, raising feelings of helplessness, despair, humiliation, loneliness, fear; sensations erotically blended with sensuality. That mental ache is the indelible scar left by emotional abuse, the legacy of Paul Allen’s ‘Love.’  I live in the long shadow of the trauma once again centered in my life through writing the book.  I placed my soul at Paul’s feet, and he kicked me so hard with his emotional games I landed in an open grave.

I am floating into 2018 with the abuse scar ripped open in the obscurity of the script.  As I edit and pull the blogs together for the book, the venting of emotions appears a little too messy, embarrassing or potent to give voice to everyday life.  But then my writing about my time with Paul is not conventional,  and the exposer was always risky especially my endeavor to write in a frenzy of consciousness, with little or no idea of where it was going.  I lay open to rejection, ridicule and, or angry retort.   I was more in fear of the mentally painful and destructive fall out I suffered at the hands of Paul than how people would respond to my writing. When I confronted his deepest secret, (something I now believe I unconsciously did to free myself), Paul cut off all contact,  insidiously representing me as unhinged, a casual date, a stalker and a liar.  I was slowly being engulfed in flames by the igniting fire and brimstone, and my instinct for survival made me realize that unless he were crushed the blaze would never go out.

My greatest wish for 2018 is that the completion of the book and it’s publication will plug the wound once and for all, will bring me to a different place in my life. But then I wonder will I ever be  totally free from the pain:

You sank your teeth inside of me.

It was erratically painful,

I conformed to the pain.

Your Venom,

Slowly naturalizing itself with my blood,

Now they flow together in my veins.

Then you let go and slithered away,

But,

Your Venom,

It was planted, it stayed.

Athens Summer 2012

Paul Allen and Patricia Tsouros- Athens, Greece

 

Eventide Love #10/1 – Dark Wildness

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I kissed him like he was my God, and I his protector. I kissed him with a desperate, dark wildness. I kissed him hard with my tongue, my teeth in utter abandonment. A storm built in both of us as he laid siege to my desire, his hands sliding down my body, clasping my ass, entering me with a savage drive. At that moment we became lost in our universe as two uncomplicated fucking beasts. In that flash instant, he intoxicated me in a frenzied desire for his sheer physical strength, for his passion, for his stimulation, my life fueled by his breath. I convulsed from the savagery of his kisses, his fucking, penetrating with callous intent and right then I knew I could never be without this man in my life. My intellect captured, frenzied lust exploding as he pummelled me I clung on fucking him as if my life depended on it. It was the one fuck of a lot of fucks.

What I did not know then is that my life would become depending on his fucking me. In my longing for the euphoria that his passion leads me to, I gave him every piece of myself, every thought, every dream, every fear, my sheer physical strength, my soul. And with the bones of my life exposed to his carnal desires, no longer protected by skin, my life in the heart beat of the craving disintegrated like a rotting skeleton. He was hard and skillful and persistent and had a mortal heart. Even with all my super powers, I was never going to survive his prowling presence.

Eventide Love #10

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London
6.15pm

I am in a black hole my life moving slower and slower through time as I approach the phone, pick it up and start to dial the number. Transit through time as I have come to live it will halt, as my horizon fades completely from view torn and crushed.

The constant fear and muddled emotions like a blue frost caught me. As ‘She’ answered “hello, hello’ I freeze, dropping the receiver. Maybe I could wait until tomorrow, hold on to another day with Chris. I am desperate for him not to contradict me, not to swear ‘She’ does not exist but admit that the ‘non-entity’ as he describes her is in fact, his constant companion. At least then he would show me a gleamer of truth, of honest love.

I am frantic not to believe I am paranoid and crazy as he insists. Like some supernatural presence, I can sense ‘Her‘ being in his life, in our life. I am struggling to surface from a limited perspective of my one-dimensional life with Chris. My life is falling apart; I am fading like a dying bulb into darkness. I am terrified of the future without Chris but even more terrified of my life with him.

