The Harshest Critic

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It sometimes strikes me that I'm a really dreadful photographer’s wife.

Over the last few years I have talked to and corresponded with many partners of nude photographers. Some are inherently hostile to their spouse’s photographic leanings of course, some have given up and either ignore their partner’s work completely or even elect for the divorce court. However occasionally I come across rare women who have instead decided on an alternative approach and are universally admiring of their hubbies. They never criticise, they never comment other than to express adoration, largely because they love and respect their partners’ art and rather than upset the applecart, they prefer instead to simply stay out of the way and keep their private opinions to themselves. They accept that he knows more about his art, because he is the photographer. His nude photography is his thang and they feel that they should tolerate, accept and recognise his work as the best art on the planet and definitely never, ever challenge it because The Photographer is God, and it doesn’t bode well for your harmonious relationship if you challenge a deity.

So if I follow their example, clearly I should be more adoring of Rich. I should always tell him his photos are wonderful and if I ever think otherwise, then I should keep those doubts to myself. But since when have I ever been sycophantic? Since when have I ever pandered to anyone’s ego? I’m not that type of person, and frankly, he deserves more.

Rich will tell you that I am a terrible partner, photographically speaking. “Who the hell wants to live with a critic?” he frequently says. He’s right of course. I give him a pretty hard time, you know. If he crops something badly, I pick fault. If his lighting is a bit off, I never let it go. If he shoots a photograph which is lacking in “mood,” I say “jeez, what happened?” I am not a nice person I’m afraid (I keep saying that and yet you still come back to read this stuff.) You should feel sorry for the poor bloke. I am the harshest critic a guy could have, and yet he gets to live with me 24 hours a day, and miraculously he still pays attention to what I say.

Now you all know I’m passionate about photography. It’s my life. And of course Rich is a really good studio photographer, no question about that, and naturally I love his work (I have good taste.) However if you just express endless adoration for someone’s photographs without any constructive commentary, just “love-love” and telling him that he’s wonderful without any input other than “Darling, you are such a Photographic Sex God,” how is this beneficial? How does it make his art grow? If all you do is suck up to your other half, your very own dedicated photographer, then you are doing him no favours at all. You are simply feeding his ego, in which case you are doing him a disservice.

As his partner, you’re supposed to be his muse - it’s your job. Get off your cute, cellulite-ridden ass (which he loves and respects more than any other, otherwise he’d never have agreed to spend his life with you) and do something useful. Criticize. Challenge (tactfully - you gotta live with the guy, after all.) Be as honest as you can be, because otherwise how else can you possibly help him? O.K. So you’re not a photographer. That doesn’t mean you can’t see. Just because you are only an occasional model (if you’re not then you should be), and just because you don’t pick up a camera yourself, doesn’t mean that you’re devoid of insight, that you should just let his ego run unrestricted. You have more access to his art than any other person on the planet. He trusts and respects you. Use that privilege to inspire him, to help him grow as an artist.

Now you might think “why should I intervene? He has plenty of other models telling him he’s fabulous. His ego is already supersized to the size of a Double Whopper with extra cheese. What the hell does he need me for?” And yes indeedy, these laydeez are young and gorgeous and they do tell him rather too often just how cute he is and how much they adore his work (how else will they get him to photograph them?) But it’s just the power of the camera talking. It doesn’t mean anything.

You are the one he loves (otherwise he wouldn’t be with you) and he values your opinion above all others. Instead of feeling threatened by his photography, you should embrace it. Love his awesome talent, yes, but use your years of artistic experience to critique it. After all this time being with him, you know nearly as much about him as he does (probably more), plus you have the benefit of being able to take a step back and really look at his work objectively and constructively. He’ll listen, believe me. Yours is the opinion that matters most in the world to him, he will love you more for taking an interest in his work, plus the quality of his art will leap forwards as a result of your honesty. For what else is love if it’s not expressing the Truth?

Trust me ladies, this is a win-win scenario. You are the ones who hold the power here.

As his muse, it is your duty to use it wisely.

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Pirate Maiden

And before you wind up feeling really sorry for Rich having to put up with an ogress like me, let me tell you that our relationship is based on total equality and mutual truth. Oh yes it is. Namely I visited the nether regions of hell before this post met his exacting standards. Criticism is a double-edged sword. Dammit.

The Gerbils Must Die

Feline aggression can take many forms and be disruptive and dangerous in a household. The most common category of feline aggression is intercat aggression, which is a fear-induced aggression that can result in grievous injury. The best way to calm a severely agitated cat is to put the animal in a darkened room with food, water, and a litter box and leave it there. Some cats may be so agitated that picking them up is dangerous. For those situations, "herding" the cat by using a broom, or throwing a blanket over the cat so it can be lifted is safest.

