Two Loves E-Book

Z.J. Galos

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 119

Beschreibung

He exchanges electronic photographs with a friend, a potential lover perhaps, he doesn't know yet. Stunned by the patrician features of her portrait, a powerful magnetism of her has sparked his instant attraction. Her crystal clear eyes hypnotize him, denude him, and he falls prey to the amethyst aura of her innocence. Their clothes burn to ashes in their first embraces, powers of love drive their souls to an instant merging. Artemis! His fate. An exceptional love, or an exquisite match for a prince? he muses, while their love engages their families to nurture it for bearing fruit. Artemis, the huntress, will turn into an unfortunate hunted woman, who seeks true happiness. Zarkos, a poet, has met AyAy online and while exchanging their life stories, has fallen in love with her. During a surprise visit, he meets AyAy, an outstanding woman, intelligent, sensuous, and alluring for a promising erotic adventure. Meeting her promiscuous girlfriend Mai, Zarkos falls for her at an instant and it'll lead to the fulfillment of AyAy's fantasy, challenging Mai to drive Zarkos with their combined sexual pleasures to the edge of endurance. But will their hunger for sexual satisfaction bear fruit for more balanced relationships, or satisfy only the libidos of the two women in love?

Leseprobe

“Love cannot accept what it is. Everywhere on earth it cries out against kindness, compassion, intelligence, everything that leads to compromise. Love demands the impossible, the absolute, the sky on fire, inexhaustible springtime, life after death, and death itself transfigured into eternal life.”

Albert Camus

He has a picture on his desk, near his scanner. He intends to send a picture of himself to a friend he met online. It was however coincidence that it happened again to him, the way it had happened before many times. The women he usually pursued had not responded to him the way he had wished or dreamed of. He usually picked upon one or two, he liked, due to their facial appearances and their interests, he wished to share. He called himself a voluntary prisoner. For many years his business had once bloomed and he had great confidence. He was on top of the world and he transferred his confidence into everybody he met. Even into his elder friend, a professional, who was himself in a depressed state of living for a while, when his wife had passed on, he injected another spark of getting him back to the land of the living. Back then he could not understand his friend’s depression, but now himself in a similar situation, opened up his eyes to see, and his mind attuned to such emotional cries, he suddenly could understand his friend. Indeed he did.

The picture on his desk, a beautiful young woman with dark-golden hair and a patrician appearance in the racy expression of her sleek features, the slight aquiline nose with the defined darker eyebrows above the set of open, clear and perfectly shaped eyes, with such magnetism that it drew him closer to her for a continual idolization of her, has never lost its sexual appeal to him. It was a rare combination of love and lust, whenever he looked at her. She touched him with her warmth and inner beauty and her magnanimity embodied in her expression. When he looked at her, he looked deep into her, into her soul of her being, and she overpowered him with her full-bloodied femininity that denuded him from his forest of tensed-up thoughts and he felt the heat rush to his skin, burning his clothes to ashes and flash-fires rushing across him as he desired her, just like his girlfriend he could see on his monitor, touch her in a realm, yet the real skin to skin touches remained virtual and solely embedded in his fantasy.

That’s when he desired Artemis, he could never have, even if he had a chance to press her hand, it was impossible now. She had tragically died. And while he cleans out his desk looking since days for a CD he copied his writing on, he cannot seem to find the pieces of tales he had once written in a fairy tale-style. Perhaps they were not stories per se, but pure poetry. Then finally he found a box of his records and inside the lost CD’s he was looking for with such growing distress.

He was blessed with creativity that sprouted from him like the green shoots of spring into the wide branches of the flowering jacaranda trees. He had lost her like the embellishment of the trees’ purple flowers, the greatest bouquet there is, lost her to the dark forces of fate and his heart had cried out for many months. He cannot remember he had ever cried for the loss of a sweetheart that much. Nine months? Well, in the third month after her earthly demise, and the exact date he got from her cousin telephonically, he wished to find another friend. There were women interested in him, but he was rather specific in the levels he expected from someone he wished to become friends with. Rather disappointed, he gave up the search. Now as he finds the bits and pieces of her in his drawers and his recordings, he feels stirred the same way as when he met her. This excitement about her never left him. It was almost deadly at one stage.

And here the poet takes his pen that his muse had given him as a quill of inspiration. He recalls a sweet and vivid Juliet, perhaps at this play he had in mind in which she turned into the spirit of Eurydice, as she suffers from a weak and trembling heart. Could it be that her voice rang out and he could hear her demanding a fair trial of her heart? Indeed the poet by vocation will be following her voice and descend in his inside-underworld, keep an open ear and mind and be the greatest living critique of all his peers and what is left from a once large and close family. What did this poet’s life turn into? The state of a woman, who turned to him for understanding and love, he had not foreseen. The befriending muse who has influenced his thoughts and nurtured his hopes to bring out his talents of self-expression, he indeed wholeheartedly hugged as best friend. Was it appearing as a spook of mother, girlfriend of bygone times, the experimentally engaged lover, who practiced her acting talents on this poet, whom she despised for his direct words, but praised for his art, she did not understand?

It was all perhaps less to do with art and literature, as with finding a matching counterpart for the act of her own writing ambitions. Her way of seeing a source of inspiration that came from the desire for a love that was in fact the pursuance of pleasure and lust. Turning into a dream of love it took its spooky shape of imaginative forces that were like a bunch of kids, impossible to control and then all life’s intensive moments turned-up like in a movie, a play, a promising novel of the finest art, he could not yet write, but stammer, being in midst of feelings, he never had before in this intensity.

