Thursday, 28 June 2012

Higgins and Eliza (part three)

Alicante  June '82.

The heat was the first thing to hit me in Alicante. Breathing in hot air . . . it just felt wrong. I'd been told it would be hot but I didn't expect the air to be hot. I'd never left England before. O well Higgins knew what he was doing; he was in control of the situation, in his element. That was fine by me . . . until I realised his having control was a necessity. He carried on as if he were at home, except in Spanish, of course; very loud Spanish at that. We were tired and hot. Until now, I'd never seen Higgins having to deal with "real life", only lazy evenings. I couldn't see why he was so stressed . . .

Three hours later we were still dragging our suitcases around the cheap pensions of Alicante. Everywhere was completo; it was the eve of some music fiesta. When wasn't it? Higgins was irritable; he'd peaked at ten O'clock that morning on the train down to London. A bottle of  Courvoisier and a dictaphone had kept him and a few other passengers amused; mostly him. Acting out some kind of interview with me, or rather without me. I was way too shy and embarrassed to play the part. Some parts I could play, some parts were easier than others. And I wasn't on the Brandy. Yet.

I sat with the luggage whilst he went off alone to find somewhere for us to stay. I wasn't bothered . . . I didn't know any fear, I just sat and waited . . . I was intrigued to see somewhere so un-English. I was fascinated by the language, their clothes, every little difference. Darker skin contrasted with light green and blue eyes, colourful clothes, warm smiles and a warm breeze, just what I needed. I'd never fitted in England, maybe I would fit in here . . .
We finally crashed in some grotty pension with huge windows and a big bed. Across the courtyard, a classical pianist played for hours on end. I wasn't to know how much I would come to love, and then dread that music.  . . . A soundtrack to this room.

Higgins had a contact in Alicante, I never got to meet this contact but within a few days of us arriving, a few meetings and I dare say a few bottles of  Brandy with this "buffoon" they had fallen out. I suspect that it was a control issue  . . .
"Don't worry Twiddle, I have a plan . . . We don't need his vulgar hotel and contacts . . . His so called protection . . . The man is a no more than a crook, a fat crook. A simpleton."
Maybe it was a money issue. Money and control. Power.
Higgins did have a plan. Why should we pay a middle man, he could soon find contacts . . . keep it simple.


Higgins would disappear most afternoons, searching for property for "The Old Thing" . . . That was all good with me, I enjoyed sunbathing on our balcony, sometimes going down to the beach where I gradually sidled along into the company of a group of Gitanes. They gathered there every day underneath a huge canvas, supported at each corner by a long pole. Perhaps they lived there. To say they played guitars and sang would just not cover it. They put their entire bodies and souls into every single sound. Music came from everywhere; hands, fingers, feet and souls. . . This was special. Raw and special. I just listened. I sort of wished I had my bodhran with me, but I wouldn't have played it anyway. I suddenly missed Silverhip. I recognised the music from somewhere . . . I trusted these people.

We would meet at one of our favourite restaurants every evening and the game would begin. It wasn't difficult to find someone out there looking for "fun" . . . Expensive fun. Simple. There were the odd occasions when it worked out just fine . . . for me. Just wrong enough. Most of the "just fines" were one-off tourists, heading back home in a few days. The "just fines" did nothing at all for Higgins. Vile mediocrity. Naturally, Higgins selected the regular contacts, who could come back, who excelled on the casting couch . . . There was a common theme. Sadism. Abuse. Fun and games indeed. O, I soon learned how to act . . . role play was high on Higgins' agenda. All sorts of twisted, weird and varied role play. Always involving a degree of pain.

On and on went the "fun" night after night. Only ever one person per night, that could range from half an hour to two hours. I decided I did like wine after all, white wine, maybe I would have liked any wine. I even began to enjoy a swig of Brandy at bed time, sleep time.
I did wonder where all of this was going . . . I knew that it wasn't about the money for sure. Yes, certain scenarios assured that we were both sexually satisfied; let's remember he was forty nine and impotent, I was nineteen and bonkers. He enjoyed the psychology of controlling sex and pain; the madness of the obedience. The high of the power. There was much more to this than I could fathom. I never did see where the fun was in it . . . Fun? That had always been the wrong word for me. I associated fun with laughter. Shit, I thought Silverhip was mad when he laughed once during sex. . . . I didn't mix sex and laughter. To me sex needed to be a dark place. The pleasure was always in the wrong of it. If the sex wasn't tinged with some kind of weirdness, there was no pleasure. Simple. The more wrong, the more pleasure. Surely that must mean the darker it became, the better it would get. This had nothing to do with fun, I couldn't see or hear anyone laughing. Not in our room anyway.

