Valentine
When I was 13 years old I was in love with singer Lіndа Rоnstаdt. I still remember the moment it happened. I was going up an esclalator in the local shopping mall when a blue poster of a pretty woman caught my eye. She had big brown eyes and a pouty mouth with the kind of ever so slightly bucked teeth that some sexy women have. I had no idea who she was, but I fell for her completely in that one instant. She looked like the wonderfully gentle but fully mature woman that had mildly and pleasantly haunted my dreams since the time I was 5. At 13 I was just beginning to grow into my sexuality. I was becoming a man, and looking at that sweet poster of Linda - which I bought and hung on my wall - I felt I was ready to face the world.
When I was 25 years old I fell madly in love with supermodel Stеphаnіе Sеymоυr. I'd quit my job and decided to make a go of being an artist. I wanted to explore my fascination with female beauty, and supermodels were just coming into vogue. I'd noticed that there was a spiritual kind of nudity possible to beautiful women, the kind sculptors carve and noble young men crave. Stephanie was a perfect muse. She was the most beautiful and the most daring of the supermodels. Every month it seemed she appeared in another publication, each time prettier, each time wearing less, each time more spiritual, each time sexier. I fell in love with Stephanie at the same time the whole world fell in love with supermodels, the time they undressed for the world - and for me - for the very first time.
It seems young men need a beautiful woman in their lives whenever they set out on a moral quest, on an endeavour of life-size dimensions. This is nothing new. In medieval times young men yearned for a favour from their kingdom's Princess, and Princes chased dragons to the bowels of the earth in order to protect them.
Today, supermodels and other beautiful women serve that same noble purpose, a purpose without compare, eminently necessary, and gigantically important. They represent to young men all the values one can ever hope to attain, and they inspire the greatest nobility and heroism.
But there comes a time when a man needs more than the hope offered by a beautiful woman, a time when he needs to possess what supermodels and princesses promise, a time when he needs a real woman. Thus, it is no longer in the songs of singers or in the smiles of supermodels that I find my ultimate reward, but in a woman who is all of the things I need a woman to be. She is my sexy schoolteacher, my sweet little girl, and my peerless sex goddess. She is my Valentine, my wife, and my baby. She is my Leanne.
