Is this love?

There is a lot I want to talk about, my dear readers, friends... lovers? Beautiful strangers.

But let’s just take it easy and keep going ahead one step at a time. I’ve been working on myself madly, endlessly, painfully, and now that I slow down I realise that most of the gluey, muddy, heavy trauma left my bones and it pearls my skin when I allow myself to cry and get angry, and then I shower and wash it off and then I feel good. There is still so much work to do, and the more I do the more I realise how fucked up some of the people I considered friends and loved ones are, were, probably will be, but not to me, not anymore but not because I learned how to get rid of them. I’ll explain.

I am still processing recent and old abuse I had to endure. I don’t know why it is so difficult to get out of it when you are in it, it really makes you blind, you try really hard to see the good, you think someone loves you but they don’t. That is not love. That is control... And maybe the abusers themselves were once victims but I can’t justify fucked up behaviour all the time because there would be nothing left of me. I ended up in an enmeshed and co-dependent relationship twice in my life, the other times I was quick at leaving a situation before it became abusive and it wasn’t because I’ve seen it happen before, it wasn’t because I learned it, it was only because I listened to my gut and used all my strength to leave, and it was because I had my friends close to me, giving me some honest perspective on what love really is by just loving me unconditionally.

When abuse was open and almost physical, it was easy, because I’d see it; N would sometimes get aggressive and shout at me, breaking all possible communication and denying me my right to speak, I’d find myself crying in the bathroom because I had nothing else left to do, but he then would come and comfort me, and that was really confusing because he was the reason I was crying. Some other times he would never come and I would cry for hours and then finally call my best friend and she’d send me an Uber to go to hers, and I’d stay there for days.

Other times, abuse was psychological and sneaky, and that fucked me up the most. I sometimes would be very nervous because of my PMS and he would poke me on purpose, say provocative things until I’d react almost out of my control and then he’d gaslight me and say that I was a bad person because I used my PMS as an excuse to be mean to him and that it wasn’t right to pour my nervousness and distress onto him just because he was the closest to me human. After few weeks, I started going for long walks on the days prior my period so I was sure our contact was reduced to minimum. Guilt trip was on the top of our dynamic, any time I didn’t do something he wanted me to do, he’d point out the fact that that’s not how a family works and that I had a distorted perception of unity because my family is dislocated between Kazakhstan and Italy, basically. I would say that my family is just not co-dependent and “no” is a word we use between us if there is something we don’t want to do and we are not forced to do things just because we are family. But because we lived in his family’s flat, I always felt like I owed him whatever I could because I didn’t have enough money to contribute, and maybe that was the perfect trap, and I am sorry I didn’t make an effort to pull myself out earlier. But it just didn’t happen and I don’t know why, and at this point it doesn’t matter. I want to forgive myself for taking so much time to understand and leave. And I want to be proud of myself for ending it and rebuilding my life all by myself. And you know why I was finally able to move out? Because I delivered my first film for Erika Lust and I got my final payment and I spent it all in the deposit for the new place, the moving, the rent… Again, p*rn kinda saved me?

I have hundreds of moments like this, I could write a little book and I’m sure it wouldn’t sound new to many of you. Now that we are out, we see it. And there were very nice moments too but they are so blurry and confusing in my head. I don’t know what is my truth and what is the reality he wanted me to see, so I just need to let go and stay the fuck away. I thought I was being a bit melodramatic but he got back in touch few weeks ago, after me explicitly asking him not to because I wasn’t ready to talk again yet, and I freaked out. I didn’t know how to reply to his desire to see me and have a friendly chat, and him talking about how his life now is pretty good and how much of a better person he is and that it would be nice to see who I am now. Any time we reconnected after the break up, I felt like shit and I thought I was just processing the end of a love relationship, and maybe partly I was but it is not normal to feel so intoxicated every time. I got that message and my brain was instantly filled with memories and some unknown fear, a gut feeling, a pinch of adrenaline flowing through my spine. I started thinking that I was a bad person because I didn’t want to respond. I am still processing the abuse and he still has some influence on me because he did his dirty and manipulative game well and I still struggle to see it completely for what it was. Hoss pointed out to the fact that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to meet N, I’ve just got a text message and my whole world was stained with his essence, what would happen if I’d see him in person? Also, I think there is an important factor to consider, and it’s that I was just as dependent on N as he was on me and he still is and the fact he doesn’t have any control over my life anymore must be jarring. He doesn’t miss me as a person, he misses controlling someone’s emotions.

