My Romantic Love Wars

In 1968, my primary relationship with Grant changed. There was no big scene, just a mutual agreement to have new primary lovers and remain sexual friends- a friendship that would span five decades. Grant's new lover, Nicole Rameau, was Swiss and the most gorgeous blonde he'd ever dated. He had his tall, willowy blonde, and I had the tallest, darkest, most handsome prince of all. Adam Kadir was black and beautiful, half Eastern Indian and African American. I carefully explained we would both have the freedom to enjoy sex with other people without jeopardizing our primary affair. Listening to my ideas about non possessive love and sex, he agreed to everything. I thought it was strange he didn't question anything, but what guy would turn down a deal like this? A relationship that included sexual variety was what all men wanted, right? Wrong! I was about to learn men wanted a monogamous woman while they had affairs.

One morning I was overcome with sentimental feelings- the beginning of romantic love sickness-and I asked Adam to move in with me. Having consistent orgasms made it easy to convince myself that we could handle day to day intimacy without any serious problems. Since we'd both agreed to practice the fine art of non-possessive loving, what could go wrong? Now that I had a successful art career, I wouldn't be dependent on him for money or sex. There was no reason it wouldn't work out.

The first crack in my romantic dream was the Sunday afternoon I'd finished an article in the New York Times about the women's movement. In a conversation with Adam, I compared black oppression to women's subjugation. For him there was no comparison. White men had financial power, and white women had "pussy power". He saw me as a spoiled woman who only had to spread her legs to get what she wanted. I saw myself as a struggling, working-class artist who was making it by the sweat of my brow. My idea of power was having control over my own life, not having to put out sexually in order to survive.

When I told Adam I'd made a date to go out one evening, I realized he had no intention of sharing me with another man. He strongly objected and carried on and on about how "true love" required a commitment of sexual fidelity. That's when our sex role reversal became painfully clear. I was like a guy who wanted to have a little sexual fun, while he wanted the security of monogamy like a woman. The next night we had make-up sex, but I was totally disgusted with myself. Here I was, back to the old familiar "fight and fuck". I'd done it again!

One night while talking with Grant on the phone, I learned he too was having problems. Although he'd made it clear to Nicole that he had no interest in marrying again, she kept bringing up the subject in subtle ways. When he asked how I liked playing on the other side of the court, I told him it was great except for my clinging, drag ass, Black Princess was ruining our sex life. Maybe I'd turn myself back into a frog. Although we both chuckled, the situation wasn't funny. I didn't want to hurt Adam but I also didn't want to feel sexually restricted either. Yet each day, I struggled with guilt and restrictions. At that point, "love" was a mixture of sentiment combined with a cup of guilt, mixed into a batter of suffering, topped with an icing of sugarcoated orgasms.

At the end of the summer I got a call from my group sex buddy Hendrick who'd moved back to Amsterdam after marrying Greta, the Dutch airlines hostess. He said the Kronhausen's were making their first erotic movie, and the grand finale was going to be a big orgy scene that would take place in their apartment. He invited me to come join them so we could all be in our first sex movie together. Sounded like an invitation to sexual heaven, so I said yes. When Greta asked if I wanted to bring Adam with me, I told her a little separation might do us both some good.

The next thing I knew, I was celebrating my fortieth birthday being filmed having sex in the big orgy scene. The day of the shoot, beautiful people from all over Europe showed up to join in the fun. After I was fitted in a short blond wig to remain anonymous, the make up woman gave me thick false eyelashes and full make up. I looked like a blond Lucille Ball. As director, Phyllis Kronhausen ordered me to go down on Greta for a background shot. I was feeling so completely free and happy again, I would have gladly sucked off the entire city of Amsterdam.

Later when I saw my Dutch doctor friend Ernst sitting on the couch, I joined him. As he pulled me onto his lap I slipped his sturdy, fat cock inside, and we synchronized into a hypnotic rhythm. All of a sudden an intense white light surrounded us as the cameraman came in for a close-up. Moving with Ernst, I slid back and forth pressing into him, building tension, getting closer, until suddenly, I lost momentum. I collapsed gulping air and faked an orgasm. His sturdy cock pulsated, but remained hard. As the crew moved off, I stayed with my warm hearted Dutchman until he came. There was no orgasm for me during the entire shoot so I gave myself several after I went to bed. I must admit I felt a bit guilty about faking an orgasm on camera.

