Friday, May 13, 2011

The Friday Sex Blog [Love Lessons]

¡Hola! Everybody…
Life is about to get "interesting" for this blogger... the waves? The surf is up and the it's getting rough. Wish me luck.

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Love Lessons

“The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.”

Just to set the record straight I am 55 years-old and for most of my adult life, I have been a committed bachelor. I have had countless relationships, many casual, a few serious, but for most of my life, I have been single by choice. I have no regrets. I like it that I’ve been single for that long and consistently. With the exception of one woman, I have never married, though I’ve lived with women over the years. I am not looking for a long-term relationship – nor have I ever.

Does the above sound like a hopeless romantic?


I am as far removed from the archetype of the hopeless romantic as you can get. Women -- women looking for serious relationships -- stay away from me. LOL

Yet the fact remains that you will be hard-pressed to find a more romantic person than yours truly. If you’re the object of my passion, you will feel as if you’re the only woman in the world. I will write poems in your honor, make exquisitely and excruciating slow love to you, perform solitary parades to celebrate your returns, mourn your departures. You will remember our first kiss because the attention to detail devoted to that most anticipated of moments will make you wet with appreciation.

I am not a “good guy.” I’m the man your mother warned you about. You may hate me when it’s all done, but you will remember me.

I have broken countless hearts and have had mine shattered into a million pieces so many times, I no longer even bother trying to put all the jagged shards together. It’s there, this heart of mine – cracked open.


I share all this in the interest of transparency because the one thing I bring to the table is my honesty -- my earnest desire to be as real as I can be. Later you may scandalize me, but you will never be able to say I wasn’t true.

My first kiss was with a girl named Emily. I was twelve years-old and I can remember that dark winter night and the song was playing over her transistor radio (Mellow Yellow). I remember I closed my eyes (I always close my eyes) and I remember we kissed on a dare. We both liked each other, but I was too shy to do anything about it until one of my cousins dared us and we kissed. It was a delicious kiss. My heart thumped. After that first kiss, we would meet every night in that tenement hallway and kiss. One day she let me kiss her nubby breasts, which I kissed tenderly, and another night I ventured and felt the moist wetness between her legs. She moaned…

We almost broke up because my cousin, who was jealous, insisted that a blister on Emily’s lip was some kind of sexual disease (it was a fever blister). Eventually, her mother caught us kissing (on the rooftop), we weren’t allowed to see each other, and when the summer recess came, they moved far away. That was my first heartbreak (and hers).

I was very much a nerd in those days, extremely shy around the opposite sex. Not long after Emily, my first lover, the raven-haired beauty, Victoria ("don't call me Vickie"), our 16-year-old babysitter, came to me in the middle of the night and thrust her hairy pussy onto my face. I remember the pungency of her sex and feeling somewhat confused, until I flicked at her with my tongue and she groaned. We would make love like that for months, until my mother came home early one night (she was working a night shift at a factory) and caught us in the clinch. Victoria wasn't allowed to babysit after that, but it didn't stop us. Many years later, I ran into Victoria and she confessed feeling guilty at having corrupting me, but I assured her that I felt gratitude for having been corrupted by the lovely Victoria. We laughed...

I would fall madly in love at 14 with a girl named Milva. Milva was intelligent, was a writer (or wanted to be one), and was one of the few people who could keep up with me intellectually. When we made love, it was like a poem the way it unfolded. We made love under the boardwalk at Brighton Beach's Pier 6. I loved Milva with all my heart and we were the most popular couple in our high school. Milva had jet-black hair, large and intelligent cherry-brown eyes and a petite but curvy body.

Dang! We were so hot for one another!

Milva left me one day for an “older guy” (someone in college) and that was a devastating loss. It would be a while before I could love again in that completely open and fearless way. Afraid of rejection, of being hurt, I turned to literature and began reading all the “Great Books” of the Western Canon. Having lost at love, I explored my intellectual side and I drank greedily from that cup.

I always moved between the landscapes of my heart and mind and, in many ways, I was in love with love. Towards the end of high school, Milva would return to me, but it was too late. Besides, by then I had Mona, a fierce Milva rival. Mona of the cinnamon colored skin, the insatiable need for sex. God! We spent a torrid summer years after high school in each others arms. She even threw out her husband. We made love everywhere and every which way. Mona was the first woman would gave me her ass willingly. Life was good.

Over the years I searched for the ideal way to love, sometimes through the eyes of that 12-year-old and occasionally with the wisdom of a maturing young man.

We all have a 12-year-old inside, that adolescent boy or girl in search of the perfect love. Our stories may be different, but we bring them into all the aspects of adult relating, influencing our styles of communication, our conceptions of intimacy, our degree of sexual openness, our values, our hopes, and our dreams. And because our stories are different, we sometimes collide, confronted with the inevitable conflicts of love. Until we make these internal stories conscious and become fully willing to explore them with our partners -- with understanding, patience, and compassion – we will never know true intimacy.

Without intimacy, life withers away. As all the great poets have noted, we need each other, deeply, in order to survive. When faced with love, we find ourselves reflected in the eyes of another and, if we’re able, we can grow together through this stormy search for self. Through love, our souls can unfold – like a rare and beautiful flower. We embrace, we discover each other, we grow, but still the mystery remains.

I have never found the perfect love of my idealistic adolescence, but I found something far more rewarding-- my true self. And the voices I’ve encountered along the way -- the books I’ve read, the women I have known, and the stories we’ve shared along the way – these are the seeds from which the man who stands before has grown.

Yo soy el hijo del cariño y tambien de la dulzura.

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