Recently I’ve received a lot of massages and questions from readers; some of the questions are highly personal, some funny and some suggestive in ways that I feel that I cannot comment on them here.
Those that I can reply to, I will do so as time allows, and I am sure that those people who sent them will easily recognise the answer to their particular query.
To the kind gentle man who wished me a happy birthday I say a heart felt thank you. And I am grateful for his congratulations regarding the other subject, which is still a work in progress.
It seems that my friend Ingrid has already in her short mention in this narrative, created a certain amount of interest. She has struck a chord of sympathy with a few, one reader is sure that she knows who she is, while others want to know how she got into the sad and lonely position in which I found her that night in the kitchen at the party.
I realise that if I’m going to tell Ingrid’s story, there is a chance that I might inadvertently divulge more of myself in the telling than I desire to be generally known.
However, I cannot just write about her life since there could be a few things she would wish to stay secret; especially since her story has to include references to people, places and situations with whom and in which she might still maintain a working or social relationship. So I have sent Inga a message asking her permission. I am still waiting on her reply.
Of course the above two paragraphs have already let slip that I did, and do, have an ongoing relationship with the beautiful woman known as Ingrid or Inga. The nature of this relationship is as yet un-divulged.
To the question, and I quote: “Have I even fallen in love with any of the men who you’ve fucked?” – the simple answer is, no.
Having said that, there have been some people, who, in spite of the fact that they are admitted serial adulterers, because of their interesting characters have found a special place in my heart, and one or two have become firm friends with the woman they are acquainted with.
In my life I have only ever been truly in love only twice.
The first was early on in my year long journey around the world, a story as yet untold. In spite of the length of years, and the distance I’ve travelled, some of the details of that erotic, painfully doomed romance remain raw and painful.
It is however my intention to give some accounts of that time in my life. Why? Because, I am a firm believer that our personal history; experiences, failures and successes bend and mould us into the people we eventually become. Although I recall every moment of my time with that man, it was a time when the heart ruled over logic; my brain it seemed was away on vacation.
I do and I don’t, regret the strange way my life has gone. I regret that I haven’t lived it as my mother did; one man forever; no questions asked; no desire to indulge in anything more daring than switching from missionary to doggy and back again
Of course I might be making a horrible assumption here; am I in fact the daughter of a wild swinger, who has a profile on Tinder or on one of the other contact websites, and regularly travels into the city to indulge in afternoons of wild sexual horse play with unknown men? I am feeling quite nervous now, that I am going to find her picture and details where I don’t want to look for them.
There is little point in dwelling too long on regret. I have done what I have done, and so far I’ve (miraculously) managed to do it without hurting the people I love.
No, since the incident of the Italian I have not allowed anybody, with exception of my husband, to take erotic photographs of me.
Even though I was born a Catholic, baptised and have received communion, I do not believe that confession is a good way to mend all fractured relationships. Ignorance can be bliss. I could go on about this subject, but in the end we all have to decide what to do when our consciences prick us. As you know mine pricks me constantly, but I have no desire to cause an ocean of pain to others, just to take the analgesia of truth to dull the pain of my own repressed discomfort.
How many lovers have I had? And am I going to tell about them all?
How many lovers can a woman have in just over three years and less than four?
There have been more than a few, but not as many as some people have tried to guess.
Is the tale of a woman who has had a hundred lovers, more interesting than one who has had just ten?
On the other hand the tale of one or two lovers would not be as interesting as that of ten or twenty.
So far I have described only one (the Italian) and a small bit about the Canadian, and this blog has already grown to seventy two posts. Imagine how large it would be if I wrote all the details about every lover I have allowed access to my most intimate of areas?