The United Nations of Love (abbreviated version)

*in re-reading the following extended version of this blog, I found I liked to take the first and last phrases of each lover's verse, and so made an abbreviated poem out of it*



I welcomed Egypt to the ranks last night... and it was a peaceful night’s sleep, cradled in the arms of the Pharaoh’s grandson.

I once stood at the border of Egypt, in the town of Eilat, at the southern tip of Israel... we never made it across that border - into Egypt, nor into happily ever after.

Mongolia came as a surprise... I can’t say I helped to solve any of their internal crises, but did seem to revive the Motherland Party in a new and most progressive fashion.

Argentina called on me to instruct two of their finest... their tears have me adopting “Don’t Cy For Me Argentina” as a personal anthem.

Italy, ahhh, Italy.... Mt Vesuvius erupted thrice.

I will say this about Mexicans:... they just love to fuck.

The British men I have served proved to be very enthusiastic and adept lovers... and truth be told, I’m still a sucker for accents.

Columbia offered me an interesting proposition:... white light magic always works better than white powder.

Mmm... that reminds me of the Native American I encountered in my youth... I shall take up singing the chakra meditation of the Cherokee people, and endeavor to return to the tribes one day with better news of justice and peace.

Does a French Canadian count?... “Je vous envoie mon amour, mon ami, et j’espere que nous reverrons dans cette vie, ou dans l’autre...”

There were some Pacific islanders I tended to long ago... I learned some valuable lessons about international trading.

And now I look forward to the Tican arriving three weeks from today... and when it’s time to go... it’s time to go.

The United Nations of Love

Upon awakening in a strange and luxurious bed this morning, the thought came to me:

I am the United Nations of Love.

I hold session under the sheets.

I am the goodwill ambassador to the beautiful lovers of our world, and feel honored to be so welcomed and appreciated by such passionate people of foreign lands, near and far.

I welcomed Egypt to the ranks last night. The revolution came to a standstill as we negotiated new terms for a better future. We sealed the deal with a kiss, and it was a peaceful night's sleep, cradled in the arms of the Pharaoh's grandson.

I once stood at the border of Egypt, in the town of Eilat at the southern tip of Israel. Like so many other diplomats and presidents before me, I spent years in peace talks with the Israeli, used all my womanly prowess and persuasion to convince him to lay down his anger and fear, and cross the frontier into a new life of pure freedom and love. But a people's history of pain and persecution is not so easily swept away, even when exquisite thighs are offered up as pillows to rest the head of its worries and tumultuous past. We never made it across that border - into Egypt, nor into happily ever after.

Mongolia came as a surprise... I hadn't thought my skills and talents would be needed in such a land. As it turns out, they have a rich history of circus performers - arguably, the best in the world. With my gypsy background, I was intrigued and also ready to learn the fine art of body balancing, which I think I pulled off quite well, considering we only had one night for instruction and execution. I can't say I helped to solve any of their internal crises, but did seem to revive the Motherland Party in a new and most progressive fashion.

Argentina called on me to instruct two of their finest in the art of loverhood. I will admit, I had a minor hesitation due to the large age gap between us (you know how young men can become so easily enamored by the sheer dexterity and finesse an older woman has to offer)... but who was I to refuse a call from the likes of Eva Peron? (We share the same shoe size after all.) I tried my best to do nothing less than blow their fledgling minds, and quickly took leave, lest their tears have me adopting "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina" as a personal anthem.

Italy, ahhh Italy. I can't say it was one of my proudest accomplishments, as the Latin lothario stole from the bed of his bride-to-be to hasten to me. I was impressed, however, by his research... It seemed he had spent quite some time gathering news and information of my conquests, and his sheer curiosity and anticipation had simply overwhelmed him. He confessed he could not devote his life to his soon-to-be wife until he had paid homage to an Aphrodite. (Somewhat delusional,mayhaps, but definitely stroked my ego in all the right ways). We had a lovely tour of the countryside and other corporeal landscapes.... and Mt. Vesuvius erupted thrice.

