I am in love with two goats. 12 years apart --1967 and 1979: the year of the goat.
Goat number one is a father to me: he is my mommy too; my protector and my rock... so stable and earthy but with no sexual urge tingeing his being whatsoever. It's like the chemistry in the part of the brain responsible for sexual sensation has been neutralized, so all that remains is great devotion to decency and scrupulous-ness.
Goat number two is a rock-n-roll poet: full of tattoos and passion and sperm and eyeliner. Jim Morrison-esque Sagittarius with Armageddon-like rage and indifference for life on this earth. He throws me around so my hair has never experienced such abandon, such estrogen. He does not care for having a job or waking up before 3pm. He does not care for finding his own place to live nor for the fact that his friends' sofas are his home. He does not care for eating nothing for days but gives precedence for gathering what money he has on beer and narcotics. He does not care for being a responsible man. And yet... he makes me feel like a woman when he makes love to me with such beauty, such love and passion. At the moment this one is goat number two because I have only known him in such capacity for four months. I have been with Goat number one for 11 years. He is like my main wife if I was I a Muslim man with the luxury of multiple choice spouses.
The two goats are both in love with me and want to marry me. And I have to choose between amazing and beautiful love-making or a safe stable life. And it's like Sophie's Choice.
I have come to realize that those men with passion and fervor -- The Wild-lack the level-headed and sensible gene. Any man who has the soul of a free spirit and the raw animal urge to make you feel like a she-wolf goddess in love and sex is always mentally unstable, into drugs, most likely unemployed and irresponsible.
I have come to realize that men who are fiercely rock-solid for you, have a mammoth level of dependability and devotion to work, health and a steady clean life lack the sex and passion gene.
Perhaps when the brain works actively on the creative, passion, lust and imagination side, its logic and sensible side becomes underactive. Indeed, many poets, artists and composers (Dylan Thomas, Van Gogh, Mozart etc...) were unstable alcoholics lunatics who would not have been able to channel this rabid energy to create such pieces of beauty if they had been the level-headed sensible type.
I have to choose and I can't put them into a cement mixer and make them into one whole perfect man. In the real world you either get great sex and passion or a sensible man who will take care of you and look after you.
Goat number two will not accept a place as just a lover. He wants us to live together, be my husband and have children together. He wants to wake up next to me and hold me at all times. He also does not want to give up his excessive smoking and drinking and does not want me to wear my beloved pyjamas in bed. He wants me to sleep nude and be attractively groomed 99 per cent of the time.
Goat number one is grossed out by the idea of giving oral sex, thinks French kissing is unhygienic, would rather watch TV than have sex, and if we do engage in sexual activity once in a blue moon, will ejaculate after about 3 minutes, and then it's not a hint of physical intimacy for another 4 weeks.
I am fully aware of the fact that we do not live in a fairy tale world and there is no such thing as the perfect man. Plus, my perfect man would not only be a sexual panther and an employed stable dependable guy, he will also be able to smooch my intellect with his fabulous knowledge of Oscar Wilde, Virginia Woolf and Postmodernism. But no man like that exists in this world entire and never will. And for now I must stick to real life and choosing between two goats.