He wished for this kind of love that was always denied to him before, just like once her love had been. Her envy of the penis of a boy, a first love, and a sweetheart she would fight for and then dominate. But then came a time for her with ups and downs, peaks to the hilt, a tumble to the edges of abyss, and a fall into desperate swamps of cries. Life had started a shaping and painful chiselling until she was finally ready to be thrown as flotsam to the pale-ivory sand, between the stones and the pebbles of time. He found her and picked her up and she came alive for him. He had painted faces before, now he painted this face upon her sculpture, enhanced by her beautiful features, kissed her lips and got her mind alive, she thrived. It was then that he fell in love with her.

He stared at her picture on his desk, he had admired for so long. He took it into his hand and as a contemporary Hamlet, he would rather have her features on a picture he loved than her skull he had only access to for a monologue:

“Your love was lust and while it was also a perfect match for you to be loved and be part of a loving family, you were in great need to have, it demonised other people of highest standing and exuded to them a threat into their minds that endangered them to be destroyed by the love you gave. It did furnace the stones of their hearts to burn and glow into hate and throw your life into the great abyss forever and grant them peace through power. Dead people cannot speak, the deed itself sinister and mean, has a long history we would have to look back upon, we have all forgotten, as in the towers of stone and cries we hardly ever come close.

But he, his soul, the poet can hear the cries and lend an ear to the unjust deeds and its inhumanity that reeks like pungent fish through the lanes of the market and overflowing sweetness from the beckoning thighs of the stews, where the word’s soon out, where all walks of life cross and let the truth like steam evaporate from the galloping horses’ nostrils in their lustful moans.

And who does not know the poet Pepy’s mind? And who has not heard of the greatest plays we all do get into touch with at times of our lives, having seen the Montagues and Capulets draw foils and fight for power, while Juliet’s love is foiled, the sweet embodiment of all lover’s ideals in their fulfilling act of romantic need, or was it to depict an important dramatic event that referred rather to the war of Roses? Does every woman since wishes for her-once-in-a-lifetime Romeo?

It was then that being in love, he was never sated, ever-demanding he craved for this sweet lust, she only could provide to him. And he wished to keep her alive, giving back a hundred-fold and more and never stop, avoid letting her fall back into the deep and drown and completely dissolve below the waves.

He should have never attempted to empty this drawer that contained his personal life, at this moment. But any moment we are doing such a task will be similar, leading to feelings that are dormant and turn back life like a flapjack to the times that have a great place in memory, but have remained uncompleted. But can love be ever completed? It seems it can never be completed as it remains never-ending. Love in its depth can only be realized when it has been abandoned through fate or in drama, tragedy or bitter loss. Indeed he had one of these moods that infuse melancholy and he could not place his longing toward his new friend, who was a rather scattered personality herself, lacking the serious depth of communication he desired. She had all great promises of a woman-muse, feathered with the colours of a peacock. He thought then he first saw her that she was the younger Aphrodite, he had known, a sister, a cousin, a striking liking in her facial expression. This could be the continuation of Aphrodite indeed, he thought, who compared physically to the statue of Aphrodite of Knidos. It resembled her astonishingly in realistic closeness. Now, where would he ever find such a woman, besides the physical beauty that related to Phidias' art, the spirit that burst forward and the great intelligence that demanded the golden apple of acknowledgement for beauty thus embodied into one woman, time and again, since that first time with the offerings for the judgement of Paris? And henceforth he was not afraid to have a slice of the golden treat, but respected her decision of agreeing to a tryst, rather than let loose the forces of a private Trojan War that has been hailed as an utterly useless waste of the nation’s best resources in people and troops. It had brought out the senseless act of wars to render them absurd.

Here she was coming alive every time. He looked at her, thinking that she never died. And even now, after a time elapse of fourteen months, since he had left her stepping into the Great Abyss, she could come alive for him. Was she indeed a spirit now, some force from the air and the universe that he could call upon as his muse and angel? Was it this what the sacrifice called for to give us in return a spirited inspiration? It came as a high price, but so did everything that had eventually turned into great art. There was always the price of human suffering to be paid to the triad women of fate.

He fell into her arms, or was he thus imagining it now, as he talked in words he wrote to Ina, the incarnation of her other sister-soul, she had slipped into. He had the sensation of talking to her rather as Ina was part of Aphrodite, part of her body and soul, otherwise she would never have contacted him and stirred in him this continuation of Aphrodite's love. And the poet has been travelling through space and time and he mutated through the cultures to stop at the Classical times, he admired and became lost in their beauty of body and mind. Here his soul rejoiced. Was not the embodiment of Aphrodite in every woman present? There was certainly a slice of her spirit, a piece of her body, and a hint of her soul apparent in most women, but more defined in some. It was during such reflections that he observed the love-sisters Aphrodite and Artemis. He revelled in their love of mind and body, as he observed the ways they complimented each other. Their lives almost a mirror in the faces of the pictures that were mass-produced in print, painted, sculpted and rota print-repeated.

They will be now electronically beamed, with the faces of contemporary beauties, upon millions of monitors and hand-held gizmos throughout the following eons of time into the next hundred generations and thus their spirit and beauty never dies. And the poet could see the great heights and deep tragedies that surrounded these two goddesses of love and pleasure. They had come the way from lives to statues, from flesh to marble and from paintings to captured images pf photographs and videos, movies in the expressive style of the twenty-first century, into modern art of mixed media. The idols never changed, as we admired recently female pop-stars kissing on stage, only the way of their presentations and depictions.

He would never let her die. All the best died on one always while the world carried on turning and the songs were continuing their mourning. He would kiss her portrait with his heart pouring love to her, as if to soothe her pain, wash away the blood from the crushing metal and heated iron that tore into her flesh and stopped her vital signs almost immediately. He had looked at this scene of high speeding arrows, listened to the noise of