My constant knot of anxiety tightens, wrenching my gut, retching I rush into the bathroom, grab hold of the sink, turn on the tap and splash water on my face in an attempt calm myself down. My body is shaking uncontrollably. I lean against the cold stone of the basin and slowly raise my face to the mirror. I appear opaque. A dark shadow of myself. Suddenly, terror-struck at the ruthless solitude of my situation. My body swooned as I realised that no food had passed my lips all day, I was weak, tired and sick. My mind filled with one thought. Oh my God, Chris was a plotting profligate–a base and low rake who had been simulating undying love, to draw me into a snare he deliberately laid to strip me of my dignity, rob me of my self- respect and capture my life. A sharp pain in my chest caught my breath, and I struggled for air. He swore to me that ‘She’ was not his partner, that I was paranoid, jealous and ridiculous. I now know my time is limited and that exposing him and his lies are the only thing that will save me. But I am not ready for this right now. I know deep down that the moment will come, in which I will make that call that will explode my life.

7pm

I look all around, the darkness shrinking in and the sidewalk trees standing over me like an army of guards. The Skyscrapers like a jungle shielding the tears falling from the sky. The city is not just buildings and people. It feels like a battlefield of my losing fight.

For a second I wonder should I just give in. But then my mobile rings, and it’s Chris. I find myself off balance for a moment, and then my mind instinctively shifts back to the present moment. I answer the call.

“Hi, How are you? I miss you. I hate you being in London and me all alone in Dublin” he bellows sounding full of the joys of life.

“I am okay darling.” I gasp. I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “I am walking to the Frieze Art Fair opening. It’s lashing, can I call you when I get into a dry, quiet place.”

“Okay, but make it quick. Don’t keep me waiting. I want to talk to you. Love you loads.” and Chris hung up.

A frigid gust of wind sweeps up; I wrap my jacket tightly around me as I quicken my step to Regents Park where Frieze Art Fair is based.


This is story of Eventide Love.

We are on the way with Eventide Love; blog to book. A factual fiction, psychological, erotic thriller based on the Presidential Election set in Ireland 2011/2012.

If you would like to receive a book launch offer especially for all of you as loyal followers and fans, please register below. Your details will not be shared. I am wracked with doubts and insecurity about my writing but am lucky to have a wonderful editor, Amy Scott, holding my hand.

Meet the Author

Eventide Love #9/1

 

Symptoms-of-Drug-Addiction-AOur Romantic attraction was like some mysterious chemistry, a storm of electrified senses that overcame us. Our vision one off loveliness or hunkiness standing near. Flutters erupted in the belly. The heartbeat quickened. Adrenaline rushed to the bloodstream. Hallucinogenic feelings of intoxication drenched the brain. During opening stages of our romance and subsequent passion, the brain was awash in drug-like chemicals. It was a natural high, and like drugs, the feeling became addictive.

My drive for love, for closeness caused me to become a junkie, to make bad choices and impede my ability to move away from the “amphetamine-like high” of the beginning of our romance. Eventually, I was plunged into gut-wrenching despair, this rocketing from the high and lows of my craving for Chris, who fed and starved my addiction.

The wild, mercurial relationship shackled me to an opiate-like anxiety. I was living on the edge of life. I longed for serenity, for the harmonious security of attachment.  I was so stuck in the addiction I did not sense that Chris’s developing ambivalent attitude to our relationship, to my addiction, was killing me, and he was on a high from my slow destruction.

This is story of Eventide Love.


We are on the way with Eventide Love; blog to book. A factual fiction, psychological, erotic thriller based on the Presidential Election set in Ireland 2011/2012.

If you would like to receive a book launch offer especially for all of you as loyal followers and fans, please register below. Your details will not be shared. I am wracked with doubts and insecurity about my writing but am lucky to have a wonderful editor, Amy Scott, holding my hand.

Meet The Author

Eventide Love #9

It was Sunday morning, and we had arrived back from Athens, Greece only a few days earlier. We were still in the hedonism of our trip, irresistibly passionate with each other.

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He grabbed my hip and lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist. I leaned down and pressed my mouth to his. His tongue plunged in, and then he was walking toward the bed, every step moving me against his crotch and we fell onto the sheets in a tangle. As he kissed me deeply, my fingers unsnapped each button slowly feeling his torso against my skin, suddenly Chris jerked up and urgently ripped off his crisp, pin stripped shirt. He clasped the back of my head and pulled me up to his face. I felt his lips like silk on my jaw, caressing over my neck as I arched my back and pressed myself against him, wrapping my arms around the tight muscles of his back. His lips paused at my neck and then trailed lower. I sucked in my breath in the ecstasy of his lips and tongue played with one nipple and then my other. Arching into him, silently begging him, I grabbed his neck, his teeth scratching my nipples pulled my legs up around his waist, I could feel the hard length of him against me, I shuddered, my limbs shaking. I involuntarily flung my head back with anticipation as his weight shifted as he moved his hand down to my clit his fingers edging my clit. I pressed myself against him crying out for his touch as he fingers continued to torment me.