There was always laughter and music outside. Spanish food. Spanish music and dancing. Spanish rhythm and Spanish eyes. Flamenco and wine. Music fiestas, dancing, parades and the bullfights with trumpets. The ritual and the music of the bullfight, the passion and the glory. Then the celebrating, eating and drinking and drinking some more. Cold fresh white wine, mussels and garlic. Our ritual, our fight. Enticing with the cape . . . dancing and prancing like the matador, twisting and turning . . .  maiming with the picadors lance . . . taking away their strength. Taking control. The raw wailing, the stamping and banging, castanets . . . And then back to the pianist, sometimes playing beautiful music and sometimes racing and crashing relentlessly through complex scales. O God.

One afternoon I smoked some spliff and drank some wine with the Gitanes and began to relax. I decided to go for a swim, I'd been sunbathing earlier on our balcony and had my bikini on, although I wore a tunic type thing over it on the beach . .  . In my excitement, at the thought of enjoying something as normal as a dip in the sea, (some fun) I totally forgot myself . . . I stood up and took off the tunic with my back to the group . . . I didn't understand much Spanish at the time, but the gasps of disbelief made me wonder what on earth they had seen . . . I turned round to see what they were "Iy  Iy Iying" about. "Que es eso?" . One of them said, striking an imaginery whip and gesturing me to turn around again. Shit. Bollox. Whippings. O My God . . . How had I forgotten? I pulled the tunic back over my head, collected my pack of Fortunas and walked away feeling naked . . . I didn't go to that part of the beach again.

I got sick in the August. I had sun-stroke and the fun stopped . . . I was in total darkness, blind and deaf. All I could hear was a loud ringing in my ears.  I didn't know about sunstroke . . .  enough people had warned me to keep out of the afternoon sun, to heed the siesta, but I didn't know this would happen. I was dehydrated, delirious . . . Everywhere was pitch black. Where was Higgins? I felt my way along the wall from the bathroom to the bed, over and over through the night. Spewing and pouring with sweat. Shivering and shaking. Calling out yet not hearing my own calls, like some kind of waking nightmare. He just wasn't there. I never knew where he went, I didn't usually care either  . . . but this wasn't usually, This was the absolute unknown. I sat all night on the tiles and the loo waiting for the ringing sound to stop . . .  listening out for something familiar, straining my eyes into the darkness to find something. Eventually the sun came up and I finally saw a flicker of light. A glimmer of hope. I was angry . . . How could he leave me in such a state? Why would he want to leave me so unwell and confused . . . Did he not care? Did he not love me? Had something happened to him?

The next morning he was back . . . something had changed for us both. I questioned him for the first time ever, and was worried by his reaction; not worried enough to stop the questioning. Something was going on and I wanted to know what. I'm sure I would have accepted whatever was . . . I was dumb like that. But he wouldn't tell me when I asked, he made it clear that I wasn't to ask questions. How bad could it be? The more he refused to talk, the more I needed to know. I couldn't even come up with a suggestion to test him. To taunt him. Shit, he knew I was tolerant, I wouldn't  be shocked, would I?. . . whatever was it?  He was distracted, losing his charm and his temper. I was focused, finding my voice and my feet . . . I persisted.
"Where have you been going? Why were you away all night? you knew I was ill . . . Why? Where? Who?" . . . Whack . . . and I was on the floor, pitch black all around me again and a ringing in my ears. It wasn't sunstroke.

He said he needed to fly back to England for a few days. Something to do with trust funds and power of bloody attorney. Scottish law and all that. That's all it ever was, or was it? Estate agents and lawyers  . . . I went down to the beach the evening before he was due to go to England. It felt like the end of something. Everything. I felt sad and alone. Totally alone here in this town, this country, this world.   . . . I started talking to a couple of English guys, they were teachers, well, one taught English at a school in Nice . . . The other gave private English lessons to students in Nice. They asked me what I was doing here . . . "dont ask" I joked. I laughed.
"O well . . . if ever you're in Nice or passing through, the old part of Nice "Le Vieux Nice" . . . Rue de Jesus, 7 . . . call in on us!"
"Yeah, I might; I mean, Yeah, I will" . . . even as I said these words, I was making plans. I knew I wouldn't forget that address; I took it as a good omen. I'd never heard of Nice but I was sure I could get there. Well, sort of sure, not that sure really. I knew if I could get away from here, the rest was easy, I could go to the ends of the earth. Could I? I didn't even think about what I was going to do in Nice. Did it matter, really?  No.

I never had any money of my own . . . Hell, I didn't even have a purse. According to Higgins the money "we" made kept us in this hotel and fine restaurants . . . fine Brandy more like. Maybe it did, I really didn't care for money. I never had. I carried my cigarettes around with me. I had a couple of souvenirs from england; a brass candle holder that Silverhip had made for me and a silver cross that he had made too. I had three or four rara dresses that we'd bought in Spain, none of which were "running away" clothes. Higgins dealt with all the money of course; anything to keep the peace, to give him control. I didn't mind . . . Until now. I wouldn't need much money, I mean I wasn't planning on trying to fly to this Nice place . . . There was no sea between me and Nice, I'd found out that much. There was a border and I would need my passport . . . where was it? I would need a bit of money and I could only think of one way to get that. Of course, I would have to be alone this time . . . and it would have to be a total stranger, but it would be the last time.