Feline Agression, Author Debra F. Horwitz, D.V.M.

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Yesterday turned into a bit of a humdinger in the end. Rich had decided (against his better judgment, I might add) to browse Deviant Art. I kept telling him to upload photographs onto the site, but he’d deliberately avoided it thus far, largely because nobody we’ve talked to has had a good word to say about it. Anyway, he decided to browse this quality art-portal and apparently…accidentally-on-purpose…he came across his long-lost Ex, sa Passion Grande, who, so it turned out, appeared to also be a Photographer. O.K. so she’s a crap photographer, but she’s still A PHOTOGRAPHER, and that makes her one step up in the pecking order from me.

Now for all his multiple degrees in science, Rich is really not that bright at all, largely because he made the colossal mistake of telling me he had found her. Now I’m normally a highly rational and even-tempered lady of great understanding and patience (you can stop sniggering, it’s true I tell you and I’ll thump anyone who says otherwise) but I can confess that even me, a genuine living paragon of virtue, can lose her cool sometimes.

Well, I’m not going to go into past history (you’ll be pleased to hear) but suffice to say that I’ve only ever had one genuine enemy in my entire life, and it was this woman. If I was Charis Wilson, then she was Tina Modotti (and we all know what Charis thought about Tina - the revelation is what Charis didn’t say about Edward’s continued feelings for her, rather than what she did.) It may have been twenty years ago, but the whole affair still stings as if it were yesterday. And to find out she’s a photographer, and moreover, she writes a blog…well…you can imagine.

Of course I read her blog….of course I did. And naturally she has many photographs of her life, her home, her stylish self and her cute little pet gerbils. And as you’d expect, she is divorced and looking for Mr Right again. And naturellement she wrote of her history with Rich in rather uncomfortable detail, and of COURSE she has a whole section on her blog devoted to how much she has his first choice and she wishes she had ended up with him, all those years ago, and she got tons of comments supporting her in how it really should have been her rather than me…it was her destiny….blah, blah, blah…Gah! Take me to the nearest pub and leave me there.

Take a tiny bit of advice from me folks…never EVER, EVER read blogs connected with your past relationships. Ever. Jealousy is a vile and insidious emotion. It eats away at your sanity and poisons your soul. It is to be avoided at all costs. And let’s face it, life is too short for wallowing in the past. And besides, Rich had no intention of contacting her, so why did I look? Curiosity really does kill the cat, I can tell you that.

Anyway, realizing what a humungous mistake he had made and by way of consoling his incredibly distraught she-cat who was spitting fire by now, Rich didn’t actually herd me into a darkened room using a broom, nor did he put a blanket over my head before picking me up, but he did supply very large amounts of understanding, hugs and a horribly expensive (but amazing) Chablis, so I do feel somewhat less psychotic…although I’m still harboring an unreasonable desire to introduce those cute little gerbils to my spitting, hissy pussy. (I’m really not a very nice person you know.)

Pets are like their owners. We choose our pets (or our pets choose us) as reflections of our physical and psychological selves. So my gorgeous kitty might look like an ordinary feline version of a placid and docile middle-aged tabby she-cat, but if you really piss her off she’ll turn into a mean and venomous she-devil who will systematically gut your cute furry gerbils, decapitate and skin them, and leave their shiny skulls neatly lined up on your front-door mat for your breakfast.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

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Mean-looking-mama cat with loadsa attitude

And to answer the burning question that will doubtless eat away at you unless I confess all…yes there really was a little gift of mice skulls neatly lined up waiting for me when I got up this morning. True kitty love is…

The model today is Lady Tiggs. The first shot is by me (not a good cat portrait but I’m working on it.) The second most excellent photograph is captured by our eminent photographer of the house, and is a vastly superior photograph for so many reasons.

*sigh* I have so very far to go before I become a photographer…

(P.S. No gerbils were harmed during the making of this blog post. Unfortunately the same cannot be said to be true for the mice.)

Hurrah! It’s Valentine’s Day!

What? You mean you didn’t remember to get your other half something extra special today???

Boy, are you in trouble. BIG time.

