Some of you may recall that back in the first week of this past December, I wrote a post called “The Devil May Care, But I Definitely Don’t”. In that post, I mentioned that I had started a new blog on WordPress a month earlier, for the purpose of writing erotic short stories and poetry, and also for posting my own original erotic photography.
I also mentioned that I had no intention of promoting my new blog here on Word Play, or linking to it, because I felt that my readership for Word Play would be the wrong audience for my erotic writing and photography. My own personal opinion, which I know is subjective, is that while my writing and photography on the new blog is genuinely erotic, I think that the content is also more sexually graphic than some of my readers who follow Word Play might appreciate, and there’s a real possibility that my readers here would be offended by it.
I still feel it wouldn’t be wise for me to promote my erotic blog here, so again, I won’t be revealing the name of the blog or linking to it here.
So then why am I mentioning the other blog here at all?
I guess that it’s hard for me to not mention it, when it’s been on my mind a lot today, after my most recent erotic post; a photo show of my erotic photography that I posted last night, which was so well received both last night and again today, by other WordPress erotic bloggers.
Here’s a few of my photographs that are more erotically subtle than sexually graphic…
But it goes much deeper than that, for me… I put a lot of work into selecting and posting my erotic photography, and while doing that, I also did a lot of reflection on the history of my love life, which wasn’t always as happy as it became, after I was fortunate enough to meet my wife Jean, in August of 1987.
This reflection on the less happier years of my love life, gave me some new insight on why things happened the way they did, and why some of my former love relationships were lacking in what both I and my former lovers needed from those relationships, and from each other.
The history of my adult love life began early for me, in 1973 when I was 17 years old, with a 16 year old girl named Colleen. Colleen and I both fell deeply in love, and with a level of complex emotional intensity far beyond our teenage years. Despite our very young ages, Colleen and I didn’t just have sex – we taught each other our first real lessons in how to make love, in a way that was genuinely loving, beyond just sexual attraction, excitement, and selfish physical gratification.
Colleen and I together in 1973. Photo taken by me, using a 35 mm film SLR camera mounted on a tripod, with the shutter set on time delay.
But our love story ended after only one year, when the cruelty of Fate separated us forever, and crushed our hearts.
What happened to end Colleen and I? Her father was a business executive for a large corporation based in Holland, and he took a higher paying position with his company… in Holland. He also took his family with him to live in Holland, and took Colleen away from me forever.
It took me a year to get over the heartbreak of losing Colleen, and at 17 years old, I was binge drinking every weekend, and smoking too much Marijuana for the health and well being of my still developing adolescent brain. While I didn’t consciously know it at the time, I became subconsciously scared of loving another girl or young woman as much as I had loved Colleen. I was scared of losing another lover as truly wonderful as Colleen was for me, and going through that kind of severely excruciating heartache again.
But I still wanted and needed a girlfriend, so I didn’t do what some guys do when their hearts get crushed – I didn’t avoid getting involved in relationships with girls or young women. Instead, without fully realizing what I was doing, or why I was doing it, I avoided the girls and young women who reminded me of Colleen – not just the ones who looked something like her, or who had personality traits somewhat similar to hers, but I avoided getting involved with the girls and young women who were loving and compassionate people.
Because somewhere in my wounded psyche, my emotions were telling me that falling in love with loving and compassionate women, meant being vulnerable to getting badly hurt again, and that was a risk I just didn’t want to take.
Instead, I started chasing the bad girls, who had nothing in common with Colleen, except for their willingness to have sex with me. But with one major difference… Most of the girls and young women I got involved with, after I lost Colleen, understood very little about making love, and they didn’t seem to really care, or want to learn more about it. But they sure did know how to fuck… which was fine with me, since making love meant being vulnerable to the risk of getting my heart broken again.
But my emotions were in a state of internal conflict, because while I thought that having lots of sex was great, I still felt like something that I really needed was missing. I didn’t realize just how much I missed the joy of making love, in the way that Colleen and I had experienced together, when we were teaching each other how to make love, and how to really love each other. I didn’t understand that regaining that joy was worth risking a broken heart again, because even if I had sex every night and day, sex without love could never replace the true joy and healing comfort of making love, while sincerely loving someone and being loved in return.
So I continued to avoid the women who were capable of loving me, and chase the bad girls who loved to fuck, and I ended up getting hurt again anyway, when some of the bad girls fucked me over. But that was my failing, because I had made the wrong choices when I chose to be with them, in the misguided belief that they were the safer choices for me.
In the years since then, I’ve often thought about how there are two popular mythologies that have contributed a great deal to the unhappiness of both men and women in their love lives, and also to their lack of understanding of each other, in a way that drives them apart and causes many men and women to hurt each other, instead of loving each other.
