Married to My Loverboy


Countless women despise pornography, for too many good reasons. I personally dislike the association that is often made between porn and the graphical erotic descriptions publicly presented on my sites. I wish to think that what I’m doing here is writing romantic stories, or posing in erotic photos, or just allowing (enjoying?) to be filmed while making love to my man. But, as expected, my thoughts don’t define any popular trend outside of my microcosm. Society at large will always treat an individual according to preconceived patterns. It’s the way things work in order to preserve stability and consistency: a healthy society must rely on traditions and continuity. Without permanent rules it would fall to anarchy and widespread social disease. Individual freedom is in many ways about privacy and only in few ways about society.

Young Guns and Their Innocence

A young gal will always know how to nurture the secrecy of love-making, to savor her romance, and passion, with, and for, her Prince Charming in an intimate realm, secluded at a fair distance, away from the urban buzz (because in the classical village things are almost impossible to cache), from the preying eyes, and ears, of strangers, from the cold indiscretion of the gossiping mainstream.

Put a distance between your private sphere and the unforgiving society. Your best motivation is that you are young and that you want to change the world, to make this earth a better place. You dream on the grand scale and you swim in a macrocosm of sorts, believing that your ideas will make a difference and that the mainstream might change course because you think so…

The Maturity of Midlifers

Two decades of experience will suffice to change your mind. Well, maybe one would do, the other you’ll spend figuring things out and getting your offspring to adulthood.

Menopause, naturally occurring before or around your mid forties (unless you have fed yourself with mainstream synthetic hormones), is a way in which your body communicates with your soul, telling you to let go.

Most of the battles you have fought had been lost even before you thought that you started them. Traditions are not only a safety valve — deemed to ensure the continuity of the social frame — but they are also a gray monument of indifference and, sometimes, of stupidity.

When young, you refuse to believe that things have went “that” far and “so” wrong. When mature, you know it, out of experience. Society is irrecoverable.

“The whole modern world has divided itself into Conservatives and Progressives. The business of Progressives is to go on making mistakes. The business of the Conservatives is to prevent the mistakes from being corrected.”

G.K. Chesterton said it in such a simple phrase. You don’t have to believe anything, just look, see and make your choice.

You may wish to become a Merkel and try to fix the Euro. Comes the carnival (Fasching) day and the crafty peasantry would call you a (F)erkel (piglet), model a huge six titted sow of foam, paint her in pink and parade the whole artwork on the back of a truck, stirring ovations and bitter laughter downtown. This is how traditions know to send the message back to you, be it of gratitude or thanklessness, or just a note to say that they’ve got the message, as “subtle” as it may seem to be. You lied to them, they mocked at you. It’s politics, the art of possible.

On the other hand, refusing to be an actor, you prefer the warm seat of a spectator, until the urban stench becomes unbearable. Then you move out, back to the good ole village, where they know how to keep a secret: by sharing it with the neighbors…

Giving up the public parks for a private garden, you run the time backwards, past modern and older traditions (which in essence are the same), until you find yourself at the beginning of time, err, history. There where the man and his woman were naked and not ashamed.

Did they make love before discovering shame in the cup of mixed truths and lies?, or that “fruit” of knowledge about good and evil? Who can tell?

Did their neighbors had a peep at them while at it? Who can tell?

What I can actually tell, to sum up the aggravating ramble of this article, is that my man “reinvented” innocence for a mature midlife housewife like me when he called me a “cougar bunny” — a cougar because I feel no remorse as I dare for his flesh, and a bunny because I (still) wish to hide myself behind the silent walls of shyness. I wish to be ashamed but I’m not sure that I can do that anymore.

It’s not about being someone as about doing something. What I do now? Just being married to my loverboy. Like holding him tight from the backside while we’re madly riding the Harley on the Autobahn, feeling the breeze pinching the skin on my bare bum. I’m all his and he’s all mine. Good that he’s the one holding the handlebar.

Oh, and thank God for the internet! At least we’re no swingers.

Wish you have the best Valentine’s Day to date! And keep tight!

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