OK, I would wait until Higgins was on the plane to England the next evening . . . then I would go to the Plaza where the other "Senoritas" paraded. Just the once, surely that would be OK.



  1. How easily a person can get sucked in! I'd have had fifty fits - a nervous breakdown to be left in a strange country on my own with only one way to break free...

    1. Isn't it just . . . I wasn't exactly an example of a normal person though. I'm probably still not.
      I was a bit concerned about escaping . . . It gets worse.
      Hey ho . .. It is what it is. My past, gone, but obviously never forgotten.
      On a more cheerful note, I've just done a whole week clean! YaY ;-)

  2. Strewth - loads of stuff in that - very honest of you to put all this on here. I can honestly say a lot of this leaves me lost - the whole pain and sex thing I've never got - I feel frankly completely out of it and lost with the 50 shades of grey thing. All the women around me going on about how Mr Grey would be this and that... but here is a guy who simply wishes to inflict pain and discomfort on a woman for his own pleasure. Sorry doesn't compute in my head - if that is how it has to be I'm off to be a monk!

    What is also disturbing is I'm reading this thinking Higgins is a dirty old man but... I'm that age now, physically, not sure mentally or emotionally mind you :-)

    1. Hi,
      I'm totally honest and open about my past, even with exes. The one time I did try to hide my past . . . guess what? It caught up with me!
      I don't think that's how it has to be at all . . . Thank God. That's how it was then, I'm not saying it was right or normal . . . It was seriously fucked up.
      I'm the same age as Higgins was then; I can't imagine wanting to control a nineteen year old like that . . . but more will be revealed. He was involved in stuff that I had no idea about. Obviously.
      It's just part of my story . . . I intend to write the whole thing, eventually. Not in detail, the plain facts are bad enough.
      O well . . . Moving on, I'm on day 7!! It's been a while since I got through seven days ;-)

    2. I skim read 50 shades the other day - didn't strike me as a well written, same description of orgasm again and again - boring...

      Anyway - again why is this all the rave with ladies at the moment? If I tried to enter a relationship on this basis I'd expect to get my face slapped and my arse kicked. Odd... I'm becoming more out of step with reality the longer I'm about I think

  3. Danger, danger, danger. I'm not enjoying reading this. All 'in the past' I hope.

    1. O Good God YES! well in the past. So much so, it's like looking back at someone elses life . . . Thank God.
      Only one more "episode of danger" . . . then I move on to happier days in France . . . For a while ;-)

  4. Very interesting. I never was the maschoist, I was always the sadist. Not because I enjoyed inflicting pain, but because my lover enjoyed the pain, and domination.

    Europe, how fun it must be to be able to travel to diffrent countries easily. I would love to be dropped in a foreign europen country, unalbe to speak or understand the language. I would be forced to take care of myself, and forced to learn the language to survive. You should consider youself lucky. Not lucky in everything, but in the traveling and freedom, if it was only freedom now and again. Plus you have interesting experinces to draw on. Lucky.

  5. AG, I don't think luck has much to do with it. We create our own freedom and our own prisons. You just get up and go. No money, no belongings, nothing; it's an option for anyone.
    If you wait until you are forced to do something (learn languages, take care of yourself, move) . . . it may never happen.
    Then again, maybe it was just luck all along . . . Lucky me eh.

  6. This is so brave of you, Lovey, to share yourself like this with us. I'm so proud of you and I thank you.

    1. Thanks Lovey . . . It took some doing. I knew I had to put it in as it's a massive part of my story. I'm neither ashamed or proud; it is what it is, the truth.
      Thanks for reading Lovey and thanks for an appreciative comment (at last) . . . that was nice to wake up to ;-)
      Love and hugs x

  7. I love your pure honesty and I'm riveted by your writing and your story AND if you don't trn this into a book there is no justice.

    When is the next chapter?

