My first full love happened to be with a French woman as well named Mylène. There aren’t enough words or feelings I could express about the passion we once shared. “Faire du sport” (play a sport) was our little colloquialism for having sex. “Let’s faire du sport we’d say” and we would. (I recently discovered there is a whole genre of Japanese erotic art called Shunga which when translated means “picture of spring”—a euphemism for making love). Our love making was intense and included the fine art of cunnilingus lest you’ve forgotten the title to my little narcissistic story already. Brag I do not, it was real. Charles Bukowski once said about some of the women he had known, “[they] knew something about life” and he was right; Mylène did too and I drank deeply from her spring until my insides burst.
The second and most recently consummated love (post separation from wife) was with an American woman named Lea. Lea happens to be one of San Diego’s youngest and brightest upcoming visual artists working today. She happens to revere Cool Hand Luke and has recently exhibited a whole new body of work comprised of boxing gloves—hand-sewn from paper and tape—and displayed underneath a full-size boxing ring suspended and turned upside down from the rafters. You see gentle reader—my story’s starting to make sense.
I would like to think I’m partially responsible for this body of work—as a muse, source material, inspiration, whatever—as I saw a vast majority of it being painstakingly assembled under my admiring eyes. Oh so in love ‘twas I! There’s a difference however (for an artist) between acknowledging an inspiration and their creative egos; in the artist’s world, ego is primordial, often blinding, their so-called original ideas are like original sin but they come at what price? Who pays?
Full speed, half blind
Full tilt, decline
You look so sad in all the photos I see of you.
Ah Lea, yes indeed. Nobody knew of the troubles we put each other through daily or the nights we made love in the car, on the couch, in the kitchen, on the carpet, at the foot of the staircase, the wine shop (if we could have), or letting our “freak flags fly” together, nude on Black’s Beach watching Bruno the Sumo Wrestling German Giant peddle his big fat belly and tiny little cock up and down the shoreline. Good times weren’t they? Did our desire override the reality? We waited so long, why? I loved this woman, I still do. “So it goes.” – Thanks Kurt.