Cellar Heat

Wednesday, September 16th, 2009 by Vanity Kills

Tags: Hot Topic Lippy, Institutionalized Bondage Stretch Twill Houdini's Assistant Hobble Skirt, Serial Killer Chic, SlasHer
Posted in Lethal Style |

Cellar Heat

I glanced into the aged, dirty bathroom mirror one last time. It reflected a pallid, blue eyed, bottle redhead and something else most people couldn’t put their hands on. They called it a “presence”, they called it “snobbery”, they called it “The Condescending Whore Syndrome”. Whatever. I called it having nothing in common with them.

Not to mention that my cold, calculated distance drew these simple creatures in like the moth to a flame. I mean, really, come to think of it, my modus operandi was nothing short of flawless.

I fabricated this unattainable persona that evoked the awe and admiration of all these losers. It was child’s play. All it really took was a tightly corseted waist, glossy hair, mile high shoes rarely seen outside of strip clubs, or other such establishments of ill repute. Walking in like you owned the fucking place. Correction: KNOWING that you did. I’d stand just barely outside the perimeter of the dance floor on a weekly basis, drink in one hand, red and black handheld fan in the other. Sneering in disdain at the masses of flesh writhing before me in an awkward, off beat fashion as I aloofly fanned myself. How badly they wished to be me. How alien yet desirable the concept of style and grace must have been to them. Oh…and how I ever exploited that very longing…

Was there anything a boy wouldn’t do to have me on his arm?

Would a girl not sell her soul to swap style secrets with me in the bathroom in-between re-applying fresh coats of lip gloss?

This damn near deification made my job as a predator that much easier.

Starved for my attention, they’d nearly fall to their knees in reverence at the tiniest acknowledgment of their existence. I’d feign interest long enough to persuade them to follow me into the venue’s cellar. On average it usually took about 10 minutes, before they allowed themselves to be escorted into the damp, dark recesses of the dilapidated dive bar they frequented every Saturday night like clockwork. I’m not sure if they expected drugs, carnal pleasures or any combination of the above, but in the end it mattered none to me.

I did however enjoy watching the anticipation of temporal indulgence transform into fear. It lasted about a nanosecond, but I always wished that I could freeze time in order to prolong it. You could say that I got off on it. Yeah, if anything had ever come close to evoking arousal in me, it was that delightful fleeting moment where their pupils would dilate, muscles grew stiff with adrenaline and their hearts synced to the beat of the Hocico song currently being played upstairs.

And then I disposed of them.

The method in which I took their life varied from weekend to weekend, depending greatly on my mood, my outfit and the amount of fight that my prey had in them. I won’t get into detail, as a lady needs to keep her secrets. I don’t ask you how you play with your toys, now do I? It’s none of my business, really. I only ask that I be allowed the courtesy of keeping my private life private in return.

I will however confess to finding great joy in watching them expire to the tune of Suicide Commando’s “Bind Torture Kill”, because I love nothing more than the deliciousness of irony. It’s as if the DJ upstairs knew of my extracurricular cellar activities. Accept that he didn’t. Which made everything a tenfold more satisfying.

I enjoyed out- of- towners, which were a rarer but a significantly more aesthetically appealing treat the most. Cute rivet boys with their dyed black undercuts and asymmetrical lip rings. Lithe, statuesque deathrock girls with hair that seemingly defied gravity. Being entertained by these gorgeous specimens for the duration of an evening in my humble underground abode always made me feel like life is worth living. Come dawn, if they still had a face, I’d even kiss them.

A loud thudding suddenly put an end to my seemingly endless string of daydreams and musings on the fine points of separating skin from tissue (It’s so cliché and you’re totally going to laugh, but I did occasionally enjoy wearing the faces of exquisitely beautiful young ladies, much like Venetians enjoyed their silly gilded masks). The resident DJ began playing that godawful C-Drone-Defect track complete with those banal American Psycho samples and all the males felt it was their duty to battle it out on the dance floor in a pathetic display of their alleged manhood. Their lame little Testosterone Fest managed to irritate me every single time. That song should have been retired six years ago. And American Psycho samples? Are you serious? Stomping around to that garbage makes those little boys who fail in every other aspect of their life, both professional and romantic feel like such big strong men for a whole five and a half minutes.

Yet all that manly bullshit is nowhere to be found when I’m shoving their intestines down their throat.

Alas it’s time to stop lollygagging about this dusty old cellar and allow myself to be absorbed by the party atmosphere of the main floor. As usual they will all stop and stare when I walk in. Study my every movement with bated breath, wishing, hoping and waiting for their lucky day when they’re finally granted the access to my private sanctuary to arrive.