After the filming, I had a serious attack of lovesickness and started pining for my big, black velvet teddy bear. Five days later, Adam was by my side just in time for the next leg of our European adventure. We joined Hendrick and Greta for several days in Paris, and then on to an exclusive nudist island just off the southern coast of France, the Isle du Levant. The first night on this idyllic vacation spot with the blue Mediterranean stretching out in every direction, Adam and I had passionate sex. For the rest of the time, I had to put up with his jealous brooding. During the return flight, Adam and I sat together for eight solid hours without speaking one word.

After he moved out, I wasn't angry with Adam, I was furious with myself for repeating the same pattern- walking off into yet another sunset. "The Myth of the Prince Never Dies," I wrote in my journal. Once again, I had to forgive myself. After all, romantic love with its temporary hot sex was America's number one fetish. Once I began spending time with women who were sexual friends, rather than romantic lovers, the love/hate drama leveled off into sustainable friendships.

My heterosexual past read like a history of the "Romantic Love Wars." Throughout my teens, masturbating to fantasies of a penis entering my vagina had the same intense charge as any other fetish. The good news was my penetration fetish was so strong that I was able to have an orgasm with first sexual intercourse- very unusual for most women. At the time I'd just turned twenty and was living in New York City. The bad news was we didn't use any birth control and I had to sweat out three weeks before I got my period. Don was a handsome Israeli poet but I was so mad at him and at sex that I never answered his calls after that. Instead, I swore off dating for six months and rededicated my life to art.

Another reason I was easily orgasmic was a history of guilt-free childhood masturbation and manual orgasms with my high school boyfriend. In art school, I started dating John, the monitor of the night art classes I attended at The National Academy of Design. He was my first on going love affair that lasted two years. He was a sensible Canadian who always used a condom. Toward the end of our affair, I discovered John was what they called AC/DC. One night when his ex-boyfriend showed up and got drunk, he told me I'd never be able to sexually satisfy John like he could. I had just recently discovered gay people existed but I had no idea about bisexuality. I only knew his weird friend was welcome to have John all to himself because I was ready to move along anyway.

That August when visiting family and friends in Wichita, I fell madly in love with Tommy, the boy next door handsome ideal I'd known for years. That fall Tommy moved to New York to study law and our summer affair continued hot and heavy. Upon my girlfriend's advice, I was using spermicidal jelly applied with a plunger before having sex, which worked until the night I ran out and we had sex anyway. Although he pulled out before he ejaculated, the "rabbit test" came back positive. When I told him I was pregnant, he asked, "How do I know it's mine?" I was so crushed that he thought I'd had sex with another man that my love turned to hate in one blinding flash.

After making embarrassing phone calls using code names, I finally found a person to help. With five one hundred dollar bills in my purse, I met my contact at the Stage Delicatessen on Sixth Avenue. Fay, a well-dressed married woman in her forties, explained their operation had to move around like a floating crap game to keep the cops off their trail. The night, we drove to Jersey City my heart was barely beating. We walked up three flights of tenement stairs and entered a small kitchen where a white metal table sat in the middle of the room- a bare light bulb glared overhead.

There were several women present. I was introduced to a large woman named Mary who was the doctor. When Fay said a few cross words to her about drinking, she said she'd only had one beer to steady her hand. Dr. Mary turned to me with assurance that she was "a good doctor" and I didn't have to worry. One woman present just had an abortion, and she was still alive, so I hung onto that as I lay down on the kitchen table while Dr. Mary aimed a gooseneck lamp between my legs. Fay held my hand and gave me a washcloth to bite on while my cervix was opened without any anesthesia. I was told not to move so the metal instrument wouldn't puncture my uterus. The cramps were so intense that my body broke out into a cold, clammy sweat, but I never moved or cried out.