I will say this about Mexicans: they should not be generalized, nor ever deemed inadequate. They are an amazing people, hard workers - dedicated to getting the job done. And quite different from one to the next. Aztec, Mayan, and even of Spanish descent. It's been quite the cultural exploration, and I am pleased to see how they truly pay just honor to their forebearers, despite being converted and conquered over time. I'll suffice to say, I completely understand how they have become known as such a breeding bunch... although it has little to do at all with the Pope or the Church. They just love to fuck.

The British men I have served proved to be very enthusiastic and adept lovers. Unfortunately, and I do feel awful to say it, but in giving a true account from my experiences abroad... it seems that even in this day and age, they do still struggle with hygiene. Likely, as my role dictates, I should have helped them to draft a new policy on this issue, but it just felt awkward... and truth be told, I'm still a sucker for accents.

Columbia offered me an interesting proposition: two brothers (not related by blood) whom I knew even as a young woman, before my career began. One was my first kiss, the other my arch nemesis. Yet, I tended to them both, at very different times in life. I am happy to say that I have always strictly forbidden the use of narcotics in my boudoir (or anywhere else in my sphere, for that matter), and tried in both cases to provide a more healthy and loving influence in their lives. In the end, my tactics proved successful, and I have every confidence that both brothers knew they held very special (and entirely unique) places in my heart. White light magic always works better than white powder.

Mmm... that reminds of the Native American I encountered in my youth. Cherokee. I was a mere 16 years old, and we shared a most spiritual and tantric evening in the spring rains of Texas. I dare say he was one of my first sexual shaman teachers, for I remember experiencing many "firsts" that evening. He told me he was able to see me as an old woman, and that I remained ever beautiful. (I have been clinging to that sentiment ever since.) When he walked me back to my gypsy wagon, in the rain, he bent on his knees, placed his head to my belly, and told me that he loved me - and I knew exactly what he meant. In that moment, that perfect night, we shared pure love, with no hope or expectation of the future. How I wish I might have done more to offer his people the dignity and respect he so lavished on me. Indeed... my work there remains unfinished. I shall take up singing the chakra meditation of the Cherokee people, and endeavor to return the tribes one day with better news of justice and peace.

Does a French Canadian count? They seem to be doing all right. At the very least, I was a brilliant light in the life of the Quebecois for three years. Or maybe a reflection of his crystalline meditations for love and life and spirit. He phoned the other day to say he is unwell and his lungs are ailing. Maybe what Montreal needs most is my soft cooing in their romance language.... "Je vous envoie mon amour, mon ami, et j'espere que nous reverrons dans cette vie, ou dans l'autre..."

There were some Pacific islanders I tended to long ago, Phillippino, if memory serves. They had lost their course and found themselves stranded in this tundra land. Feeling trapped myself at that time, I tried to barter a lift to Borneo. In exchange, I unfolded myself and spread like the sea beneath them. They rode my undulating waves all the way to their home... but forgot to fold me back up and stick me in the boat. Not very decent of them, but still, I learned some valuable lessons about international trading.

And now I look forward to the Tican arriving three weeks from today. I lived in Costa Rica for half a year, and remember the steaming heat of the jungle, and the savage wilderness. I remember the Pacific Ocean... beautiful, sensual, and inviting, yet all the while ready to smash you to the rocks should you not pay attention and heed its warnings. I know not what to expect from this summit, but imagine the best plan of action would be to enjoy it now as I did then: give myself completely to the experience, open myself to love, soak up the heat, the wetness, the wildness, the adventure for all it's worth... and when it's time to go... it's time to go.

I am the United Nations of Love. I am the melting pot. I am the swirling whirling Dervish twirling of sex and lust and connection and pure energy exchange... but this is no democracy any more than it is a dictatorship. There are no votes, or laws, or rules in love, other than this:

Be free. Be genuine. Speak your truth. Live life fully. Expect nothing. Give wholly. Enjoy the moment. Cherish the memory.