None care for their dearly departed friends.

Awaiting their turn with utmost anxiety leaves them with no time for mourning.

I applied one final coat of mascara, winked at the redhead in the mirror and seized the night.

For a crime scene chic look that kills:

You needn’t resort to played out “shock tactics” such as dousing yourself from head to toe in a gallon of Party City purchased blood to slay the heart of the cute boy at the bar. The line between “gory glam” and “gaudy” is a fine one indeed. Choose form fitting, feminine pieces that hint subtly at the macabre for an ensemble that’s wearable outside of October 31st related festivities and Psyclon Nine shows.

Nothing says “serial killer swagger” like a pre-shredded top! No, Ma’am, no more late night DIY butcher knife-meets-shirt surgery for you. Try the SlasHer Girl’s Long Sleeved Shirt, already sliced and diced for your convenience. Alas if baring an exposed midriff on a crowded subway en route to the club, puts the HO in HOmicide too much for your liking, pair with a red and black polka dot waist cincher. Now your split personalities can finally be at peace. The slutty femme fatale can enjoy the sheer black “leaves just enough to the imagination” top while the more modest yet figure enhancing aspects of the corset will appease your slightly more demure side. Figuring out how to stop your alter egos from executing unsuspecting individuals is another story though

+

Peekaboo underwear which repeats the cincher’s pattern in a slightly different, yet still relevant color scheme showcases your rack as a most definite point of interest. Don’t get pissed off if some tool doesn’t know what color your eyes are, but let him buy you a ton of drinks anyway.

Visceral statement making neckwear, such as this piece inspired by a certain blood pumping cardiac muscle lets the world know that you have nice jugs AND passed 10th grade anatomy.

+

Create a sweetly sadistic silhouette with Institutionalized Bondage Stretch Twill Houdini’s Assistant Hobble Skirt. The massive D-rings provide a nice alternative for chicks who always secretly wished to be cenobites, but didn’t want to deal with the whole messy process of HAVING GIANT MEAT HOOKS JUST CHILLIN’ IN THE FLESH OF THEIR THIGHS.

Slightly immodest but nonetheless related addendum: Girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl, the back of that skirt is a one way ticket to Free Drink City. And that is all I’m sayin’.

+

Spooky stockings adorned with bones collected from your victims (serial murderers do love to keep trophies, don’t you know?) combined with glossy black vinyl “refined harlot” fetish footwear turn you into one sexy sociopath.

For a drop dead gore-geous do:

Flat iron hair within every inch of its life.
Then flat iron it again.

Skully hair accessories such as Dia De Los Muertos inspired hair flowers and “little ghoul lost” bows in a complementary crimson shade say “I’m playful, yet predatory”.

This week, renowned Buffalo, NY makeup artist Rachel Mazzie gives you the scoop on achieving truly KILLER eyes and lips.

Skin:

Step 1: Rachel applied a foundation primer all over my face in order to ensure a smooth, flake free application

Step 2: She then applied a liquid foundation with a foundation brush.

Step 3: To camouflage any discoloration of the skin, Rachel attacked trouble spots with a concealer corrector which she applied using a concealer brush.

Step 4: She finished by adding a dusting of translucent high definition powder to set the foundation in place.

Eyes:

Using a brush with a tapered edge, Rachel applied light purple pearl paint shadow to the outer lid.

She then proceeded to add some white shimmery shadow to the inner lid also with the help of a tapered edge brush .

Rachel accentuated the crease with some darker purple eye shadow which she applied using a crease brush.

Black falsies applied were applied to the lashes for an ultra dreamy gaze

Both top and bottom lids of the eye were lined with purple eye liner.

Cheeks:

Rachel swiped some pink blush on my cheekbones using a blush brush

Lips:

Rachel filled in my lips with pink lipliner. Then mixed pink lipstick with shiny sand hued lig gloss which she then applied to my lips using a small lip brush.

Q: “What do you think when you see a pretty girl walking down the street?”
A: “One side of me says, ‘I’d like to talk to her, date her’. The other side of me says, ‘I wonder how her head would look on a stick?”

–Edmund Kemper

Credits:

Photography:

Luke Copping
http://www.lukecopping.com

Model:

Vanity Kills
http://www.modelmayhem.com/vanitykills

MUA:

Rachel Mazzie
http://www.modelmayhem.com/rachelmazzie

Taken in the glorious basement of Prometheus 233 studios in Buffalo, NY.

<3

Vanity Kills