Nights are reserved for intimate moments with my sketchbook and my volatile creative conscious. A seduction between a warm blooded woman and her inanimate lover. The crass fetish outsiders surmise to be unnatural; perplexity in the visuals of ideas they will never adopt.

Monday’s are my nights to lay in bed with my sketch-back Casanova. While my human better half traverses the world of Dungeon and Dragons in the loft above with his loyal gang of merry men; I am being seduced by liquid gel pens ravaging premium recycled Strathmore paper. We’ve lost touch over the months, I am afraid to admit. New relationships take time, effort and love to build a firm structure; my needs have been used in establishing a trust with my partner Jonathan, leaving my sketchbook by the wayside. One night a week to sneak away and be with my creative lover is all I can manage these days.

It’s a bitter sweet devotion we share. Once upon a time we were inseparable, now, it’s a casual liaison. Hours without hesitation or remorse in the actions we conduce. There are no barriers, rules or restrictions in our love; all is fair in this torrent affair. Bellows of laughter from the mystical gaming soldiers upstairs cloak the heavy breathing of my marathon of artistic passion. I’m lost to reality which surrounds me on these nights; all I care for is my sketch-book Casanova and his parade of gel pens. As the night lingers forth, it’s just me and Casanova. How I like it. How true creation is made; between an artist and a muse. My muse is the night, the silence, the sanctuary of being free to traverse the Netherworld of my imagination. Heaven.

Memories escape on this night; the snapshots of my 27 year existence. Sentiments of inspiration flow through a manner I can’t control. I don’t dare question the quality or rationalization of the images born from my psyche. Is there a point? A reason or method to debate how the release comes? I go weak under the influence of his weight, his touch; Casanova. He connects with me in ways no other has done. I can share with him everything – every secret and honesty – without having the woes of remorse. He doesn’t question or waiver under the darkness, kinks or madness I profess to him on these nights. He is a release of passion which modern society tells me is wrong to practice within. Here on these nights I am true. I am free.

When the clock strikes 11 and the war is over in the mythical gaming world above; I sense a linger of loss. A goodbye to my true love. Seven days will filter by until I get to see him again, to feel his touch and share my thoughts. Our gazes will cross during the in-between, daring one and other to touch, to lock back into our intimate world. But I have to refrain. This time is for me to be normal; to be human in a world that frowns on this practice, this ritual of creativity for therapeutic sake. I have to contribute to society during the in-between; to work, stress and destroy my mind under the weight of pressures no conventional human could obtain. I have to “earn my dollars” to survive…even though the only thing in this world that keeps me alive is my Casanova, and the secrets he allows me to liberate.