    1. Sherry, Thankyou for another appreciative comment (two in one morning!) . . . That's enough encouragement to write the next chapter.
      It took so long because I tried hard to balance it . . . I didn't want to write smut, but I had to somehow convey what was going on . . . which was rather smutty. If that makes sense.
      Hey ho . . . I'll post an update this weekend, then I'll start on the "escape" while it's fresh in my mind.
      Thanks for reading and appreciating Sherry, Love and hugs x

  8. I know the kind of money making your writting about.Im glad both of us got away from it and never be ashamed.

    1. Bless your heart Bev . . . You're right. The past is all part of the tapestry that makes up our "interesting lives"
      Have a good day x

  9. SoberMomRocks is right your story will be a great book.

    1. Thanks Bev,
      I would love to write a book . . . I might do some writing courses next year. I have the stories but I'm not used to writing them x

  10. Wow!Reading this has given me such insight into how it can happen...couldn't stop reading even with my 5 yr old pestering me .."Mum,when can we go out..." so scary what bad parenting leads it fair of me to blame your parents..?When i left home i too chose an older man to live with but luckily for me he had a conscience,and the worst he ever tried to get me involved with was a threesome...!Love your writing style,totally in awe...xxxxxx
    Annie(can't get hold of my account at mo..)

    1. Hi Annie . . . I've just finished writing the escape (part one) this afternoon. I didn't realise it was such a long story so I had to split in into two.
      I think the way I was left to run wild at 12 led to this behaviour . . . and they were certainly to blame for leaving me to run wild (and looking for "love" in the wrong places) . . . so in a way, yes.
      But he had a massive "hold" over me (which will be revealed further on . . . think I might have told you in a letter)
      Anyway what about this bledy weather, I got drenched twice today. It's just not Summer is it?
      I stopped writing half way through a message to you yesterday, so I'll pop back later and finish it. Much love to you and yours x x x x
      And thanks for reading x

  11. Your writing is beautiful, poetic and profoundly sad at times. But through every word, your courage shines like a beacon of hope. You are one gutsy lady!!

    1. Hi Summer . . . I think that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my writing. I like that and it means a lot to me, thankyou . . . I hope you're beginning to reclaim some of those precious dreams and plans :-)
      Thanks for being here x

  12. Your other readers are right, this stuff would be on the best sellers list for sure. This stuff, your life, sometimes it is hard to keep in mind that someone actually had to live this. I would say that I am sorry. But this is the stuff that makes you. And you have got to be one of the strongest women I have I have encountered.

    I have talked to men like Higgins on the phone, many times. I work in phone in phone sex. People always think of "ooOOo aah, give it to me harder baby" when they think of it. But it very rarely involves straight vanilla sex. People can get that anywhere. Men come to me to let out their dark fantasies. The things they could never do to their wives and girlfriends. Or any "normal" woman. I have heard it all. And boy does it get dark, as you know because you actually had to live it. But I know what is in their minds, they are anonymous with me so there is no holding back. And to think, you were just nineteen. Only two years older then my oldest son.

    And if I were left alone in a strange country I would just die. More proof of your strength and wits. Due to my being borderline (borderline personality disorder) and being abandoned as a child, I have a real problem with abandonment. Even if it's just in my head. My husband went to Canada for two days for a friends wedding. I was on felony probation and could not leave the country. I cried like he was leaving me forever. Stupid, I know. But you didn't fall apart, you started planning a way out, to a new country you had never been to. I have to admire that. You are a serious survivor.

    1. Hi Carrion Doll, Thanks again for a great comment. I do appreciate the encouragement as these are the first things I've ever written.
      There were some dark times but I was in a very numb and mute kinda state. Think it was possibly PTSD from giving birth and leaving my daughter so young. It seemed like nothing touched me after that.
      I was hellishly insecure and always feared being abandoned too. If Higgins had left me I don't know how I would have behaved . . . But I made sure no-one ever left me. I always left before they could, even though I loved them. I was terrified of being left. Some of my later relationships were a nightmare for the men involved (I will write of this in time) I was truly, cringeably bonkers. But yes I was a survivor, and still am.
      I read your blog last night and I'm looking forward to reading more, seems we have a lot in common.
      I'm trying hard to get a grip here, after returning from wales . . . loads of emotional stuff and I've used a few days running now . . . I always begin to get fearful of not being able to stop it. Like you, I do want to stop this and feel some freedom for me and my kids . . . it aint easy.
      Thanks for reading and understanding, take good care x

  13. From this comment alone I know we do have much in common. I have always had a fear of abandonment too and like you I would leave before I could get left. I was also certifiably bonkers and still am...just not quite as bad. And I have been using too :( I was supposed to kick the subs but a friend has come up with some dilaudids to pay me back for all the subs I gave her when she was sick. I am too weak to say no and have done 2 halves and I am about to get another. But I can't get back in. I have done sooo much work and I am already fucking it up. Months and months of work. I have to get it together.
    I am so glad you are in a better place now though. Even though you are struggling like me, I think you are at the end of your using days. You are just getting away in your own time. Taking your time. Everyone is different tho. Everyone has to do it in their way or it won't work. That is why I always hated NA. They think their way is the be all end all of it. But everyone is different and there can't be just one way to get clean for every single person in the world. I wish you the best luck love!

  14. Whoa your boyfriend pimped you out? That's nuts