ESSAY: My Love Was Supernatural (I was feeling it on the Internet)

Re-posted from July 3, 2013


My Love Was Supernatural (or the story of the tall upstanding oak).

(Written in 2000 about Muse 1, from London, UK)

Dear Oli,
Glad you remembered to ask about this. It’s been done for months now. Some of the references may be outdated, explained, exhausted by now….but hope you enjoy it….remember…it hasn’t been published anywhere. I’d like it not to change. But, if you’re freaked, explain. S.


My fortune cookie read: “There is a true and sincere friendship between you both.” The Playgirl magazine informed me that “A Latino lover will tell you you look good all the time!” Mom warned, “ya can’t trust men.” An ex-lover insinuated, “just keep ‘em spread.” A friend cautioned me to “go slowly.” To which the man himself calmy replied: “She has a crystal ball does she? They all do….”

Men and women are driven into two kinds of relationships. According to writer, Anais Nin, the first is a “needs” relationship, the second, “wants”. The first relationship is a bond that is formed between two people on the basis of a need. Negativities. Based on insecurities and losses, a person comes to being with another to fill a gap, compensate a mistake, replace meaning.

This kind of relationship can be illustrated by the wallflower that stands against the wall. Leans against something. Needs something to lean on to grow. Or wilts. The typical ‘mine’s an instant Friday night built-in date of a boyfriend’ type. Right. You know the kind. Matching settees in their shared box flat and the flashy cutlery to go along with it. For the dinner parties, you understand.

The wants bond is the opposite. Here, the flower can grow on its own. And. Simply comes together with another. But not for parasitic intentions. To share sunlight and space. To be distinctly individuated whilst fundamentally similar in a blissful union under radiant lights. Growing together toward enlightenment. The boys and I are going to the strip bar. Meet you back here for some lovin’ by 2 a.m. Right then. That kind of thing…

To date, Anais Nin was probably one of the first modern women in the 1930s to really give expression to how a female artist feels in her relationship or friendship with a male. That is, an artistic male. Nin struggled with her potency as an emerging talented writer of intelligent philosophical meanderings and erotica, against her socially prescribed “maternal/mothering” duties and the power of Henry Miller’s penis and pen. Between, Christ my book is better than yours and Would you like sugar with that dear Henry, Nin crafted her way into the literati.

Ever hear the one about the vixen beauty who sleeps around with lesbians behind her husband’s back and then abuses him sweetly with details of the caper in the aftermath of her own volcanic orgasm prior to the onset of his aborted ejaculation? There you’ve got the formulaic recipe of any one of Henry Miller’s novels, novels about his slutty (but beautifully daring) and mental wife June who stirs up shit every which way she can. Easy plot line. Like. Slap a vein call me Burroughs. Yawn. Get on with the show Miller. Back to the American Wasteland. Ho-hum.

But Nin did more than Henry to put into perspective, or give dimension to, the difference between men and women. She looked to and then beyond personal psychology for the answer. Her own reflexive analysis. She adequately identifies the contradiction between the patient’s need to gain self-sufficiency through psychotherapy and the inherent tension in the reliance on guidance and weekly sessions with her shrink, Otto Rank.

Rank departed from Freud to include the artist’s temperament in the consideration of neurosis and psychosis. Instead of pathologizing patients, this author of “Art and the Artist” instead sought to discover greater motivations for behaviour which included things like energy and creative intuition. (Rankian psychology at best being a swell defence for James Joyce’s efforts no doubt.)

While traditional psychology looks to the family dynamic and conventional gender roles to thus explain why Susie really does enjoy masturbating or why Lucy refuses to get married, Otto Rank’s psychology, in part for its focus on the temperament of the artist, is a useful tool to jumpstart any explanation of the reason behind the Female artist’s struggle in the world of Male-Female relationships.

Presently, I am falling freely for a man who initially introduced himself to me as, headless.

Send the doctor back home he campaigned. No shrinking here.

I believe my attraction to him is based largely on the function solid, strong and sensitive men serve in the lives of veteran neurotics and female artists, such as myself.

Headless and operating under a pseudonym, he recently explained to me how nature works. Said Fuck Nin. Basically. Take back the literary references he begged. Said that if the wall was not there. The flower would grow upon the floor, the table, whatever was closest. That’s nature. Is it so bad? Hell. “What of a tall upstanding oak?” he asked. What of a goddamned tall upstanding oak.