Romance novels promote the myth that bad boys are so much hotter than those boring nice guys, that the bad boys are worth whatever trouble they cause the girls and young women who are attractive enough to get a hot and sexy bad boy’s attention, and then “catch” him. Romance novels also promote the female fantasy that a good woman can change her bad boy, by getting him to give up being bad in the really bad ways, while still being very good, in that bad way she finds so attractive and exciting about him, to begin with.
Obviously, I know that many women don’t buy into this romance novel mythology, but a lot of women have, and it didn’t go well for them.
Playboy promotes the myth for men, that young women who are so perfectly beautiful and astoundingly sexy, that they can disrupt traffic just by swaying their hips and bouncing their large breasts as they stroll down the street, are always what a real man really wants in a woman. Not some far less impressive looking female who’s true beauty shines out from deep within her… No not her! She’ll just set a guy up for wise ass jokes from his friends, when they ask him which animal shelter kennel he rescued her from.
No, what the real man who reads Playboy really wants, is that smokin’ hot and sexy babe, even if her “beauty” exists only as deep and genuinely real as the impossibly perfect airbrushed skin of a Playboy Playmate centerfold photograph. Or even if she has the IQ of a fence post. I mean, cummon guys! Have you ever had great sex from sticking your dick inside a woman’s ear and screwing her brain? Of course not! So who cares if she can think? Even if they’re hot, the smart ones are just more trouble for a guy, because they’re harder to fool, and who needs that kind of extra aggravation, when women are such a pain in the ass to begin with?
While it’s true that I can’t blame either Hugh Hefner or Nora Roberts for the heartache of losing Colleen, I can absolutely blame Hefner for much of what I suffered from one woman in particular, who I first met when I was 19 years old.
Her name was “Delilah” and she looked like a Playboy Playmate centerfold come to life, that first night when she walked into my life, which would never be the same again. I was the perfect mark for “Delilah” twice over, because she was absolutely nothing like Colleen, so she didn’t cause my subconscious to fear her as the source of more heartbreak. So instead of running away from her, I aggressively chased her! Because back when I was 19, I was the man who read Playboy, and Hef had convinced me that a woman like “Delilah” was my ideal woman.
So now, let’s all meet Delilah…
Yes, that’s really her, and yes, I took the photograph. Which I edited out below her bust line before posting her photo here, because the original photo shows all of Delilah, without clothes and nothing left to the imagination. 38 DD x 25 x 36 is all anyone’s imagination needs to know about the rest of Delilah, not shown here.
But I’d be nothing more than a liar if I tried to turn Delilah into a total villain here, and then I made myself look like this great guy who was never at fault during the worst of our very stormy relationship. I’d also be dishonest if I didn’t admit that Delilah was some of the best of times as well as the worst of times in my life, and in unforgettable ways, both incredibly good and equally bad.
So I’m going to take the high road here, and just say that Delilah left me with more emotional scars than I had when we first met. She was my female version of the romance novel hot ‘n sexy bad boy, and I was the male version of the romance novel “good woman” who was sexually blinded by my bad girl, enough to delude myself into believing that I could change her. I couldn’t change her, and enough said.
Did I learn anything from my failed relationship with Delilah? Nope… I had the perfect opportunity to get involved in a new relationship with a young woman who had a bright and sunny disposition, and who was far more like Colleen, than she was like Delilah. She and I were on the edge of getting serious about each other, but we never made it… Why?
I met Natasha, and she was far more beautiful in real life, than in these poor quality pictures that were taken badly by a drunken friend, with a cheap point and shoot camera. But these photos are a couple of the few that I still have of Natasha. I was quite simply blown away by her…
Enough that I wanted to marry her, and spend the rest of my life with her, instead of only the two years that we had together, before it was over.
Natasha was a vast improvement over Delilah. She was not only beautiful; she also had a down to earth friendly and outgoing personality, and she had a great sense of humor. I truly loved her, but she told me early in our relationship, that she didn’t want to get involved in a serious relationship with any guy at that time in her life. I refused to accept that, and once again, I thought I could change her into who I wanted her to be, instead of who she really was. So after a month less than two years together, Natasha decided to break things off with me, completely and permanently.
I guess that it’s not only women who make bad choices similar to romance novel mythology, based upon a willful denial of the reality that is right there in front of their faces. Sometimes guys do it too, and the history of my love life is proof of that.
But at least I finally came to my senses, and I got it right in 1987, when I had enough sense to hold onto this woman, and not screw things up. I knew that she was the right woman for me, just as surely as I knew that I was alive, and she felt the same way about me.
And of all the women I was involved with, since I lost my first true Love back in 1973, she was the most like Colleen – only far better… and even better, I didn’t feel like I needed to run away from her.