Meet the squad ♥ Today: Who’s afraid of Virginia Heart?

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The first article of our new writer Virginia Heart about adventurous, beautiful young women and older gentlemen that feel attracted to them, has caused some controversy. One of our readers asked the question „Who does this lady think she is to be so judgemental about the fans of Lolita sex and Teen Porn?“ „Well, I don’t know“, I answered and asked Virginia: „Virginia Heart, who do you think you are?“ „That is not a smart question“, our newest squad member replied, „I would rather tell you who I am and why I am that way.“

So therefore I present to you the first one of our Mimi&Käthe writers who steps out of the dark into the grey light of this shitty weather day. Happy happy joy joy :)

By Virginia Heart

“Virginia, why do you get so worked up about old farts trying to get into young girls‘ pants?” “Virginia, why do you drink so much Tequila and whistle at old cars?” “Virginia, why do you wear such an absurd amount of Make-Up?” “Virginia, why is your hair so fucked up?”

To answer this best-of of my life’s FAQs and to introduce myself to the lovely Mimi&Käthe readers, I wrote the following:

Due to an ironic twist of fate, my biological father insisted on naming me Virginia. The pure, the chaste. My mother had met him during a particularly intense episode of continuous soul-searching. He was a fundamentalistic follower of Jesus leading an insignificant rural church. He left her for an Anton LaVey fanatic not long after my second birthday. This is all you need to know about where I stand regarding organised religion.

In the years to come, my mother would open her big heart and stunning legs for a variety of deadbeats. I was never a neglected child, or one to doubt her motherly love. Still, I faced many aspects of reality a little kid maybe should not have to handle. If I didn’t do my homework, I was screwed. If I forgot to pick up groceries on the way home, I was screwed. If one of her lovers drank a bottle of Whiskey on the livingroom couch and lost it while she wasn’t home, I was screwed. Not that she didn’t kick out every single one of them who treated me badly. These encounters still left their marks.

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We don’t know how much of Virginia’s story is true. What we know for sure, is this: This lovely lady is the author herself.

Growing up around her friends was much more fun, though not much more appropriate for a child. Many of them were exotic dancers or demimondaines  she had met in the bar down the street. I adored them all. How could they use something as mundane as a human body to bring others to a point where they just started throwing their money at them, both literally and figuratively? They obviously knew something I didn’t. They were magnificent.  Their hair, their Make-Up, their scented body oil, their shoes and the vibrant laces they dressed in. Even when they sat at our breakfast table on mornings after their shift, tired eyes and a stench of stale smoke. To me, they remain the most beautiful butterflies under neon lights.

When I was about 14, my mother met a businessman at some charity event. She had been hired as a waitress and his philanthropy extended to this woman working minimum wage and her Marlene Dietrich legs. Pretty Woman, Richard Gere, you know the drill. If you asked me, he got a hard on from thinking about what a great guy he was. But nobody asked me and my mom finally had some time and money to spare for theatres and museums. She, understandably, craved these things.

On the one hand, the White Trash label that came with our neighbourhood, her friend’s profession and the count of her lovers and jobs always made us feel like we had to prove something, culture wise. On the other hand, we actually liked Russian authors, Italian composers and French impressionists. So while she was out and about with Mr. Rockefeller, exploring arts and culture of nearby cities, I was sat in my room reading and listening to records. I had snatched an MP3-Player off of an ex of hers. He always wore too-tight blue jeans, matching jean jackets and red bandanas and apparently had a taste for Heartland Rock. Suddenly, during these lone hours, I watched my love for Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen grow.

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Rockefeller had decided that a excellent education was the best gift he could give his beloved’s daughter. He was only partially right. Under different conditions, I might have actually enjoyed it but these prep school kids were given living up to their reputation their all. Every time they insulted my background, I grew more furious. Every time some pristine, sharp ballerina elbow hit my stomach, my decision to not let them have their way grew more solid.

I wrote flaming speeches on the semi-legal ways that led their families to wealth. I pitied their 5 year plans. But I started the largest commotions by flirting with their fathers during school parties and leaving scratch marks on the backs of their “Mr. Right” while they were off to Tennis practise. All this tuition and no one taught them to set their priorities straight.

Unfortunately, employing this strategy I hurt myself more than them. Turns out, I can only take so much conceited grunting and stoic pornstar imitating. Sometimes the girls would talk to me nicely. That was when they tried to find out who my “colour artist” was. My natural hair colour is a nice mix of a thousand different shades of blond, making me look like I grew up playing in the California sun. After I had this kind of conversation with an especially evil Killerbarbie, I bought two boxes of the cheapest bleaching product and waved goodbye to every California nuance. I barely finished school, all this vigilant nonconformity took its‘ toll on my attention span.

I went to college to study literature  and starting my second semester had a nervous breakdown, as a former prep school student should. After many desperate hours spent crying in various counsellors‘ and psychiatrists‘ offices, I finally found a woman who showed me that permanent mistrust makes you sad and lonely, that I am indeed loveable and capable and that people are often only fighting their own battle and not me. Cheesy, I know, but it’s everything a mental health professional should be able to convey.

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To be fair, her efforts were supported by several SSRI’s. I even had a short relationship. It ended after the feel good hormones associated with the honeymoon phase had faded and it had become to much of a conscious commitment. I mean, have you seen some of the people out there? How could I choose just one?

So these days I dream about my professors, drink Tequila with my friends (thank’s therapy) and make a living working terrible jobs. One day I want to try this whole loving family thing. Until then, I have to compile enough memories and  experiences to be able to bear the responsibility and grown-up-ness that comes with it. My next big goal therefore is an American classic car. Maybe a 65 Mustang Convertible, a 69 Cadillac DeVille sporting those „El Dorado fins“ or a first generation „Black Trans Am“. Here’s to you, Bruce.

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