During these final moments I wander throughout my former husband’s home, lost in macabre memories and the company of ghosts. Gareth, my adorable young lover writhes once more upon my battlefield of a bedspread. I weep and choke at his spectacle. How Curious that simple things render within us such powerful emotion and reaction. Sobering how readily one cries in the presence of innocence. How I crave the unspoken power of his sexuality. His posture highlighting the exaggeration of  his maleness, broad shoulders and strong, long limbs... And as he sleeps I finally capture his soul, I the ghoul loosed by ancient chant. I cast a spell on him, upon all he was and could have been. Muscle and vein that contour his torso, the absence of body fat so indicative of youthful athleticism. My eyes are drawn towards thigh and navel then down again. I gasp and invoke his rotten corpse, sense his firmness again against my own softer more supple being. His flesh heavy upon me, pressing and crushing as though I might at any moment suffocate beneath his strength and the violence of his urgency.
Into thy hands O Lord, I commend my spirit'. 
The knight's raised sword forms a cross,  symbolising the victory of man's faith as he leaves the daylight to enter a dark chasm.  This contrasts with the brute fear of the animals.
In Manus Tuas, Domine
So I awake to another stark December daybreak in England’s cold unforgiving post-industrial North. Outside, a timid early morning quiet is disturbed by hurried footsteps, as someone else’s lover slips out into the dark urban landscape. I think of chocolate and men in black as this mysterious figure hastily constructs his second withdrawal of the evening.  
The house is silent, I clear away bottles and glasses from another late night of excess and my thoughts too now turn to escape. I switch on my computer and prepare to unpick the night’s trans-Atlantic mail, awaiting the voices that transcend, those from the ether and those within my head. A final journey. Soon as usual when I am down I reflect upon men, nice sexy ones as opposed to ugly bigoted, ignorant ones. Then the sadness returns, a cold and ironic sense of loss. Irony was the essence of every man I ever valued, of the rest I recall only the silence of their departure. I guess I speak for thousands of women, honest harmless souls who have spent much of their adult life recovering from let down and disappointment.  As I finally switch off this murderous machine it flickers momentarily as though it refuses to be dowsed. A final respite perhaps then... Nothing. Rather disappointing to be at the last so underwhelmed, spoilt by the scandal of anticipation... 

Sad isn’t it? Sorry to disappoint. *Turns somewhat melodramatically and disappears into an acidic early morning drizzle. Now older and wiser we take risks chasing Son-in-laws. The guarantee of uninterrupted virility can be so flattering and indeed reassuring as one meanders slowly into the lower reaches of one’s course. And at the last I remember the fun we had. The games and the laughter. 'Fun' is so intrinsically arousing. How many still forget the 'play' in 'Role-Play' igniting our fantasies, providing permission to study, to look. Again I unravel his innocence as his full sexual identity is disclosed. We both smile and laugh as barriers are finally removed. 

Are life’s mysteries not always so, hidden in plain sight, there for all to see, the Emperor’s bare backside. So many metaphors, clues that promise much only to deceive and to lead us blindly away from the nest, from the prize. Sometimes I think that ALANIAS is all about light and darkness, shadows, shade and a search for goodness. That's my approach to men... We start with the battered, damaged shells unrecognisable to their mothers and we try to take them back through trust and  tenderness. Of course the line between love and hate, pleasure and pain is infinitesimally fine. That's what most of  the  hundreds of guys I meet here and in Second Life are looking for... Not all... But most. Tenderness, attention.... A love of sorts. How much I yearn his touch. The curvature of his body accentuating where his maleness will naturally intertwine with my own female form. I remember his expression when he wanted to give himself to me, to give not to take. Again the gender reversal, so natural between a young boi and an older more experienced woman. He wants to take away the hurt and the disappointment. A beautiful warm smile and an equally joyous erection explaining to me how much he wants to please and how excited he is by my attention. There can be no more sincere compliment than a young man's full and vibrant erection. What woman wouldn't give everything for such a lover.
Alania Dawes disappeared during the filming of ‘The Plantation’, the last Bathory Volume. Some say that she had become inescapably trapped within the Countess’ own desperate persona, unable to separate her fate from that of Erszebet.  Alania created an exhibition in those final days within her inner sanctum at the ALANIAS Resort Plaza that detailed her incredible journey and instigated many of the claims that have subsequently been made about her real life identity. Hidden behind this archive she constructed a private vault, a mausoleum of sorts containing countless disturbing images and thoughts. She wrote of loss, of personal tragedy and unmitigated loneliness, of terrible hours trapped within her own soul unable to escape its complexity and her desperate struggle to hide from the disfigured voices that called out from deep within her tormented psyche.
Alania Dawes disappeared upon Friday the 22nd January 2011. Wild rumours appeared on a variety of internet discussion boards linking her death with a number of related suicides that occurred that night throughout western Europe. Other reports accredited to her estranged husband soon circulated indicating that she had in fact taken her own life and that a note discovered beside her battered and bruised body had been confiscated, its contents to be published at a specific time dictated by its recently deceased author. A note whose voice many an ancient house might prefer to remain silent, its message unheard.
Such reports have never been properly substantiated.
Those close to me know that I'm neither a man beater nor hater, in fact I created my cyber-world, ALANIAS precisely to provide guys with an opportunity to redeem themselves, to start again renewed. You see? How sweet am I?
Army Medicals
© ALANIAS 2009
He is restless.... Strong, virile and aroused. The flicker of his lips a window upon the lustful conquests that occupy his mind. No doubting the intensity of his night visions and the grip they exert upon his anatomy. I reach out towards him as though to share his bed once more in lucid dream, but no doubt his thoughts are of younger sweeter flesh.  Soft skinned pretty little things whom I imagine he takes, roughly as was his manner. Yet he is mine, my paid concubine and within his cnatural beauty I sense the essence of goodness which I crave within each man. Innocence unspoilt by life's journey. That somehow epitomises everything about my quest within ALANIAS, the ultimate gender reversal. I wanted to re-invent the feeling we had years before, as hormonal teenagers pawing through the latest Playgirl, gripped by guilt. I wanted to reconstruct the shock and uncontrollable goose-bumps of the uninitiated. Does that make sense?
Alania Dawes projected a complex and often disturbing figure. Dark forces never seemed to permit her to rest nor be blessed with happiness and thus ultimately this is a dark tale, and the figure of Alania herself no less tragic than any of her much maligned heroines. For Alania there was always an unfathomable interplay between reality and fiction and the lines that separated the real woman from her virtual caricature over time became almost indistinguishable.
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Non Nobis Domine
© ALANIAS 2008
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The Model
© ALANIAS 2013
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Alania Dawes’ Soliloquy
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