Personally, I wouldn't trade this job for anything in the world.

A Mi Hermanito...

How is it possible, this connection, this love?

I've known you since you were barely a man...

You would come, to see me sing. Your family became mine. We spoke little, but shared much, in a time long gone, laden with memories so precious, and deep.

Over the years, barely, subtly, few and far between, there were moments... Moments of dancing, and laughing, and always with music blowing in from the air of the sea...

What is this you're doing to me?

I spent the night heavy on your lips, as we kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed...

Drunk on everything - life and love and grass and beer - my mind tumbled like waves pulling me in and down and all around... "What are we doing?" I asked... "This is crazy," I said...

Crazy, si. Loco, verdad?

And yet... you are in my mind all day. The thought returns again and again: this, our love, makes more sense than anything I've ever known.

We are already family. We have already shared our lives, our memories, and the years. Whatever distance and time has separated us seems irrelevant: I feel that I know your heart.

Did you love me from the start?

I have been working hard not to fall in love. I have been headstrong, and taken so much pride in my free and wild life. "I don't want to be in love," I have said too many times to count.

And now... ... ...

Bricks and Mortar

My husband and I separated last September. At the time it was necessary, and most unfriendly. We had been renting a house in Uptown which neither of us would be able to afford on our own, so we found "separate corners" on opposite ends of town. He, who had moved here from Israel only a few years prior, had little in the way of possessions - only the few bags he originally arrived with, and a few things bought along the way. The bulk of what had "made our house a home" belonged to me - a shameful amassing of furniture, clothes, books, artwork, appliances, kitchenware, gardening tools, etc, etc. Paring down, as I knew I had to, was the most difficult part of the separation process. It was easy to let things go, but the weight of having so much to be responsible for, so much on my back, was overwhelming.

In those weeks of packing and moving, I was petrified, really. My life was in a tailspin and was spinning so fast I truly had no bearings about me. I was moving through the motions, with a lot of help from a whiskey bottle and some great hydroponic grass. I had amazing friends who helped me, watched over me, kept tabs on my progress. It wasn't until the move was over, and boxes had been unpacked, and a new home had taken shape that I began to really settle into my single life again.

It started with the home. A second-story duplex, large enough for me, my Chow Chow, my Siamese cat and dove. Of course, it took some getting used to, but almost immediately, I appreciated the sensation of a home filled with only my energy. No one else's shit laying around, no one's bad mood to contend with, no one to invade my privacy. My husband and I were still in a fragile state, finding it entirely difficult to communicate by phone (let alone in person), and after each fight, I was thrilled to be able to hang up the line and breathe and enjoy the safety and solitude of my space.

In our conversations, he made it evident that he was already out on the scene - in the way of women, of course. Men are so interesting in that way. As I had been focused on moving from one house to another, he was swinging. Well, I have no real judgement about that. It didn't bother me then, and it doesn't now. I understand how some people just need to get their rocks off, and can go bang any number of willing participants, and never look their direction again. I'm not this way. I was built differently. Indeed, in my newfound independence and single-hood, I had "built" not one, but two, new homes: the one I lived in with the pets and furniture and books and things, and the one I carefully constructed around my heart.

It felt good to begin to feel "single" again. Flirtatious by nature, I had tried my best in my marriage to curb my natural "come-hither-ness:" mindful of my words, my general affection towards people, my winks and ogles. Now, I was able to be that flirty Emily again - the Emily we all know and love. My immediate (and perhaps inappropriate) attentions turned towards a young co-worker, barely twenty years old. I had worked with him since he was eighteen, and always thought him a doll. I found him to be physically handsome, but it was his intelligence, his depth of thought, our long conversations over beers after work that I found most attractive. Of course, my other co-workers chided me for my advances - that I was trying to "rob the cradle," that I was a "cougar."