“Chris,” I begged. “Please.”

“What babe? Tell me?”

“You know,” I said my back arching tighter against his fingers.

“Beg me, baby,” He whispered

“Ohhh please, fuck me. Just fuck me.”

With every fiber of my being, I was aching to explode, to celebrate and relish the electricity of our intense emotional release. He slid his finger deep and hard inside me, and my hips jerked, a load cry tore from my throat.

“You’re so hot.” He softly moaned.

He moved me to my side and curled his body behind mine, his finger acutely moving in and out in a precise rhythm that sent my blood flowing like quicksilver in my veins. His other arm cradled my neck against his shoulder as he free hand reached out and stroked my breasts, pinching my nipples hard between his fingers. Moaning, I laid my hand over his finger pressing inside me and rocked against him as he slowly slid another finger inside. I sank my teeth into his biceps muffling my scream, and fiercely rode the waves of pleasure, reaching, always reaching for something not yet attainable.

“No, not yet,” he groaned and slid his fingers from me, their wetness trailing across my stomach. I trembled as he pulled me stretching me onto my back and lurched over me his long muscles rigid his cock hard, I reached out, and my hand caressed the length of his shaft then and cupped his throbbing cock in my hand. He was magnificent. I sucked in my breath as he grabbed by wrists pushing them up over my head spilling over the pillows. He growled as he moved down on me, stalking me like the predator he moved with liquid grace to rest between my thighs, his eyes never once diverting from mine. His breath was hot and fleshy against my face as he mercilessly drove into me. The tension in my body mounting, I began to move faster, more frantic against him, convulsed, by his cock pounding harder and harder into me.

“I am coming, come with me,” He muttered, his face bursting in exhalation as he erupted like hot lava inside me, seizing my body which surged with each wave of pleasure again and again until finally, our bodies quieted into a gentle all-over trembling.

“Am I too heavy for you?” Chris asked as he lay stretched out on my body his head balanced on my shoulder.

“It’s okay for a few minutes.” I purred and planted tiny kisses on his forehead. After a few minutes, Chris rolled off me, and we lay on our backs still and silent lost in the fervor of the last few days. Suddenly jerking me from my restfulness, Chris grabbed my face and forced me to look at him.

“I want you, here with me.” Unstirring, his eyes piercing he whispered. “I don’t want you with Cian anymore. I don’t like it. You know there is no other way. You have to leave him.”

“Let’s not talk about it now Chris, please. He is away for the next few days, and I am all yours.” While a thrill of pleasure coursed through me at his ferocity, his desire for me, there were still doubts clouding my thoughts. There were questions about the future that he and I needed to resolve. Questions he always deflected.
Both of us exhausted from the fervor of our intense yearning for each other; we fell asleep our bodies wrapped together perfectly as one.


Eventide Love #9/1 to be published on  Friday 19 Feb 2016.


Eventide: We are on the way with Eventide Love; blog to book. A factual fiction, political, psychological, erotic thriller set in Ireland 2011/2012.

If you would like to receive a book launch offer especially for all of you as loyal followers and fans, please register below. Your details will not be shared.

Eventide Love: 2015 in review

About  On The Edge Blog.

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 20,000 times in 2015. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 7 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Eventide Love #8/6

Friday Oct 28

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I opened my eyes slowly, waking to the sound of the radio in the background and the pungent smell of coffee in the air. I felt a deep peacefulness, a happiness that engulfed me. It was the morning of the count, and the tallies were being discussed on the radio. I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs. As my bare feet hit the cold tiled floor of the kitchen, it sent a shiver up my body. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of Chris, freshly shaved and dressed with his tie hanging loosely around his neck. I loved seeing him in these private moments of getting ready before he presented his smartly dressed persona to the outside world. These were the moments that grabbed my heart, that made us feel real. His eyes moved from my face to my toes, taking in my naked torso, and back up to my face. As I came closer, his face was impassive but his eyes were full of warmth and desire. I wondered if he felt the same way about seeing me getting ready for the day. Probably not; Chris loved sex in the morning, so he probably just saw ‘hot.’ Wrapping my fingers around his wrist, I led his hand around to the under curve of my buttocks.