This lasted a couple of years and it started as a friendship and in retrospect I can see the toxicity in our friendship too, it was already there, and then it was in me, and it still is but my friends’ support and the love Hoss shows me everyday are replenishing the poison in my veins with this fresh and vital elixir that will stay and then grow, and pour out and I’ll be able to help other people, and I hope that me talking about these things will make some of you realise that you are not alone, you are not crazy and you did nothing wrong and you’ll be shining in all your greatness again, I already see the sparkle!

I am scared he is going to read this and attack me but I am more scared of leaving this energy rot inside me and ruin my life, and I’ve only got one and there is a lot I want to do in the best of ways. I want to be me, pure in my own darkness. Maybe one day we will talk, for me... and for him because everyone deserves a chance to know what they’ve done wrong. Or maybe not. I don’t know.

Speaking of.
When I was twenty two, I started dating M, I was so in love, so madly, stupidly, unexplainably, endlessly, deeply in love. It only lasted four or five months but it disastrously derailed my sexual energy. Our dynamic was manipulative and controlling from his side, to the point there was nothing left of me and he broke up with me because I became a needy, sobbing, confused, co-dependent mess and it took me two years after that to function properly again on my own. I think that was when I shut down and transformed into a repressed human being; all the fire, the kink, the darkness, the constant horniness and desire were put to sleep and would rarely wake up and when they would I’d get so scared I’d dissociate.
I remember once giving him a blowjob, and it was going all well, I then pulled my panties down and that somehow annoyed him and we had to stop, and he said it looked like I was pretending that I was enjoying it by trying to seduce him with that gesture. Confusing, right? He then took advantage of the occasion to tell me that he never had to stimulate someone’s clit so hard and fast, so maybe it just meant I wasn’t that horny. I felt so intrinsically wrong, any time I would then masturbate on my own I would die in guilt and shame because the only way I could cum was if I touched myself hard and fast but he said it wasn’t normal. If someone said that now, I’d suggest them go educate themselves, but back then I was still learning about my sexuality, I was vulnerable and permeable. And I am still permeable today! But I am my own now.
One day we were about to go grocery shopping, I put on a pair of black shorts, a tshirt, tights, black boots, a coat. He asked me if I thought it was appropriate to go like that to the supermarket but also added there was no time to change, so I walked to the supermarket in shame and then sobbed uncontrollably on the way back, until he stopped me, sat me on a bench, apologised and said that what he meant was that I looked too sexy and provocative and that that would distract him from the task and he really would rather fuck me. And he did, as soon as we got home, he put me on the bed, pulled my shorts down and fucked me in the ass, and the worse thing is that I liked it physically but my brain was fuck knows were dealing with guilt and shame.
I think that I don’t have to explain how events like this, and oh there were so many, defined my sexual life in the years to come.
Few years after our break up, we met again, we fucked and it was friendly and nice, and I still had no clue I’ve been abused but I felt this knot in my throat. One evening we were hanging out in my living room, it was dark and cosy, only the street lights filtering through the curtains, I was looking at him and he was sipping on some cheap whiskey. I told him that he smelled different because of the amount of alcohol he was consuming on a daily basis, totally irrelevant element because that was not what I wanted to talk about but I realised that he didn’t know. He didn’t know that he didn’t smell good, he didn’t know that whiskey and writing became an addiction, he didn’t know that two years before he abused me psychologically and probably to some degree even physically. So I talked. And I talked. And I cried. And I talked and talked and talked. And he listened, in shock at first and then just in distress and sadness. I don’t know if it was genuine but he seemed sorry, not only for doing those things to me but for not even realising he was doing that.

Don’t get me wrong, most of these individuals know what they’re doing to at least some level, and if you take your chance to tell them they’ll deny, gaslight or make excuses and carry on manipulating reality. But I like to think that some of them are just human beings on the wrong path, and I am not there to change them but if we run together for some time and I end up a victim of something they do so automatically, I am going to point it out. For me. Not for them.
And with M it worked. I felt better and I hope with all my heart that he’s never been that way with other people after me speaking up about what he’s done.
N? He’s so unaware and evil, I am still too scared. In general, it is for me terrifying to talk to people that don’t feel anything, they just learn behaviour and archive a list of emotions that they interchange depending on the situation, and sometimes they are very good actors. I want to change the world but I am not stupid.

