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The Lovemaster


One of Rob’s favorite comics, Craig Shoemaker, has this bit he does called The Lovemaster. Being a better than average mimic, Rob has the voice and timing down pat, and I have to admit I love it when he goes into that Looovemaster voice. “I’m four inches, baby……most women don’t like it that wide.” or “I’m two inches, baby,…from the floor. I can stir your drink from over here. I’ll knock your front teeth out from up here, baby. Yeah, that’s me tapping you on the shoulder, baby. I’d show it to you, baby, but it’s stuck in my shoe.” Okay, it’s funnier with the voice, the sly smile and the bedroom eyes that Rob throws in just because he knows it makes me laugh harder, which is probably why he started reading his spam to me.

Have you ever heard this, “God! Your penis is so small!”?
Didn’t you feel stupid?
Don’t let girls prefer vibrator to you! Megadik will improve your situation once and forever! You should simply rely on this magic preparation!
“Oh! Your penis is so large!” Isn??t that what you just love to hear?
Soon you’ll be the only one girls will hunt for! Megadik is your real cure!

Thanks to the unquestionably annoying miracle of email forwards, my husband’s email address has been exposed to the world of penis spammers. A particularly vile, and probably very icky, group of people who prey upon male insecurity and entice them to part with their hard earned credit by purchasing all manner of enlarging devices and enhancement supplements. I can’t begin to explain, without permission anyway, how truly ironic that is on several levels. Nor have I any idea why any man with a working penis would jeopardize its functionality with untested medicinals and unproven devices. It’s not like women’s breasts after all. If a woman still has a viable top layer of epidermis over a set of pecs, tone doesn’t even matter, a good plastic surgeon can whip her up a serviceable pair of knockers in no time. But a penis is more complicated and, frankly, once it doesn’t work anymore a man is left with only a paltry, and rather sad, set of options. Still those penis people are out there wooing the weak, pitching their wares because apparently size does matter though I would venture to say that given the choice between an anaconda-like member just lying there across a man’s legs and an upright unit that’s ready to go, without the need of a hoist, most women would choose the latter.

Choose your size with Manster!
Finally you won’t be concerned with your size any more.
We have a new product that will make all your ‘se^xual desires real.
Forget what you’ve known before. The new era for you begins!
Women will go crazy!
Friends will be jealous!
And you will Finally your new life! Like a real man with a real penis!
Try MegaDik and take advantage of your new size!

But you gotta love the names these people come up with like Manster! Wonder what brain trust thought to congeal the images of man and monster in the same thought process. Did they worry at all that someone might think they were talking about a genetic melding of man and hamster? Or the felching images this might conjure, even? There is something I don’t quite understand here, however. How does size equate to pleasure? And is it more for her or for him? And does size really matter at all in drunken hook-up scenarios or when the whole “soul mate” issue is at stake? And how will a man’s friends know about the manster in his pants? Do men talk about dick size the way women trying to conceive discuss the color and consistency of their various secretions? Do they go shopping for Speedos together? If they do, they really ought to be giving each other more practical advice like “Dude, if you lost the muffin top the member might stand out more.” Finally, enhanced breasts don’t make a woman “real”. They just make her the chick with fake boobs. So wouldn’t a man just be a guy with a fake rod?

Women will never complain.

At last you will never worry about your size any more.
We have an offer that will make all your ‘se^xual wishes real.

There are many things sexual of which a woman might voice complaint, but size isn’t one that I have ever heard discussed unless it was to remark on over-endowment and ask for discomfort remedies. But as an example of a bad complaint, speediness is never good. Truthfully, a tad more foreplay and a working knowledge of the female anatomy would serve most men better than a pee-pee growth potion or whatever scary contraptions might arrive through the post in brown wrapping. Worrying about appearances is really the last thing anyone should be concerned about when clothes start coming off and juices are flowing. I don’t know how many articles in women’s magazines I have read that over and over reiterate the fact, one that men confirm by the way, that by the time they are naked with us, they really aren’t noticing much in terms of cellulite or rolls or wrinkles or anything else. While I admit that women aren’t that oblivious, we do not equate size with function. We equate function with function. It just needs to work. But, if a gentleman is really worried then merely demonstrating his understanding that the tongue is a multipurpose tool should save him an embarrassing credit card statement.