In the July 16th, 2000 issue of the London Sunday Times, Oasis frontmen, Noel and Liam Gallagher, graced the cover page of Section 5 giving their two-finger salute aggressively jeering readers into machoism. A pictorial banner, as it were, for Professor Anthony Clare’s article on the current state of malehood in the blessed United Kingdom. Clare, a psychiatrist admitting to ironing his own shirts and having slapped his children and not making it home for dinner alot, was in my opinion, really making a concerted effort to explain that men were in trouble. Truly. The article reports:

The British public school, with its rites of physical violence and intimidation by older males, was seen to facilitate the development in young boys of the self-reliance and emotional control that marked the adult male.
Serious commentators declare that men are redundant, that women do not need them and that children would be better off without them.

I shared this with my self-reliant object of desire thinking I was truly communicating my compassion for and understanding of how hard it must be for men these days to get on with women. My sensitive man had the following things to say:

That article man. I picked it up. Coz it had the boys picture. They do it all the time. Big article. Big picture. No relevance. Just hype & imagery. Read the first paragraph. Saw the picture. & sacked it. Some Doctor who cross-dresses. But he didn’t divulge that information. Telling me how it is. So Spineless. It was an apology to his kids & wife. Nothing more & nothing less. That article wasn’t aimed at the masses.

But for you S I’ll dig it out & give it a second go.

Yeah I understand all this women can do with out men. & men can do with out women. No I don’t. I figure people need each other. Which ever combo suits. Even if it’s just to communicate. Yeah roles change. But natures locked a few controls on auto pilot. To ensure destination. Some people decide to bale mid flight. (Tell you a story of how I’ve loved & how I’ve failed) …

Today, gender differences are being deflated at every opportunity to maintain what is termed “equality” between the sexes. There never was, nor will be, equality between the sexes. The sexes are not equal. And that’s why they need each other. And dang, I like it that way! ‘Cause my man makes me randy when he goes on about nature and expresses his need for women all with beanz and gusto, confidence and bravery.

Perhaps we can only now come to respecting the differences between the sexes because we have considered the dangers of neglecting them. A man who does not understand that a woman may suffer severe PMS monthly, will not be sensitive to the idea that her emotions are out of whack at the said time or, why her mood is slightly off-balanced. We owe much to women’s movements and public advertisements like tampon commercials for alerting men about the female’s world.

However. Once the man’s knowledge of this woman’s monthly curse has been fully validated by television commercials, is he all that different? Perhaps these commercials simply enhance his understanding of women’s issues but what better way of coming to realize a woman’s situation than simply asking her how she feels.

As many men do attempt to empathize with women, some are in fact scorned for their ‘presumption’ at trying to know how a woman feels.

A beautiful man I know cracked a joke about it saying he looked after his pretty woman when he went out to the shops but knew all too well to stop off to take out a bloody bank draft, yeah. Them things are expensive. Price o’ two pints sometimes for all the fixins.

Herman Hesse called me the other day to duly confirm that yes, he did actually think he was writing a good book when he penned “Steppenwolf.” See. An old lover gave me this book to read with the inscription on the front page that read: “This is a book about bravery. Happy Christmas Miss Hill.” Thinking that the gift was meant to inspire me, give me a clue say about how he felt about me, or directions on how to live wisely, I became so outraged at the end of my read I got an anxiety attack. I couldn’t figure out if my anger was directed more at my poor choice in stupid men who knew nothing about wooing a woman properly in that he imposes his own likes upon another without any slight desire to ‘share….’. Or. If I was just pissed that Hesse is so revered.

Have you read Steppenwolf? It’s a book about an old scholar who wants to off himself, being plighted with the Dostoyevsky sickness and the general malaise of the discontent cursed upon men struggling between the contemplation of the goddamn universe, human beings and capitalism. Right. So. Just as he is about to go and kill himself, he gets approached by a woman in a bar. She’s a callgirl and she saves him. Like his fucking mother offering him drink and health. She is his intellectual match. Smart as she is, Hermine sets the Steppenwolf up with a foxy number named Maria. For sex only, mind.

Contemporary female writers such as Nichole McGill with her book, 13 Cautionary Tales, or London-based Dubliner, Lana Citron through Sucker, both address this dangerous split down the middle of Woman that slice-sections her off as Smart and Hottie pants, respectively. In light of the typically male canon of boyzclub American writers like Hesse, McGill and Citron come on the scene challenging the colours and removing the die: recasting women in urban tales telling the stories of what could happen if Hermine and Maria saw Herr Haller as the decrepit fuck he really was.

Is it me here or has anyone else realized that Herr Haller, our protagonist, is a happy man given that he’s got one babe for his brain and one for his balls.

No thank you sir.