Back to you, my beautiful readers, I want to thank you for reading my blog, and for your emails and messages, and talks, and support, and for sharing your stories too. I think I am in full on healing process so I am not always able to talk about bright and positive things but I will always try to fill my pages with hope and honesty, and remember that you have my support too! Always.

Dark blessings,

Nina

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Berlin P*rn Film Festival 2019

I am lying on a mattress in the middle of a room full of people, I feel tired and I am not sure of how my body can take more, more of anything, more of people, of walking, and talking, and fucking and eating and getting inspired and working and kissing and dancing and pain and pleasure and here I am taking more of everything. Breathing. Calmly.

I am so tired and I only now realise it as Shine is calling my attention back by asking what my pronouns are. What a bizarre question, I think; no one outside of the sex positive and queer communities has ever asked me that question. I also think that of all the questions I could be asked right now, this seems the most bizarre, and I don’t know why, it’s not like Marcus and I are doing some sort of a butterfly position discussing its benefits.

Oh, they them I say and the workshop carries on, and I am still in Marcus’ arms and I feel safe and also horny and it’s nice that I don’t have to hide it but I don’t have to act on it either.

I remember about my life only a few months ago, when everything was shit and I didn’t know how to pull it through but I knew that I was not going to repress my sexuality anymore, and sometimes I would channel that into work, some other times I’d just make sure I had the right people around me (behind below above inside me). So here I am. Breathing. Calmly. It’s my first Berlin P*rn Film Festival and I don’t have to hide who I am, what’s my job, why I do this and, most importantly, why I like it.

The day before, Hoss and I attend a networking event, which is always terrifying for me unless I have three gin tonics in my system, I have coffee and cigarettes instead, hm, wise. We all sit in a big circle, each person talks one at a time and when the microphone is in my hand I forget what I wanted to say or why it’s actually so important for me to share my work. I say that I am a filmmaker and sex performer, I say that I am a writer too, I mention sexual exploration and my ways of processing abuse, and I feel upset because I don’t want abuse to define my work. And it doesn’t. It’s ok. I want to help people and the only way to do it is to expose myself one step at a time.
When the presentations are over, a woman named Bambi (Biche De Ville) comes to me and says that she can relate to what I said, which is interesting to me because I don’t remember everything I said. She gives me a flayer with the code to access and watch her film, and I watch it few days later and I find myself sobbing because it’s so beautiful and I see what she saw in me and I understand her poetry and why sex is so fucking liberating and the darker it gets the freer we become.

I feel like I am not alone.

The night before that event, me and Hoss go to Moviemento and watch Nadia Granados and Amber Bemak’s work. Super dislocating, my brain is tripping between horniness and that uncomfortable feeling under the skin... Sometimes I think that only experimental video artists can achieve that reaction in a viewer. They remind me of Bill Viola but more... raw. How much can you push sexuality before you desexualise it completely and you transform it into a political statement?
I like the honest Q&A, it’s very interesting how shy the artists become when it comes to explaining their work; no matter how powerful and confident they are in what they do, it’s beautiful when they don’t lose the vulnerability that brought them to create to begin with.
Hoss and I get a drink or two (or three?) and chill in the lounge area, I observe all the people, faces I’ve seen in films, people I talked to via internet, even worked with on distance, and it’s so strange to be here, to feel real, to feel accepted without trying. I meet Kali Sudhra in person, she gets my pronoun right and I can’t hold my glass of gin and tonic still in my hand because I can just be the gender I feel like being and exist in a real space and not only in my head. I feel alive.
We meet an ex sex worker and by talking to her I realise why it is so difficult to me to use a different name for some of my work, and it’s because I have nothing to hide, “Nina Sever” has been with me for so long they became me so intrinsically and unapologetically that I can’t turn them away. I am proud of what I do, whether it’s sexual or not, and if I have to make a pseudonym for a pseudonym, I don’t know who I am anymore and where I’m going, and I lose control and I start feeling like my identity was stolen. Of course, I still need to protect myself because people don’t realise that Internet is a boundary in itself and shouldn’t be crossed so easily all the time.