At the time, I was going to art school at night and working part time as a fashion illustrator. I shared a large apartment with three other women on West 55th Street. A housemate's mother was visiting and since I'd told everyone I was in bed with a cold, her mom kept covering my chest with warm Vic's Vaporub. Meanwhile, I think I'm bleeding to death from an illegal kitchen table abortion!

The second day, still bleeding, I called my roommates doctor who said he'd lose his license if he treated me. His only advice was to go to the emergency room of any hospital, tell them what had happened, and be prepared to get grilled by the police. No thanks! I'd rather go ahead and die than squeal on the women who had helped me. On the fourth day the bleeding finally slowed down.

After an experience like that, you'd think I would have asked myself, "What is this thing called love?" But I didn't. I just fell into it again, and again, and it was always accidental- similar to stepping into dog shit walking the sidewalks of New York. Not only did I fall in love again but I also got pregnant two more times which convinced me that I was mentally unbalanced. Instead I was just another foot soldier, a sexual virile young woman caught up in the Romantic Love Wars.

One day in my studio, the nude I was drawing turned into an X ray of my body. Scars from the abortions didn't show on the surface, so I drew a sanitary napkin leaking blood to represent these emotional wounds. The world knew all about the horrors men suffered in war to defend our country's ideals of freedom. But I couldn't talk about the horrors I'd experienced to defend my ideal of reproductive freedom. Instead of feeling like a hero, I was made to feel like a criminal. Going back over that first abortion, I silently awarded myself a purple heart for bravery.

The last abortion was legal and took place in Switzerland in a doctor's office with nitrous oxide. At the time I was living in Germany with Vincent, a mutual fund salesman. One night I was spotting blood and thought I was getting my period, but it turned out I was ovulating instead. We made love without my diaphragm in place. Although I said I wanted to get married and have the baby, he accused me of entrapment with my so-called "accidental pregnancy". We could discuss marriage after I had an abortion. I saw a psychiatrist and signed a paper saying I'd commit suicide if the pregnancy wasn't terminated. Actually I was closer to committing homicide. That abortion was worth an oak leaf cluster.

Next I put in the surgical scar from my broken ankle. The accident took place at a cocktail party, not respectably on a ski slope. Right after I returned from Paris, I was 28; flat broke and already pressuring my next lover Dr. Juan to get married. But all I got that year was crutches and an engagement ring. "Ah ha," I thought, "I couldn't stand on my own two feet." After seven years of marriage, my husband ran off with his secretary. Bursitis crippled my left arm because I'd lost "my other half." According to Wilhelm Reich, the history of my body was the outward expression of different inner states, not just mysterious accidents. Reich felt the conflict between sexuality and morality was manifested in the body. He called it "character armoring." As much as I respected Reich, I'd have to be living in a different society than the one I found myself in, or be some kind of martyred saint not to armor myself against The Romantic Love Wars.

Without benefits or social recognition, I was a veteran in the battle between the sexes, bitter and scarred from fighting on the front lines of the bedroom, negotiating boundaries in every relationship, signing peace treaties, and once again declaring war over broken agreements. The enemy was the man I was supposed to love! No surprise that I was conflicted about sex, at war with my body, filled with self-hatred and doomed to fail as I loved a myth instead of learning to love myself. If I'd been able to look into a crystal ball that told my future, I would have written, "The Myth of the Prince Never Dies and the Romantic Love Wars never end". The Prince just changed forms and returned in the guise of a woman, an ideal, a spiritual devotion, a political movement or a business venture- the search for some one, some ideal or some thing that would complete my life or provide a sense of security was endless.

All of this took place when I was considered "normal" but once I took control of my sexlife following my divorce, I was seen as the "other kind of woman" because I had sex with more than one man at a time. Perhaps the most socially damning thing of all was the fact that I enjoyed threesomes and groupsex. Society barely tolerated serial monogamy. However, I'd finally learned when love turned to hate, it was best to move along without killing myself off with despair and regrets. I managed to resist romance for the next forty years by spending time with women who were more like sexual friends or fuck buddies. However, I was never a very good lesbian due to enjoying casual sex with men. Finally the concept of bisexuality showed up on the radar in the seventies. One thing for sure; I am definitely a self-sexual which continues to be a category not yet included in the lexicon of human sexuality. Yet, it suits me just fine.