It doesn’t matter if you believe Valentine’s Day is commercialised rubbish (we all know it is.) It doesn’t matter if your lovely understanding lady says she doesn’t want anything for Valentine’s Day and that you, her gorgeous partner, are quite enough. These are just words. If, in fact, you do take her at her word and forget all about it, then I’m betting large sums of money that she’ll give you a hug and a kiss, say it’s quite all right and she really doesn’t believe in all that nonsense, and then she’ll quietly make your life living hell for the next few months. And you won’t know why.

Valentine’s Day is probably THE most dangerous day in the romance calendar. Emotional and social politics at their worst. A small crack in a relationship can turn into a bottomless pit when huge expectations of the perfect love token are dashed by the appearance of a bedraggled bouquet of flowers from the local garage, or even worse, a tacky card. Forgetting altogether, or re-gifting a box of chocolates is relationship-ending Armageddon. You just can’t win.

It’s a shame that people feel such enormous pressure about this one day. Of course, the fault can be placed squarely at the door of the card and tacky gift manufacturers, and the media must take some blame too, but that doesn’t change the fact that for most people, Valentine’s Day is an emotional minefield. The expectations that society has drummed into us are so huge, that it’s inevitable that there’s going to be a let-down. If people feel disappointed or angry because of what they see as one inadequate gesture on that day, then it’s often assumed (rightly or wrongly) that something is at fault with their relationship.

Modern Western custom dictates that in a conventional heterosexual relationship, the main love token is traditionally gifted from the man to the woman. It is further assumed by women that their partner should know without being told exactly what they want for Valentine’s Day, and if their partner gets it wrong, then this is obviously because they don’t care enough.

Of course this is completely untrue. Men are not mind-readers, and they need a bit of a helping hand. Also men often have a hard time trying to convey an emotional sentiment via a piece of card (they quite rightly see it is pointless – the love of their life already knows he loves her, why the hell should a card make any difference?) So they often buy the first cheap card that that looks the best and says something about “everlasting love.” And then the poor chaps have to decide how to sign it. Women read a great deal into the man’s salutation, the phrases, With Love, Love, Forever Yours, are given obsessive consideration. You better get it right boyo, otherwise your lady love will probably take that romantic Valentine’s meal she lovingly cooked and donate it to the dog. And don’t even get me started on the overpriced flowers for Valentine’s Day. For heaven’s sake, why??? They are flown halfway across the world, at vast expense to the environment and your wallet, only to be stuck in a pot, and they’ll be dead within a week. What a waste.

Yes, It’s true. I am the most unromantic female ever to grace the planet. I just don’t get the point of it all. Rich shows me he loves me by his everyday actions, by his kindness and his caring. I don’t need a card or flowers or a particular day of the year to tell me how he feels. I can see it in his face every single day.

But assuming that mankind should celebrate Valentine’s Day, (after all it’s not going away, no matter how much we wish it would), then why not use it as a day to take a moment to really appreciate each other? Rather than focussing on the correct romantic gestures or lack of them, lovers should use February 14th as the starting point for putting new “oomph” into a romance.

Make Valentine’s Day the start of taking steps to rescue or revive a relationship that may be drowning under the responsibilities of work, families and sheer grinding exhaustion. Forget about the buying of “stuff.” Love isn’t something you buy. You can’t put a price on devotion.

Instead of wasting money on commercial pap, why not take a few hours out to actually TALK to each other? You know….communicate. Touch base. Appreciate your partner for who they really are. Look, really LOOK beneath the surface of your partner. Recognise how much they do for you. Realise through their actions just how much they care.

You both love each other. You know you do.

Now…do you really need to feed the card and gift industry in order to prove that?



Syd and A.J. looking slushy.

Late Edit: Rich has just handed me the most gorgeous romantic card….oh God, the guilt, the guilt…

Amoebas and Elephants

Contrary to popular belief, having a brain tumour doesn't usually make you feel poorly. I always get immensely irritated when people treat me as if I'm ill, or diseased. I feel perfectly O.K., and I lead a completely normal life thank-you-very-much. On the whole, I feel absolutely fine. Healthier than you do probably. If my tumour is happy, then I'm happy.

And yet...sometimes I do become aware that I'm not invincible, that something is definitely not quite right. I feel...odd. No other way to describe it. Not quite here. Other-worldy. In particular, I lose blocks of time. Whole periods of my memory have been erased. The early years of my marriage, for example, are all gone. This might be a good thing actually – the first few years of our marriage were apparently very stormy. And my medium and short term memory are also pretty ghastly. Rich has to constantly remind me of stuff that happened yesterday. I'm like the fish with a three second memory.