Spellbound


My horoscope earlier this week reminded me that I shouldn’t question why I am so lucky or whether or not I deserve the happiness and tranquility I know now. Rather I should bask in its warmth and know that I am entirely welcome to it. Like so many things these days, I am in awe of the peace and the sheer cozy joy of my life here in Canada with Rob.

The first time we meet in person came about a month after Rob had declared himself to me in a long rambling email that only he could write. I remembering impatiently skimming it to find his point because I knew there was more on his mind then just greetings of the day and updating me on his goings on. We had been writing to each other for about six weeks when he informed me that his feelings had turned more than just friendly. I was rendered speechless to the point where I couldn’t even type a reply and that, for me anyway, is true speechlessness. Our first sight of each other at the airport in Idaho Falls sealed our fates completely, interlocking our destinies for a damn long time to come.

Ten minutes ago, I saw you.
You looked up when I came through the door.
My head started reeling you gave me the feeling the room had no ceiling or floor.
-from the musical, Cinderella

I spent those first 36 or so hours with him nearly mute. I couldn’t look at him enough. Touch him enough. Be near enough. And I couldn’t find words enough to tell him so. And it wasn’t a dream nor did it even feel like one. The reality of him was as grounded and concrete as any experience I have ever had. I had dreamt of my future so often in the bleak times that came before that his arrival at such a time and in such a way pulled me up by the short hairs.

I’m not eloquent enough to count the ways or compare Rob to a seasonal time frame. I am not a poet. Nor can I fashion a tune or fill a canvas with what I felt that weekend and since. Even words, my friends in nearly all times, can’t seem to help encapsulate what is Rob or our love for each other. Both are boundless and ever expanding like the universe seeking its outer limits. Unlike the universe, however, there are no edges to be found and no inevitably advancing implosion. I know it and couldn’t tell you how I do. It’s like the feeling you have when you wake up and see the sun rising pink and orange and you just know that whatever the day brings, its all good.

Though the ensuing months with the thousand plus miles between us strained our patience and brought a few valleys and rainy days, that are just part of living and learning and loving, I still get that same feeling of Idaho Falls when I wake up next to Rob every morning. How will I ever find time enough to spend with him before old age takes its toll and claims us?

Better to Have Loved and Lost


Cliches about lost love never go out of fashion but they sure don’t fit all situations. I am continually amazed at the idea that some widowed people hang onto that somehow the death of their spouses is on par with divorce or separation or even the break-up of a romance.

Many of us are offered the dubious comfort of envy. Friends, relations, and even near-strangers, remind us that our marriages and the time we had with our lost loved ones is more than most people ever have the slightest chance to experience over the course of entire life-times it seems. Though not even a cold comfort, it is true. We were lucky and loved. What puzzles me is the idea that we “lost” at love. We didn’t. We were loved. We are in all likelihood still loved, truly and deeply, though it might be hard to reach those feelings when anger and pain and the feeling of being cheated are all we allow ourselves to feel at first, and in the cases of some – for a long, long time. But we are not losers. We didn’t end our relationships in front of a judge or discover one day after months, or years, that our inattention to each other had starved the emotions that once fanned desire. What we are is what remains of love after one of the pair is claimed by his or her mortality. It’s not pretty, nor does it feel good, but it is not losing. Nor is it consolation. It is what it is but leave the bitterness to those who are the co-authors of their love’s demise.

We chosen few have no reason to hang our heads or linger in bitterness. We are better for having loved, and being loved in return through all the heights and lulls that we know are soul enriching when others see them as valueless. I know that I gained more from the short time with my late husband than I will ever be able to explain. The love, as well as the pain and sorrow, separates me from those who are true losers at love. I gave my all. So did he. We played through to the true end. What more could anyone hope for?