Back to me and Marcus Quillan in that butterfly position, fully dressed but our boundaries still respected and discussed in advance (thank you Jiz Lee and Shine Louise Houston for being just fucking amazing and for teaching people how to do things properly not only from a technical perspective), I feel like I am exactly where I should be and all my choices that didn’t seem to make sense to anyone I knew back then brought me here and I don’t even know where the fuck I’d be without all these lovely p*rn people.

In all this, I can’t think of a better human being than Hoss to experience the BPFF with. I have this memory of him taking my face between his hands, - and I never fucking allow anyone to touch my face - pulling me towards him against my will that I give up so easily in my brain but I gladly create a slight resistance in my body to the point I’m soaking wet between my legs. I’ve never had a kiss like that before because I’ve never been so free. Especially because I am surrounded by the best people that are not afraid to be themselves or to play a character or to just let go for a night. I walked home barefoot because I broke my boots pole dancing and I don’t know what is it with me and the shoes, or the hair that I cut or grow depending on where I am in my life, but anytime I throw away a pair of shoes after a party I see it as the end of an era. It’s a statement.

“Fucking” thank you Berlin.

The beautiful and the ugly

How do you talk about something immensely beautiful if you don’t mention something ugly first? What is beautiful? What is ugly? And where do I stand? Let’s find out.

I met S almost 12 years ago, though I think we’ve been in touch for a couple of years online until then. I was doing my first modelling job outside of my region, and I also had my boundaries violated for the first time, and I had my first rape on a work place. Sad to say it was not going to be the last.

L, your typical over 50 years old dude with a camera and a sleazy smile, came to pick me up at the station and we walked to his studio. He seemed nice, though with the experience I have now, or even the experience that I gained after two years of modelling after that specific event, I know he was a disgusting individual. But I was 19 back then, and I had no idea people could be like that.
L showed me the changing room and left me to my privacy but after the first series of photos, he followed me with the excuse he wanted to see what I could wear next, though we were aiming to shoot mostly nudes.

Let me open a little bracket here, I want to explain to all of you that ask me why, when I do decide to model nowadays, I only and exclusively do nudes. It’s very simple, I don’t undress for you on or off camera, the clothes are on or off; strip tease is another kind of service that needs consent and a respectable payment. So, when someone emails me and says they want to do a bit of fashion, a bit of lingerie and a bit of nude, I say no. Simple. I know yours is an excuse to see me naked but because deep down you are ashamed and scared I’m going to see your hard on if the first thing you see through your lens is my pussy, you need to warm up to it and manipulate me into thinking this is all in the name of art, when you can’t even fucking set your lights right because you are not a photographer.
There are exceptions! And those kind of guys are happy if I start naked and we do clothed portraits later if that’s what works best for me, for the light and for the location. I like when Rob Ellis just goes with the flow, he has such a great energy! Sometimes we don’t even shoot nudes because I really just matter as a human being with an identity, and my way of posing, and my body has an artistic purpose whether I’m dressed or not. That’s genuine. I like when Adolfo Valente just says “ah nah let’s just do nude, that’s what I do really”. And I immediately feel free and safe. Why don’t these guys teach at workshops? Why is it always some fucked up disgusting ugly sleazy pig?

L told me that what I wanted to wear next looked fine, he sat on the chair by the window and stared at me. I put my gown on, and changed underneath. You can photograph my tonsils through my asshole if that’s what we agreed on, but you do not look at me changing in between sets, that’s private and you being there is a violation of my privacy.
L asked me if I would like to pose with toys, I asked what toys, he said sex toys. I felt embarrassed. And you know what? I would feel embarrassed even now that I am happy to shoot sexual content, because I want to know in advance what we are going to do, and I know it doesn’t always work like that in the mainstream adult industry and that’s why it’s fucked up. I said no and felt strangely guilty because I thought that I must have misunderstood something or maybe that was just normal. It was my second photo shoot ever. L then asked me if I wanted to have sex with him, I nervously smiled and said no. I didn’t know how to get out of the situation and was not sure of how to react because nothing like that has ever happened to me but I could feel that was not normal. He smiled back and said that it was ok and that we could carry on shooting. And we did for a while and it seemed alright. To the point it wasn’t alright anymore.