I resented this; I didn't really think the boy took me seriously, and was just trying to have some fun during the drudgery of the work days. Though I admit to crushing on him, it wasn't long before I, too, admonished my own behavior and cooled my hopeful intentions. He was good eye candy, but, I was resolved anyway that it would be a long time before I'd seriously entertain the idea of taking a new lover. The wall around my heart had been fortified. I began to construct a murky moat there as well, to ward off the other would-be suitors.

It was a few months later that the boy took me by great surprise: after closing down our restaurant bar, he suggested we go back to my house to have another drink and carry on with our (always thrilling) conversation. My ears perked up at the suggestion, and I agreed, although I checked myself immediately - surely, there was no hidden motive. That had already been long established. So, why not? I liked his company, and looked forward to hanging out with him in the comfort of my own pad.

Although the details are quite juicy, and would make for much better reading than what I've offered so far, I'll suffice to say that the boy came to my home and seduced me in such a way as I hadn't experienced since before I was wed. It was an all-nighter. I was pleasantly shocked and enthralled by the experience. His kisses were so divine, I could have fed on his lips alone, but he treated me to a grand feast of passion, which I won't soon forget. Only two nights later, he called again, this time inviting me over to his house. His young confidence and machismo lured me in like a she-wolf to the moon. Enchanted, and thrilled. I was simply thrilled.

But how did he do it? The walls were firmly in place. The moat had been filled. There was no boat. He had stormed my tower and reduced it to rubble. And I was glowing like the sun in Eilat. I couldn't even see beyond my own contentment. Didn't care to anticipate what would come next: his cool workplace demeanor, our less frequent after-shift beers, months passing with no word or exchange of our passionate nights together. Wtf? Was I so far removed from modern-day practices of casual sex? What was I expecting? Certainly not a twenty-year-old boyfriend, but could I at least get a refill on that soda pop???

Apparently not, at least not until a few months later, when he called and invited me to see a movie, which I did - curious to understand what the hell this boy was thinking?! By that time, I had been fired from the restaurant, and he had quit. I had already begun re-construction on my heart's wall, and though I considered just standing him up and letting sleeping dogs lie, my curiosity did get the better of me. It was strange reunion... we shared a bottle of wine, he chose a good film, we shared a much less passionate experience together. I think my walls were tougher to crumble this time around. I was less open and more leery of his advances. We agreed to stay in touch, and get together again for drinks sometime, but never did. The story ended there.

It's been months since, and my bricks and mortar have weathered the seasons well. There were periods of time - like my three-week trip to Mexico in February - when I allowed myself the freedom to indulge in another sexcapade, should I choose to do so. But I didn't. It's just not my style. I'm unfamiliar with the concept of casual sex. If I let you in to my Holy Chamber in the first place, there must be some level of deeper connection - as friends, in a spiritual sense, SOMEthing. And then, based on whatever that genuine connection is, I expect a certain degree of appreciation, of communication. I'm not even concerned with monogamy or fidelity, and accept that in a casual sense people can be lovers and enjoy infrequent rendezvous. But what I do find odd is when two people share their intimacies, and it passes by with no further regard. My girlfriends tell me it's common. My guyfriends say the same. I'm bewildered by it. I just don't know how to flow with all that.

I am reminded now of one of my favorite poems, "The Lady of Shalott," by Tennyson. The cursed lady lives alone in a tower near Camelot. She's not allowed to ever leave, or even to glance out the window, but catches glimpses of the world passing by outside from a mirror hanging near her loom. She sings, and weaves the images she sees, and lives thusly, alone but content. Until one day, the beautiful Lancelot passes by, and she catches sight of him in her mirror. For his beauty and her longing, she leaves the tower to chase after him, and the curse falls upon her. She finds a boat nearby, writes her name on its prow, dies, and flows towards Camelot.

I should resolve to remain safely in my tower. To sing and to weave the beautiful life and fortunate destiny that is mine. To avoid the lure of beauty and passion, as it has always been my curse.

They say sticks and stones may break the bones. I pray the bricks and mortar may save me.