When I was growing up I used to be incredibly scared of losing my memory. It was a phobia of my youth. I used to think I would rather go blind than lose my past. Our memories are the essence of who we are...if you forget your experiences, then it makes you a lesser person. You're just a blank slate. You forget how you came to be the person you are.

The good news is that memory loss is actually completely painless, emotionally speaking. Because you can't remember past events, you're not upset about not remembering, because you simply can't recall what you should be upset about in the first place.

Another advantage is that whole periods of my sordid past have been completely erased. Also a good thing. And memory loss comes in very handy for inter-marital arguments too. If I get angry with Rich then I don't stay angry for long, because I never remember what we argued about originally. So having an addled and malfunctioning brain is exceptionally good for family harmony. Plus there's the added sexual bonus too. Every time is always the first time for me 'n' the studly Mr Fluffy. I literally never remember it being this good, so I am constantly surprised and blown away by his sexual prowess.

Alas, this memory loss issue will remain with me for the rest of my life. My doctors tell me it will probably get worse too. I'm not especially bothered by this, largely because I know I'm not going to remember being upset about it. It's not going to affect my intelligence or my identity. It's just inconvenient, that's all. And of course, as with most disabilities, you do learn to work around the problem.

Organisation is the key to leading a normal life. I have learned to write things down. Blogs are excellent recorders of stories (part of the reason I started one in the first place.) And I live by lists. I write lists for everything, and stick post-it notes all over the house. Rich designed his day-job software to have sophisticated calendaring and reminder services, so I get emailed every day about specific things that I need to do. For example, tomorrow's messages read: Monday- give cat anti-fur-ball gel, shave pussy, evening shoot. So if I end up with a completely bald and shitty cat on Tuesday, blame Rich's software not me. I just do what the emails tell me to.

If you have severe memory problems, then the only long term memories you will have are the stories told by your loved ones. Rich has to tell me the same stories over and over again. He knows I won't recall it next week, but I swear he never ever complains about being a regurgitating tape recorder. He's a fabulous chap, you know. Who else could possibly be so endlessly patient with me? (Of course, I don't actually remember his faults, if indeed he has any, which I'm sure he doesn't.)

I would also like to submit that photography is of critical importance to brain tumour patients. It is essential to take as many photos as you can, all of the time. I have issued the kids with cheap digital cameras, and they snap anything and everything. They are my memory storage devices. I will be able to remember them growing up through the eyes of the camera. My life's stories are stored on computer. My memories are in digital. If memories are who you are as a person, then my psyche is on my hard disk drive, laid bare for all the world's hackers to see.

Incidentally my appalling memory makes me an excellent agony aunt and confession storage repository. Please do feel free to tell me all your sordid, deep, dark secrets. I can guarantee I won't remember them in two days time. On the other hand, if I seem vague or repetitive in email conversations with you, this isn't because I'm stupid, it's simply because I am a fish.

Now I'm sure some of you are feeling sorry for me by now. This is a mistake, caused by your own inbuilt fear of losing your identity. Truly, you should never feel sorry for people with memory loss. Chances are they are happier than you are.

Thanks to my tumour, I'm in a constant state of contentment.
Amoebas are happier than elephants, let me tell you that.

The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.
Nietzche



Amy, in high key.

Why Do Nude Photographers Get More Action?

A recent British study has found that professional creative types (whether male or female) have on average twice as many sexual partners as their non-artist peers. It’s not just down to the fact that more artists see naked women, because this evidence applies across all types of art. So why are artists, and photographers in particular, so damn sexy?

Well of course artists are perceived as being passionate and dedicated to their craft, so women naturally assume they will be the same in the sack. Artists are deemed to have complicated and deep personalities. Accountants like me are not. Plus artists are often more open about their sexuality - their mind works in different ways, and they are more psychologically open to new ideas and are trained to explore new artistic directions, in and out of bed. Simply put, they are not as conservative as your average stockbroker.

Photographers (especially those who shoot nudes) are also experienced at handling women. They study women all the time. Lots of them. Usually naked. When a woman takes off her clothes, to some extent she removes her psychological barriers. Her psyche is laid bare. She must trust the photographer implicitly, and he must not abuse that trust, either at the time of the shoot, or in their dealings afterwards. Thus, it follows that the photographer has to be a nice guy.

Not all of them are nice, of course, and I have hard of photographers abusing that level of trust pretty badly. Let’s face it – some people are creeps. But hopefully those are the exceptions to the rule. Call me naïve, but on the whole, I do believe that the majority of photographers are worthy of long term trust, and most of them are kind and insightful people who treat their subjects with the greatest respect. They don’t openly judge a woman, they don’t judge sexuality, and they are open to all types of personalities who model for them. And because they are such good people, the best photographers are universally adored by many of their models.