I exhausted myself with guilt and shame towards myself. I wondered for years why I didn’t leave, why I allowed that to happen. When they describe rape, they picture a dark alleyway, an aggressive violation, a scary looking junky or a big guy three times your size. So, when other kinds of rape happen, we don’t register them as such... we just live our lives soaked in silent trauma. And these rapists go around unpunished and have the excuse for themselves: “she didn’t say no” “she didn’t try to push me away so I’m sure she didn’t mean no in a non verbal way”.

How about when you’re doing something to someone and you realise they are not really there with you mentally?

That’s what happened to me, I dissociated, and I don’t remember if I’ve ever done that before this particular event, but that’s the first time I can recall doing that.
L went down on me, he said it would make me feel better and relaxed, and it would make me look good in the photos. It sounds so shady and obvious now but back then I didn’t know what normality was in the fine-art nude industry, so I let him do what he wanted for a while and I don’t remember when exactly it stopped but it did. I didn’t feel afraid, I didn’t feel bad, I just stopped feeling altogether and only years later I learned that it’s a legit defence mechanism.

Afterwards, L insisted to walk me to the hotel, I asked him not to a few times but he just took my suitcase and walked with me. I had booked a double room for a shoot with S in the evening, and G booked another room to shoot with another model, and the idea was to maybe shoot something all together and then go for a drink. Me having a double room, allowed L to come upstairs with me, and there was an hour to go before S would come around. I didn’t know how to behave in front of the receptionist, and I was still all fucked up from the experience, but I didn’t want L to come up with me. He just followed me with the excuse he would help with the suitcase. He asked me if he could take more photos of me because the room looked nice, I found my guts out of exhaustion and said I’d rather leave some exclusivity to S end because no one was paying me and it was all money out of my pocket, I felt entitled to just say that. It was the beginning; I did many collaborative shoots and invested in my portfolio, that’s how it worked for freelance art models. L sat on the bed and asked me to sit next to him, and I did, and he caressed my arm and I asked why he felt the necessity to constantly touch me, he said it was because it was for him so difficult to decipher me, so his only way to get closer was to touch me. Well, that’s fucked up, and I knew that it didn’t make any sense, and I started to come back to myself, I stood up and said we needed to go downstairs because S would be there any moment.

We went down and waited in the hall, I could not understand why he would not just leave. S arrived, by then I was so broken inside I could not believe I didn’t have to feel alone anymore, I have never met S in person but I was so happy to see him. We decided to go for a drink and L autoinvited himself. G joined us, and I think his model was with us too. We sat at the bar, chatting, drinking, and I continued to feel violated because L was there, and I felt ashamed, and ugly, and trapped. How fucked up is this dude? Is he still alive? Is he ok with himself?

It’s time to talk about beauty now, and now I know it would have been beautiful even without this ugly experience preceding it. Of course my psyche was damaged but I was still me, and could still fall in love and see sex for the beautiful thing that it was and it is and it forever will be for me.
We came back to the hotel and had a little session all together, it was fun and light, creative and friendly, in the presence of these two male photographers and a girl I’ve never met before, I felt safe and respected, and that was like a healing balm on a wound.
G and the model left, and S and I had a shoot and I felt so free, and sensual, and also a bit shy, and tense, and probably clumsy because I never had a shoot like that before, only with G but he is a bit of a control freak so he guided me in every movement and pose. S would look at the room, at the ambience light, at my skin, he’d pick a spot that worked best and then he would just let me do what I felt like doing. It was fascinating to see someone work so gracefully and sharply, to see their passion for what they do, and their understanding of the implied respect that needs to run between two human beings working together, especially if one of them is in a more vulnerable situation.

I felt so attracted it was impossible to hide it, and if you look at the photos now you can see it. And S was attracted too but we did what the artists do, we channelled that energy into a good work flow.
After the shoot he asked me if he could have a shower, and I said yes and thought that he didn’t want to leave, and I didn’t want him to leave either. After that I brushed my teeth to wash off the smell of beer and he looked at me and said he wanted to see how I did it, and my hand was shaking and I couldn’t stop smiling. That was ok, that was consensual, that was mutual attraction and teasing.
We then spent hours laying on the bed, talking, or just breathing in the silence, and we kissed.

That’s how it started, me healing myself through photography, but what I had that night with S was just pure in itself, and through this writing process I learned that something beautiful is just intrinsically beautiful no matter what you go through in your life. Kissing S after a wonderful shoot together was just a beautiful moment, and the rest of the world disappeared, the good and the bad were gone. So I don’t think we need fucked up shit in our life in order to appreciate the ecstatic.