A smile teased the corners of his lips, “And good morning to you, beautiful.” He gave me a quick slap against my thigh. I jumped at the sting and gasped as warmth radiated on the spot. “Hmmmm, you like that,” he smirked.

Chris shifted to lean back against the breakfast counter and pulled me between his spread legs, both his hands lightly gripping the back of my thighs. He nuzzled his nose against my forehead, passionately whispering, “I think you like pain.”

He slapped me on the other thigh harder than the first one and the sending a burning pain through me causing me to jump and dip into his statuesque form.

“Stop, darling,” I moaned.

“I can feel it. It’s turning you on,” he murmured in my ear. “Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?” His fingers slipped between my thighs, touching my clit, casually rubbing it. “God, what you do to me,” he said.

“What do I do to you?’ I breathed heavily.

“I just look at you and you turn me on.”

He smelt good, felt even better. I wrapped around him then started to disengage. “I guess I have to get ready for the count center,” I said, my reason taking over from my longing.

He yanked me up on my tippy toes, grinding me against his hard-on. Pulling on his tie, I put my open mouth on his and devoured him, my tongue wrapping around his, stroking it liberally, sucking it hard. Chris swiped my hair into a ponytail, holding me in place, taking over the kiss. It felt like he was fucking my mouth, drinking me in. A heat surged through me, my skin grew humid with perspiration. His lips soft and firm against mine, his grip angling me the way he wanted, his teeth scraped gently across my bottom lip. We could not get enough of each other. We were addicted to each other. The taste of him slightly tinged with coffee intoxicated me. I clutched his hair in my hands, holding on tight, my toes flexing to push me closer. Always wanting to get closer, never close enough. We were interrupted by Chris’s mobile. It rang once and when he ignored it, it rang again.

“Sorry, cupcake, it’s an important day. I better take the call.” He leaned back, grabbing the mobile from the counter. “Good morning, Joe,” he answered, his attention shifting. I left him with a quick kiss on his shoulder and went up to prepare for what was to be a very long day.

This was my first visit in years to Dublin Castle, which had been at the heart of Irish history for more than 800 years. A commanding building, it was built in the 13th century on a site previously settled by the Vikings, on a high ridge on the south side of the River Liffey, in the heart of the city. It functioned as a military fortress, a prison, treasury, courts of law and the seat of English Administration in Ireland for 700 years, and was now used for important State receptions and presidential inaugurations.

My last visit was when I worked for the Irish Presidency in 1989–1990, before I started my fashion business. It was a particularly important presidency, as it followed the collapse of the Berlin Wall, and the Irish Presidency held two major EU summits at Dublin Castle, at which the EU welcomed German reunification.

That was the one job I loved more than any other. I often got pangs of regret that I did not follow a career in EU politics. I had maneuvered and mixed with the dignitaries effortlessly, a testament to my life growing up as a diplomat’s daughter. It taught me to understand the varying nuances in different cultures. It gave me a confidence to mix in political, diplomatic senarios. They were long days, but very fulfilling.

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This time, there was a massive media presence as we approached the venue at which the election counts from county to county were announced. Large broadcast vans, preparing for the day’s evolving events, were parked against the grandeur of the castle’s facade. Chris had organized our accreditation, which allowed us into the venue. We collected our badges at the entrance to the purpose-built conference center and then shuffled through tight security.

It was hard to believe it only took six weeks and four days to arrive at this day. So many of the emotions of life lived out in such a short time period. I looked around the large ugly room hosting the count; it defied the grandeur of the architecture that the rest of the buildings on the site boasted. The room was shrouded in red curtains and lit with harsh florescent lighting. Low-hanging tubular steel encasements holding wiring ran across the ceiling. Trestle tables were laid out in orderly rows along one side of the room, all hooked up to the Internet, allowing the press and staff of the candidates to access and share information instantly. Two large stages dominated either end of the room—one to facilitate TV crews for interviews, and the one at the back to announce the count details. The place was heaving, the air filled with anticipation. The rivalry over, the campaign teams were now mixing and chatting nervously.

The campaign had taken its toll. I was sick of the bickering, of the Candidate’s lack of control and professionalism. In my gut, I knew he did not stand a chance of winning. Actually, it wasn’t just my gut feeling; it was a considered opinion based on the factual assessments of the Candidate’s campaign performance, which had been dismal. What I knew in my gut was that he should not be president.