There is also the very important point that the more experienced photographers know how women think. They have to. People skills, and putting a woman at ease is part of their job. How else can they get the best from their subject? A photographer has to understand the basic psychology of men and women, plus he has to be able to know how to use that knowledge to enhance his art. So it is fair to say that he has to know himself pretty well too. He must be self-confident, polite, non-judgmental, humorous, and if he is slightly flirtatious whilst maintaining an air of respect and complete control, then this will dramatically improve the emotional response of his model.

So you’ll notice that I have purely coincidentally described the qualities of most women’s ideal man. Study the wish list of most women, and you’ll find that they are looking for strong, self assured, even slightly arrogant men, who can make them laugh, make them feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, make them feel unique and wonderful. No wonder many women find nude photographers irresistible. Of course it helps if he is devastatingly good looking (has anyone actually seen that photo of James Graham in his super-fashionable designer black coat and NOT gone completely weak at the knees? I rest my case.)

However good looks are not essential. In fact I think they can actually count negatively towards the photographer’s sex appeal. Guys who are not what is perceived as “traditionally handsome” will always be more interesting to me, because they are often more modest, take themselves less seriously and are bit of an enigma. Mysteries are the ultimate hook to get the chicks interested, believe me. We wanna see what makes you chaps tick.

But ultimately your physical appearance and especially your age is irrelevant to your sex appeal. It is knowing yourself and being able to say who you are that is the real turn-on. Fortunately for photographers, most “ordinary” non-creative types don’t actually know themselves. Hence when women come across a powerful man - powerful because he has self knowledge and is in touch with his emotions - they are in awe of him, and they fall for him big time.

The power of knowing yourself is the ultimate aphrodisiac. It gives you power over your models, power over women and power over your art.

More enlightened photographers make better artists. And they’re better in bed too.

(Disclaimer: The author admits to twenty years of romantic bias regarding that last point.)



And to those photographers who say, “This is twaddle! I’m not getting any action,” my reply is a) maybe you prefer quality over quantity (which is wonderful of course, but it’s your choice so stop complaining) or b) Maybe you’re just shy, and you don’t realise how sexy you are?!

Duty before love

Yesterday I had a ten page letter from a close friend who lives a long way away in the north of England. Let’s call her Amy. Despite radically different backgrounds, education and class, we have been writing to each other for twenty-two years now, and we meet when we can. We tell each other practically everything, and we have acted as each other’s confident and shoulder to cry on for longer than I can remember.

Amy is wonderful, a kind and caring woman, hard-working and devoted to her four children whom she has raised single-handed because the four different respective fathers disappeared into the ether at the mere whiff of the phrase “child support”. Amy has had a long and passionate relationship with a beautiful, gentle guy of her own age, called Charles. He is her best friend. They grew up together, were childhood sweethearts and went their separate ways after finishing school, as kids often do. Twenty years later, she bumped into him, and the friendship re-started. It quickly developed into something else…lust became passion which became love, and most important of all, never forget that overwhelming friendship which bound them together so many years ago when they were children. They have been seeing each other for nearly eight years now and love each other very much.

Of course, the problem is that Charles is married. He has two kids and is a devoted family man. He doesn’t love his wife (so he tells Amy), their marriage is dead, in name only, for the sake of the children. Amy has put up with this for the last eight years, suffered through it, tolerated the wife’s jealous rages (and accompanying death threats), the pain, the ripping apart of the soul that comes with a love triangle like this. She is in perpetual emotional agony, craving with every fibre of her being to be with Charles. She believes his promises that he’s going to leave his wife, that he has only stayed with her for the children’s sake, that his snatched and secret nights with Amy are the only time he loves, the only time he feels alive. It is Amy he loves, he promises her. They will be together soon. She just has to wait that little bit longer.

I have had fortnightly letters detailing her love and trust for Charles for many years. His kids are now grown up, and have left home. But still he does not leave. He is still promising to be with Amy, making up different excuses each time (the latest is because his wife would take all his money….well, duh! That’s what divorce involves luvvie!) But Amy’s love is blind, and total. There is only Charles. He loves her and worries about her. They email and text all the time, and have snatched moments when they can. Eight years later, she is still waiting for him, and nothing has changed.

Now you’re going to say : why don’t you tell her to move on? Start again with another guy? Amy has no shortage of male admirers after all. Well, God knows I have tried to tell her, more times than you’ve had hot dinners, that he’s never going to leave his wife. She never believes me. She just thinks I am plain wrong, no matter what I say.

