Friday, 23 October 2015


The movies we watch are replete with beautiful people rapt in admiration of each other, climbing a steep gradient of unrestrained passion to an explosive sexual fulfillment.
It can happen that way. To some. Rarely.
Yet judging by the movie industry, and including the TV, as well as pulp-paper striptease-inspired book covers, it is a constant, omnipresent course of true love.
Balderdash. Nonsense. Total hogwash. 
More often than not, true love takes on quite a different course. Most people are shy, particularly when encountering their counterparts towards whom they sense, almost subliminally, an unexplainable yet drawing attraction.
The problem lies in the total misconception of what love is. For the vast majority of females (as against women), and presumably an equal number of inadequate male counterparts (again in contrast to men), love is equated with sex. Preferably explicit sex, often with dominant or subservient partners bent on sating their hormonally stimulated deviations.
This speaks of majority, or at least 50% of fifty shades of mentally deficient males and females. Far be it for me to suggest that men and women do not on, often frequent, occasions venture into unknown realms of the filigree of experimental physical role-playing. To each her or his own. Both men and women partake in such games. They do not sink, however, to the roles of unfulfilled voyeurs to make up for their inadequacies.
One thing is certain. After watching the entertainment industry for some time, we must conclude that the so-called “Western culture” is characterized by a passionate love affair with murder and sex. The rest seems only coincidental.

It is not often that I exercise my quill, (read WALL—Love, Sex, and Immortality!) to write a love story. Yet sheer courtesy demands that I scribe a few verses of a love story without resorting to exorbitant lust, abject visual nudity, or explicit, preferably perverted sex.
Oh, yes…
 My lovers may well indulge in some departures from ‘mama-papa’ ordinances approved by orthodox Rabbis, but they could not think of a reason why the readers of their saga would enjoy their departures from an established course of accepted standard of lovemaking, rather than indulging in their own. Hence MARVIN CLARK is a love story, wherein two people long to share their lives, their dreams and desires, to become one, to join not just in body but also in emotions and soul.
Theirs is a journey of great commitment. They both found that only total sublimation of their respective egos offers true freedom. Perhaps, that is the price of true love.

A Love Story

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