Madonna-whores

I have some really beautiful music straight out of the Romantic era in the background. And I'm still thinking about Madonna-whores. I think every girl should be one at some time or other in her life, if only just to know what it feels like and to reap the constant joys. Because there are never let downs if you do it properly. Who knows how many men rush to the sexologist for the little blue pill? And God knows how many times the sexologist will refuse to prescribe the little blue pill. Because a good sexologist, or let's call him a sexual therapist (it sounds more decent) will know instantly if a man needs the blue pill or a Madonna-whore. Why are we called that, instead of just whores, or mistress whores? Because we have intelligently tapped into a market yet unidentified. A lot of men will fail miserably in the bedroom stakes when with the wife. So they suddenly think something's wrong with their baton, and for a lot of ignorant uneducated men, their baton is their be all and end all. It shouldn't, so many things offer pleasure, but there they go in panic. What really happens then is that things are not right with the wife, so they lurk on the Internet, sadly thinking their and their baton's life is over. So then comes a girl like me (like me in the 90's) who of course will always have time to hear another's sorrows. And the Internet has a knack of easing a person's opening up because of a monitor. We don't even have to wear mascara, we can wear comfy PJ's and say we're wearing nothing. Anyway, so the man will start drowning his worries by telling the girl (one like me in the 90's). They don't let on about their sexual problems (men never do), but a girl like me in the 90's would have known immediately. I remember smiling to myself a 4am when I was actually trying to kiss and make it better... through the Internet. So then suddenly the male counterpart becomes obsessed with meeting. And lays of any sexual advances, not because he wouldn't have liked to, but because he's so sure his baton will make a fool of himself. So a girl like me makes it sound kinky, ties his hands up, and ... kiss it better. And hey presto no baton problems. That is why we're called Madonna-whore. Because we've tapped into the market of the in-between. The poor guy cannot do it with the wife because she's so saintly (hence the Madonna), but can do it until a girl really thinks he's going to drill right into her abdomen (hence the whore). The problem is that then the poor guy thinks nature is telling him what to do, and that is, hook up with the girl. Wrong. Because then he'd go batonless again. I like Madonna-whores, they're so honest, open, nasty and beautiful looking creatures. I like to think there is a Madonna-whore in every woman. But I'm not so sure. At the same time, the most rigid could be the most talented.

The 90's

Now this thing has sent me right down memory lane. The 90's and myself. What exactly was I trying to prove back then? So I started out with a bad boy and loved it. Bad was exciting, I looked down snootily on all the other girls who had boyfriends who had curfews. Mine was so bad he didn't even know how to spell curfew (really), he had only gone to school sporadically, he was illiterate, at 15 he was a grown man. At 14 I was still a child. Numbers can be really deceitful. And he was the best-looking boyfriend around... at the time. Now, he's gone bald, toothless, dirty, a drug addict among many other things. He certainly isn't good looking now. And yet, then he had these beautiful curls which I would have died for. He was my first man, and boy was he sexy, and oh boy was he an expert in the sex department. There was no fumbling around with him, he knew it all. And it was so exciting that it fulfilled my department of being bored. I was getting a degree, he was riding on the horse with the guy 'tal-pitrolju'. True, I swear. Nobody has ever understood my need for this man, it was as if I were on crystal meth or something, the need was that bad. I thought I'd never live without him. I have, I've lived a much better life without him. But I guess I had to exhaust the bad boy feeling. It took 6 years and a lot of tears out of my life. Because bad boys come with excitement which includes them breaking your heart many times. And they promise they'll change... they won't. So I just got out and made him cry. And secretly I liked seeing his tears. There, I'd cried enough, it was his turn. But I'd entered the relationship when just a child and emerged a woman who knew every dirty trick in the book. I knew I had power over the male population. I knew I only had to flask my perfect pins and they'd come panting. I still don't know what I was trying to prove. I'd read enough Hardy, Austen, Greene, Bronte, not in that order. I was now out for the kill. And that paved the way for me starting to behave like a Madonna-whore without even knowing there was a name for it. I am not proud of what I am about to write but what's done is done now. I wanted another bad boy, and since, at 20 there weren't many around, I turned to look at 40, 50, 60 year olds. They weren't necessarily bad, but there was the bad aura about them, because they wore a wedding band. And that made it bad, terribly bad, fantastically bad enough for me. They were starved because they came from another generation and once they found me they were not going anywhere. I know it's bad, but I can smile even now. I became a performing monkey. The lengths men go for a job done, whether it be a hand or a blow one. The lengths men go for a doggy, or for something else which is too wicked to describe in here. And there they suddenly had them on a silver tray and would not withdraw (pun intended). They had it all, including a girl young enough to be their granddaughter, and it suddenly cured their erection problems as well as their imaginary prostate syndromes. And of course I loved the attention all the more because they wore a wedding band, and I would not make out unless they had the sacred wedding band on. It is really a kick if you cheat and open your eyes for a minute and see that the hand that is holding your face has a wedding band on and that the wedding band is not yours. It doesn't matter if that hand is making a mess of your hair, it's got a wedding band, so it's nasty. And I guess I was trying to prove one thing; the power of the female sex. It is really powerful. And that's how it was. But then came the millennium. And Love got in the way. And suddenly perspectives change because the dynamics of life change. And yet again suddenly I was thrown into agony, and the dynamics of life changed suddenly, too suddenly for my liking. There was I, once powerful, then a timid girl chained by her fears. I thought it would never be over. But I guess God forgave my nasty past. Perhaps by being a Madonna-whore God somehow thought I was offering a valuable service. Perhaps not. And perhaps he took pity on a girl hurting beyond description. Perhaps he thought I'd hurt enough. And I slowly walked away from it all... into the arms of another man. I thought he'd be bad again, which was perfect for me. Turned out, he wasn't bad but I loved him anyway. Because the best thing in life is to love and know that you are loved in return. And that's now.

Fulfillment

An anonymous someone left a message saying that mothering is not the only way to being fulfilled. Very good, that is so true. I am no mum but yet I am so fulfilled. And it's not through kids. So many people are fulfilled by so many things. But it seems sex is another big thing to choose as fulfillment. I know what I'm talking about. There wouldn't be so many married men straying. I don't do married men anymore, but ten years ago isn't a lot of years ago. And my guess is that things haven't changed much. There are thousands of men lying in wait and tyring to give the bait. And what for? What is their first reason to do this? Because they don't feel fulfilled. Which in many cases actually translates to.. they've woken up, watched free Internet porn and realised that they've never been given head before. They also have never done nothing except missionary, and it looks cool on screen and want to try it out before they die. They have opened their eyes to us Madonna-whores. It's not really fulfillment they're lacking, but good old sex, which for a lot of people means 100% fulfillment. Which is fine for us pretty young (that's me in the 90's) Madonna whores. We suddenly become like very busy bees, still the Queen Bee may I add, who are going from flower to flower. Well, flower... sometimes it's not a pretty flower, but it'll have to do. And then, us Madonna-whores discover that we don't actually need sex for fulfillment, because in that department we can do without all the blabbing and go for DIY. At least this girl does. I've realised that a good movie, a good book, a good conversation can all be fulfillment, and they come minus the STD's. I really don't know what we were trying to prove in the 90's but suddenly it's all changed. And it hasn't taken motherhood to make us realise it after all.