Any idiot can see Charles is never going to leave the wife. Why the hell should he? He has it all, a woman at home to look after him and give him a comfortable life, plus the illicit forbidden passion on the side, the devoted mistress (which is what we call the “other woman” in the UK) who can give him the emotional thrill that is missing in his daily boring grind. He loves them both of course, because it’s perfectly possible to love more than one other person. And I’m sure he feels guilty enough about Amy, he doesn’t like to see her suffer. He’s a decent and caring guy, and a good person. But he is torn between duty to his wife of twenty years, and desire for the new life with his mistress. Should he be true to himself and his desires, and be with Amy? After all, doesn’t he have a right to be happy? Why the hell shouldn’t he leave his wife? Be a fool for love? But what about duty? He is consumed by guilt, desire, and in the end he cannot choose, so he does nothing, and remains miserable.

This story is as old as the hills. Statistically, the hard fact is that in the UK 95% of partners never leave their husband or wife if they have an affair. Believe me, I speak from experience, although this was a long time ago now.

The problem is, which I discovered (and the reason I refuse to have affairs nowadays, other than the fact that I’m devoted to Rich!) is that there may be a real moral issue here. What about the innocent wife who has remained devoted and loving to him for so long, and who knowingly suffers the humiliation and torture of knowing her husband has a sexual relationship with another woman? Presumably the guy still at least likes and respects his wife, and has had many years of companionship and love with her, so what right does the “other woman” have to break that up and cause such emotional pain? In my experience (considerable, unfortunately), the husband often re-writes the history of the marriage in his own mind, ruthlessly excising happiness and companionship from memory, in order to rationalise the hurt he wishes to inflict.

Another point, and I’m sorry to burst everyone’s bubble here, is that nobody has any “divine right” to happiness, no matter what the new-agey self-help books say. If more people realised that, and if everyone stopped thinking of “me-first”, then our society might be a nicer place in which to live. In this particular scenario, the husband and mistress are just being selfish, and causing emotional wreckage and carnage that will mentally scar all parties for life.

Speaking from the experience of being “the other woman”, I learned that defining myself through selfish sexual desire actually resulted in such all-consuming guilt, that it threatened to destroy the person I always believed myself to be. So I got out, even though it was painful. I changed, became “true to myself” and true to what I knew was right. And as a result, I respected myself a hell of a lot more, and I would like to believe I became a better person.

It’s a pity I can’t communicate that to Amy.



Warm fuzzy on-camera chemistry courtesy of Syd and A.J.

A long-short story

***CAUTION***EXCRUCIATINGLY LONG POST APPROACHING***



Once-upon-a-time in a little seaside resort in southern England, there lived a young prince, who fell in love with a beautiful red-headed princess. The princess was young and naïve, and completely blinded by desire and love for her tall hunky knight in shining armour. She had been dating the evil Count Sluggo for many years, who treated her pretty badly, and the young prince swept her off her feet, and disposed swiftly of Count Sluggo with one swipe of his big shiny sword. He then proceeded to woo the young princess, simply by being nice to her. Of course the wooing process was helped considerably by his ability to give her mind-blowing orgasms which she never thought she was capable of having. The princess was new to the concept of sex that she actually enjoyed, and after trying it, she discovered that she rather liked the idea.

A couple of years passed, and the prince remained devoted to the princess, so much so that he married her in a romantic but inexpensive wedding, at which the budget was nothing because they were students. The ceremony was at the ugliest registry office in the country, the reception was in university digs, and the wedding bouquet was a bunch of weedy looking flowers from a motorway service station. The honeymoon was one night in a seedy guest-house in the seaside resort, and the champagne in the guest-house was free, but no matter, because they were finally hitched, bound together forever, husband and wife, “to the mutual exclusion of all others”, or so the wedding vows went. This was IT. This was LURVE with a capital “L”.

Then the prince and princess went back to university digs to carry on their studies. They expected the honeymoon to last forever. They expected nothing to change. This was complete nonsense of course, but it took a few months for reality to bite. They discovered some curious things about being married, the most important being that even though they didn’t feel any different inside, nevertheless people treated them differently. Suddenly their friends became more distant towards them, and treated them like a single entity, where the wife was the property of the husband. The princess, an ardent feminist, got pretty rapidly pissed off at being treated like an appendage to her husband. She burnt her handbag and her bra, refused to be known as “Mrs” and then rebelled by partying long and hard to prove she was as young, carefree and single as ever. This really pissed off the prince, who was bewildered and upset because his new wife had suddenly turned into an unknown party animal rather than his beloved companion.