I left Chris alone with Joe so they could get on with the last day of their jobs, talking to the press monitoring the tally count. The boxes from which the ballot papers would be counted were in forty-three centers around the country. The results to be announced were then relayed from this venue. The polling experts had a knack of being able to assess the likely official outcome, and their count estimation was the first to break on the news and social media feeds. The voting turnout was low, not boding well in particular for the Candidate, because it indicated that he did not succeed in mobilizing the gay community and social groups to vote. The Candidate was at Simmonscourt Dublin count center, posting tweets of the boxes opening, thanking everyone for their support. At 11.25 am, I noticed Chris looking around and realized he was looking for me.

“He is out of the running,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Wow, that was quick,” I replied, with slight disbelief that he knew so quickly.

“Yeah, the tally looks bad, Higgins is going to get it. Exactly what we thought.”

“Do you know what, Chris? All I can say is thank god. He would have been a disaster of a president.”

“Yeah, you’re right. He is going on Newstalk now to concede and wish Higgins all the best.”

“What do we do now?”

“We show solidarity and stay here until the official count is announced. That won’t be till later today. The Candidate will have to come over for it.”

“Oh, okay. Well, maybe we can grab a coffee?”

“Just give it a little while. Colette Fitzpatrick wants to interview me along with Seinn Fein’s Mary Lou, so I have to hang around for that.”

“Chris, I thought after last’s night appearance on RTE talking about our campaing you were told by the Candidate not to do any more official interviews or comments on behalf of the campaign.”

“Fuck them.”

I laughed. He was right. “Fuck them.”

It had been a tumultuous few weeks. The Candidate started at the top of the polls with 21%. The support had dropped dramatically each week, until he finally headed into election day with a dismal 8%. Unsurprisingly, the Candidate ended up with only 109,469 first preference votes at 6.2%, finishing fifth of the seven candidates. The voting percentage was disastrous for him. It did not qualify him to receive the €250,000 rebate against campaign expenses. One big disadvantage with Cathal hijacking the campaign was a lack of financial transparency. However, I reckoned it had to be in excess of €300,000 spent, with only €20,000 raised. I didn’t feel sorry for the Candidate at that moment, though. He enabled the chaos. He would not speak to me or trust me, the only one other than Brian who had no agenda. I tried to support him and he fervently rejected the help. His arrogance became his Achilles heel. His intuition proved resistant to the brilliant rationale evidenced in his Senate debates. It’s like bacteria outwitting an antibacterial agent. The man I thought I knew exposed a mercurial nature as integral to him as his name and date of birth.

Hours later, we faced the result. All the team arrived at Dublin Castle at around 7.30 pm, along with the Candidate, for the first count. There was huge anticipation in the air. The man who had magnanimously offered the Candidate the Dublin City Council endorsement would be announced as the new President of Ireland later in the night.

As events were dragging out and the counts coming in slowly, meant it was going to be along night, we decided to go for a break from the venue. It offered no facilities, no coffee docks, no food, and the Wi-Fi was temperamental. Chris, Joe and I attempted to sneak out and grab a drink and a quick bite to eat. Looking straight ahead, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye, we promptly made our way to the exit. Suddenly, a shoulder hit hard against mine, knocking me. As Joe steadied me, I swiveled around to glare at Cathal. He locked on to my eyes, menacingly, pressing his body up to me.

“Tip me and I am calling the police,” I warned him, not disturbed by his behaviour.

Joe immediately stepped in, taking my elbow and leading me away from Cathal as I strained my head, watching him. When we arrived outside, Chris was waiting, agitated. “What happened to the two of you?”

“You won’t believe it. That crazy guy Cathal just knocked into me. Seriously, he is crazy.”

Chris put his arms around my shoulder, hugging me close to him. “Are you okay?”

“Thanks, darling. He certainly does not frighten me.”

It was a heady night. The full drama of the election played out on a podium rising high above the floor. At 1 am exactly, Higgins was announced as president, and the final line of the final chapter on the campaign was completed


We are on the way with Eventide Love; blog to book. A factual fiction, political, psychological, erotic thriller set in Ireland 2011/2012

If you would like to receive a book launch offer especially for all of you as loyal followers and fans, please register below. Your details will not be shared. PROMISE. I am wracked with doubts and insecurity about my writing but am lucky to have a wonderful editor, Amy Scott, holding my hand.

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