Now I know, and now I can stop clinging to the ugly, and my darkness is just who I am and who I want to be and it would have been there without rape and physical and psychological abuse of any sort. Some people are just cancer and they don’t deserve any credit, they need help and they need to be held accountable.

I still love these photos so much, they are proof that not all my choices were wrong or manipulated, and that there is beauty in the world, and that some people are just wonderful artists.

Being an artist

My dear reader,

I promised that I was always going to be honest with you, and I intend to keep that promise. I sat in front of the screen for a while, staring into the void, I always do; it’s really rare that I get a sudden inspiration, for me writing is hard work, but once I start I’m in the flow. I had ideas I wanted to develop, collaborations I wanted to talk about but something inside of me doesn’t sit right, so I’m going to talk about myself instead, as a person, not only as an artist... as an erotic artist... because that’s just one big aspect of who I am and it’s a curse and a blessing at the same time but no matter how many sleepless nights will pass, or how many mornings I’ll cry, I wouldn’t change this for anything, ANYTHING in the world. To transform trauma into art, is a virtue. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. It is not a coping mechanism, it’s a super power.

Writing comes from a dark and scary place, that’s why I don’t want to get rid of it, that’s why I feed it, that’s why I am learning how to tame it and make it mine, how to drown in it and make it a habit, because most of the times I realise I can actually swim and breathe down there. I realised that my sexual pleasure comes from down there, and I am terrified but I have no choice but to accept it, and love it, and let it take over, that’s why I want to explore my submissive nature; I want to let go, I want someone else to deal with that so that I can just fucking enjoy life for a brief moment.

Most of the time, darkness is scary only because we can’t see, but why do we forget about the other senses?

I am tired to have everything under control, it’s just an illusion. Even writing and expressing myself, it’s all measured, and channelled whether is photography or directing or modelling. There are two things that make me forget about myself, and if I were religious I’d think I’m a tool in God’s hands, and the two things are singing and fucking on camera. I don’t know why these two ways of expressing myself are so similar, but when I sing I feel like I have a place in the Universe. When I fuck, I feel like I don’t need a place to be. Why fuck on camera? Because I think it’s really cool to show my pleasure to someone else who has no power over me... So, no one really has any control if not over their own bodies, I guess.

I modelled for eleven years, from more explicit things to more academic classic nudes. I am so bored. I was so bored. I can only remember a couple of times I was able to be myself and let the energy flow and that was always with women, they seem comfortable with someone else’s sexuality. Men would always focus on other aspects, like that radiator in the background, or the carpet with a wrong colour, or the stain on the wall, to the point I felt like I didn’t matter, like I was not enough to forget about those things, to not see them; I felt like I could have been anyone, and that’s not a good feeling. Women would bypass all that crap very gracefully, they would elevate me and make me feel special, sacred almost... And please don’t tell me it’s the sexual tension that men get nervous about, because I had shoots with women and the air would get so thick with sexuality it would be hard to breathe and we would still work wonderfully and fluently together; and I had shoots with men and feel nothing so if they have a problem with seeing some pussy and their coping mechanism is to move the shit out of the place in order for THE PLACE to look pretty and them not to get fixated on a vagina, maybe they should get back to shoot flowers for a while.

My experience as a sex performer felt like the opposite... It’s honest. No one uses a camera as an excuse to see me naked because that’s literally what it is about and I consent and I exactly know what I’m supposed to do, and no one finds silly ways to coat their desire with the set dressing. Or maybe it’s just me. I think that in fine-art photography, the line between nudity as just another way for a human to express a feeling and the sexualisation of nudity is very blurry, and I am tired of trying to decipher the difference, or of getting bored, so I fuck on camera instead. Everything could change, that’s the beauty of art and of being an artist. And you! You guys seem to understand and accept that change in me, and I am very grateful for your support... You could always sense the sexuality in my photography, no matter what side of the lens I’d stand, and you understood when I used nudity in its purity and tried to dismantle it from the act of sex.

There is so much more to cu... come. Stick around. And thank you for reading and talking to me, I feel like I’m not a complete fuckup any time something I’ve written sparks a conversation.

Dark blessings,

Nina

p.s. masturbate