The second thing they both discovered about being married was that marriage makes the husband pretty damn irresistible to the opposite sex, even though the wife is simultaneously perceived as the property of the husband. The sudden sex appeal of the prince went to his head rather. He honestly didn’t realise that he was actually devastatingly handsome, and maidens flinging themselves at him on a constant basis was kinda cool. Bearing in mind his wife had suddenly turned into Germaine Greer, it was perhaps understandable that he found it difficult to resist the charms of their female friends.

He had also inadvertently not realised until that point that he was polyamorous by nature, which meant that whilst he didn’t want to sleep around, he certainly saw nothing morally wrong with loving more than one maiden at once. And of course, he had fallen in love with an old friend, who loved him back. He wanted to stay with the princess, but his bond with the friend was very strong – they had been close for many years.

When he gently explained this to the princess, being a morally upright and naïve sort of girl, she freaked out totally. They had been married less than one year. But she didn’t quit the marriage, even though it was under considerable strain by that time. “Thou shalt not quit thy husband”, that was her motto. She took her marriage vows very seriously. “For life”, meant just that. She loved the prince to distraction. After all, he might not be perfect, but he had rescued her from the evil Count Sluggo. Life without her hero was unthinkable. She loved him despite his faults (although of course, polyamory is not a fault at all, but she didn’t understand that at the time). But on the other hand, she couldn’t bear the idea of sharing him with another maiden either.

The prince and princess talked it out honestly, and talked, and talked, and got precisely nowhere. This continued for several years, long after university had finished. The prince and princess loved each other, they wanted to make the other person happy, to set them free, but how to do so, without pain, jealousy and unbearable heartache? The princess thought that polyamory meant that the prince didn’t love her enough, that she was wrong for him, because if you love someone, surely that means you can’t love anyone else either, right? So she rebelled by partying even harder. Her work took her away from home a lot, and she had brief flings with a few other guys, partly to get back at the prince, and partly because she felt so desolate and abandoned inside. They were both eaten up with guilt, her for breaking her marriage vows, and him for being unable to stop loving the other maiden.

Their relationship at this time was passionate, but destructive. They had staggered on for about seven years of marriage by now, in a semi-open relationship. It wasn’t working, they both knew it, and the whole thing was brought to a head by the death of the princess’s mother (to which she was devoted). Then a horrific incident befell the princess, one night when she was working away from home, and she was sexually assaulted by one of the drunken knights with whom she was working. No she hadn’t been drinking, and there wasn’t anything she could have done, but her self esteem was so low by that time, that she thought the whole thing really was her fault. After all, Count Sluggo used to treat her like that. Plus she had broken her marriage vows previously. She deserved to be punished like this, surely? Consumed with shame, catholic guilt and self-loathing, she didn’t tell the prince (who would have dispensed with the offending black knight with a swift swipe of his shiny sword), but instead she bottled it up inside. She did, however, move jobs. It was the easiest option.

But the experience had changed her at a fundamental level. Eventually she had the courage to sit down and tell the handsome prince (who was still devoted to her) that she couldn’t go on like this. She wanted something different. She wanted a normal life, a normal relationship, babies.

The prince knew how destructive their relationship had become. He also loved his wife, and by this time, the old friend had long gone and married a Scottish dwarf, and had been replaced by several other adoring ladies-in-waiting and even a bisexual male courtier who professed to be in love with both of them. Life was very confusing. It was time to change.

So the prince scooped up the princess, hired a Mr Thrifty truck for all their belongings, and moved them and their four cats to a completely new part of the country, over two hundred miles away. They then proceeded to have babies, more cats, and to live pretty much happily ever after.

And do you know something? After the prince and princess had produced little princlets, and mini-princesses, the prince no longer felt the inner compulsion to be involved with other maidens. Because his life was full of new family to love and adore, and he had so many new little people who worshipped him as the best thing since sliced bread, he admitted to the princess that he simply had no more room (or energy) left for loving other ladies-in-waiting. The irony was that by then, the princess understood him and his polyamorous nature perfectly, and whereas she still wasn’t keen on the idea of sharing the prince, she no longer thought that there was anything wrong with him, or that she was inadequate or the wrong princess for him. She had accepted him for who he truly was.

It had taken twenty years, but they were finally “married”, in the real sense of the word.



(When they reach twenty-five years, the princess intends to take the prince to Vegas to get married again. This time properly.)