A real man can handle the two-in-one combo. It would appear my man can. While rejecting his fellow gender’s opinions and confessions about manhood, my guy insists upon his own thoughts and experience and drives it home with force, conviction and belief that traditional ways, the way of the woman and the man, and marriage, still exist.

Question: if an apeish man inspires a successful, independent woman to find strength, like a vine’s spine or a flower’s stem, enough to lean upon a fine upstanding oak, are not the differences between the sexes again apparent in her resulting weakness or subservience to a stronger one than she?

But then he tells her: “Believe me when I say I’m strong. I usually take the weight. Its just of late. The ‘motions have sought me out & they figure on giving me a kicking….”

I found him in the backyard of his own overgrown headspace, as he called it. The place called Innocence where he admitted that he wants to love simultaneously, whole-heartedly and questioned if there was such a thing. Only on them Wonder Years, yeah yeah. Freefalling was for kids we somewhere along the line decided as adults and all too eagerly he was struck with a “4 week by 2 mile smile” upon his face at her Guinness-induced declarations of fierce attachment, attraction and desire that just couldn’t keep quiet. Whether he was glad to be of assistance to a helpless lady, or that he could lose himself and feel intensely for the first time with her, we’ll never know. It’s all very subterran these dynamics between the Man-Boy and the Girl-Woman.

If an apeish man, by definition of his direct refusal to be direct and instead persistently communicate shades of grey, decides a woman retrospects too often and over analyzes too eagerly, is he not suggesting, nay forcing her into his own world of silence and unarticulated emotions? She is otherwise considered a nag for speaking up then?

If a brute man inspires a woman to become more womanly if only because his force and opinion arouse her to the degree that she wants to maximize the distinction between the sexes to feel more the difference and amplify the contrast with a sexy dress and striptease, is not the whole argument of feminism gone out the window?

By definition of Desmond Morris’s view of man as animal and taking into account the perspectives related by Nin, it becomes increasingly apparent that men are seriously sensual beings for all their prowling and protecting.

Calculated exactitude vs clumsy is where it’s at. A man who knows how to take it slow. How to watch his woman heave and breathe loud fire of wonderment and excessive pleasure. Maintaining strict eye contact while tonguing her to fucking oblivion. How to watch her. How to observe her. What to intuit. What to know. How to say it. Where to perceive. Why to make love to her and when. Has got nothing to do with macho and everything to do with listening. Paying attention. Beholding….

For the first time in my life, I feel like a woman. Again: I feel like a woman. Thanks to a man. And, as long as I’ve a vessel and a vulva, will I be in constant need of one thank you very much.

It’s a rather saucy thing to simply imagine being twinned and entwined. To be wed. Sky’s the limit I suppose with a man willing to trash history and be the indescribable. Willing to soar and fly into the eye of the storm and to hang out a while with her in surrounding chaos. A nagging bitch she is too intense? Or. A solid upstanding bloke good for the leaning. It’s again, very subterran, really. Operating, laying underneath the leaning. In secret. My love is supernatural.

To me. There is nothing more lifeful. Hard penis. Heavy muscle. Hidden emotions. Loud, fine smells. Armpits. Biceps. Rough faces. Bellies. There is nothing more sacred than complying to be overtaken by a heavy man twice my size; a man who feels as deeply as the most emotive woman but secretly stores it, neatly conceals it, in a place only selected lovers can safely access. To release myself and my day between the legs of a sincere man who admits the desire for kelp forests in his mind and the wish for a woman to read his thoughts as he labours and makes efforts to know and intuit hers, this, makes me feel golden. See. Men will dig for subterran treasure when their gravity fields are challenged; when they’ve been awoken they will kindly ask to be co-pilot. Not pilot. Co-pilot. As He acknowledges how She soars in craft, independence, and sensuality, the male traveler stands by ready to re-fuel she who flies incredibly high. They journey together as a perfect pair. Or not.

Ideals he said were filled with precision and procession. When the guests are gone, so too is the cutlery and we all use our hands anyway.

I understand Hockey and Football season now through the intelligent and insightful nature of this man. While I was quick to scorn men for speaking in code over sports games I now appreciate the allure of the secret language.

Except some men just don’t know how to get off the pitch and start playing with their own balls.

This man of “mine”. He believes there is a plan in music, see. That a rockstar can have a plan to circumnavigate Venus’ erogenous zones with a tchune.

I would gladly step down and take my place among the ranks for he is the artist magician for whom my creativity resounds. He plays Beatrice to my Dante, actually. Twigged wreathes in his hair and all.

It’s all quite subterran, mind. I’m not sure I know what the hell is going on either. Afterall, I met him on the internet.