Cross-sex friendships

My oldest son has decided that he’s had enough of girls. They’re just too upsetting, too much hassle and he doesn’t understand them.

“Welcome to the real world”, his Dad said.

“I’m finished with loving girls” said my newly-cynical son. “From now on, I’m just going to have girls as friends. I’m just going to study in future. No more women.”

“Uh-huh” I replied somewhat sceptically. “O.K. What happened?”

It turns out that on his latest trip to a disco with his class-mates, his (first love) girl kept him on a string, and then decided to dump him and dance with his mortal enemy all night. Hence, much heart-ache, tears and bitterness. And he’s only twelve.

Resisting the urge to launch into an over-protective, mother-induced rant against young and seductive twelve-year-old floosies, and how she was never good enough for him anyway, I gave him a hug and bought him a new computer game, which cheered him up immensely. However, that tactic won’t work forever. It’s gonna be a rough ride.

The thing is, as I explained to him, it just isn’t possible to be “just friends” with a girl.

There is no such thing as a purely platonic relationship between men and women.

Call me cynical, but I really believe this is true (assuming that neither of the parties concerned are gay, of course). We’re talking about close heterosexual friendships, not mere acquaintances. If we’re being completely and utterly honest here, then sooner or later, love and/or sexual attraction will get in the way.

Rich and I have had many, many cross-sex friendships over the years, and in every single case, the love and sexual attraction aspect has entered the relationship at some stage, often with disastrous results for the friendship with the other person. It might be possible to start out purely as friends, but somehow, somewhere along the way, as the friendship grows, sexual attraction plus romantic love creeps in somewhere. “The Demon Lust,” as my old catholic maths teacher used to say.

The attraction may be one-sided, and the person who feels the attraction may never let the other friend know, but the chemistry exists all the same. And the object of the attraction usually knows it too, although they wouldn’t admit it, for fear of embarrassment or for fear of being wrong, or just because they don’t feel the same way, and they may simply want the friendship to just go back to “normal”.

Work friendships are especially prone to this. Law, medicine, photography, accountancy, the profession doesn’t matter. If you’re stuck on a three week management review job, far away from home, spending 24 hours a day with an old work colleague who has become a close friend, then the chances are you’re going to end up in the sack together, or if not, you almost do. No matter if you’re married, dating someone else, whatever. It doesn’t matter. Sexual attraction is human nature. It’s hard-wired into your genes.

Suppose you’ve been happily married for many years, and one day you leave the wife at home to go on a two day-long location shoot with a beautiful nude model, with whom you’ve worked many times before, and who is also a close friend. After a long day’s fun shooting, plus several glasses of wine on an evening at the bar, the conversation starts flowing, and you talk late into the night and tell each other your deep-dark secrets. Are you then telling me that the idea of sex wouldn’t creep in somewhere? Because if you are telling me the whole thing is completely above-board and utterly innocent, you’re either lying or kidding yourself, and I simply wouldn’t believe you.

So are all friendships with the opposite sex doomed? Is it possible to have life-long close platonic friendships between a man and a woman? Yes it is, in my experience, but only after the love/attraction/sex thing is long gone, which usually takes years. IMHO, I think the trick is to get beyond the sex bit. To recognise the mutual (or one-sided) attraction, to talk about it openly and honestly, and then to agree that it exists, but to put it aside. Perhaps this even gets easier with age, as the hormones die down a bit, although I do know many sixty-year-olds who would disagree with me, and who are in the throes of some grand passion (and not with their spouses I might add).

Both sexual attraction and falling in love are human nature, and such emotions can add a great deal to the depth and wisdom of a close friendship. The trick is to acknowledge the issue, and to recognise the “stop sign”, the point at which you can go no further without ruining the friendship with sex. And of course, it’s not really even the sex which is the ultimate problem here, it’s the emotion that inevitably goes with it. You simply can’t have sex with a close friend, and feel nothing for them emotionally. It’s just not possible.

Like many people, I am notoriously bad at heeding stop signs. I tend to blindly speed past the amber warning sign, charge straight through the bright red stop sign, and subsequently flatten everyone in the street. Carnage. And the friendship is ruined.

The moral of the story? Talk to your friends, be honest with each other, and the friendship will survive if both sides are determined enough to make it work. Above all, avoid extended jobs away from home with work colleagues, long intimate shoots with beautiful naked friends, and most definitely stay away from alcohol :-)

And as for exercising that elusive concept called “Willpower”?

*Sigh* When someone learns how to master it, please do let me know how.




Cheeky Lee. One of my personal favourites from last year’s shoot.