Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘Songs for women

Are there “Songs for Women”?

Note: re-edit of Jan. 2003 post Songs for Women. I had posted many stories on women I was lucky to know, and called these stories “Songs”


My songs are for the divorced women, widowed and singles with children.

Still sexually and determined active unmarried women.

My songs are of the short stories  kinds

Lacking imagination, of a grateful man,

Short on feelings.


Songs for women, who were my teachers in matters of love,

Loving and feelings unknown to me,

Much of feelings still a mystery to me.

Songs of remembrances, for my own sake,

Trying to connect the strings of feelings among these relationships.


Each song has a single heroine and a single name, as it should be.

Names of children of these mothers are sometimes added when recalled,

My way of praying forgiveness for my lack of attention to them,

For most of the duration of the relationship.


My way to say that I am sorry for failing to consider

The integrity and totality of the heroine’ s life.

My way of admitting that the deficiencies were all mine,

A man from the outside looking in

And ignorant of the new rules in this old game.


Songs for the women, who gave the best of their loving to men,

So Man could grasp the essence of life.

Songs for women, who need to be married for love,

With a man capable of learning a new gamut of feelings,

With a man thankful of discovering a wealth of emotions,

With a man becoming whole lest the cynicism of old age creeps in.


From all kinds of literatures I like short stories best.

The shorter the better

The perfect short story should generate two strong emotions:

It should make you cry laughing,

It should make you cry hating or loving

Same difference.

Chica Lupita: Introspection, Songs for women (Written in Dec. 2002)

Note: names of characters are fictitious, but the events are real to me.  These songs for women are fragments of my existence that I tried hard to gather in order to understand my individuality. 

Ariadna is from Atlixco in Mexico; her English is poor.

My Spanish is no better.

Our conversations were plagued with divergent misunderstandings.

One time, after we made love she asked me how serious is our relationship.

I told her that we barely can communicate

And that I can’t see much future with us together.

She jumped out of bed and cried sleeping on the floor.

A while later, seeing that I did not come down to console her,

She was back in bed.

We used to sleep on opposite side of the bed when not making love.

Chica or Lupita, as she liked me to call her,

Rubbed her right leg on my dick several times.

We made love again on the opposite side of bed this time.

Lupita had very white skin, a rather aquiline nose,

Liked dresses that show a major part of her bosom.

She was rather short and her reddish hair cropped short.

The tops of her feet were large and her heels very thin:

She walked on tip toe and her heels barely touched ground.

She never walked bare footed: the ground is the domain of the Devil.

Lupita held her head up, always looked straight ahead, back straight,

Confidently conscious of people sizing her up.

Chica was married to a young American.

Her man committed suicide two years after their wedding.

I met her at a full-service retirement community.

She worked as a cleaning lady.

I worked odd jobs there before I was later promoted as assistant to the manager.

She was jealous of her superior at the cleaning and washing department,

A lady from Guatemala who had an eye for me.

I asked Lupita out one day and we went walking Downtown.

During our bilingual and confusing conversation I said:

“The only real thing is the moment. Let us enjoy the moment.

She retained that sentence and reminded me of it

During our many painful separations.

We went out again

And then we started meeting in my private room at 2pm.

I asked permission from the manager to rest for an hour around that time.

She used to join me surreptitiously for an hour before ending her daily work.

We used to undress completely and kiss and cuddle.

Two weeks later, she allowed me to investigate her rosy pussy.

I licked, kissed and rubbed her pussy so hard

That she said the next day at lunch: “Me duele. I am in pain.”

Chica pointed toward her vagina.

She would not let me lick her lower lips again.

A month later, she let me in her.

The moment I entered her she whispered: “You are for me.”

I told myself that I am in trouble and cut my activity short.

We used to go to a semi private beach,

At the foot of a villa perched on a high rock,

Belonging to a famous brain surgeon or a brain researcher,

That she used to clean the villa on weekends.

The small beach was hidden from the crowed by a large rock

And we were tender behind that rock.

She used to hold and rub my dick

And when I felt too excited she would laugh with pleasure.

We never had an apartment for ourselves.

She used to rent a room in apartments of some Latino families.

And our privacies were restricted to a room with no private bath.

 Once, we had a great time when the apartment happened to be vacant.

We took a long hot bath together and made love all morning.

I was introduced to her two brothers who were working and living in San Francisco.

At one stage of our relationship we stopped talking for two weeks.

When we made up, her brother Juan said during lunch:

“Finally, my sister is smiling, talking and happy.”

Lupita used to spend her summers in Mexico.

She used to have her physical check-ups and everything relating to her health.

She invited me several time, with insistence, to visit Mexico with her.

I was ready to spend all my savings to be with her in Mexico,

But I could not leave the USA because of problems with my stupid visa.

She brought me gifts on her returns.

One gift was a crucifix on a necklace that I still wear all the time.

Some people were amazed at my guts for wearing religious icons,

I could only reply: “This is a gift from a dear friend.”

On one of our walks in downtown San Francisco,

She liked a pullover and bought it for me.

I bought her a red skirt, I guess, and she was all love.

The night before leaving to Washington, D.C. for good,

I saw her crying for the first time.

She said: “You are going to leave me all alone?”

I never went back to San Francisco but she kept calling me and sending letters,

The first couple of sentences in a sort of English and the rest in plain Spanish.

Once, she asked me to write her a very intimate letter

Showing affections

To chase away a guy who was crazy of her, she said.

 I satisfied her with a letter filled with lies

Like that I enjoyed visiting her last week

And that I’ll be calling her every day and on and on …

Two weeks later, I received from her a letter in Spanish.

I could feel anger in the words

And something of an order to return all her photos.

I showed the letter to our secretary from Salvador.

After she read it she said: “She is very upset.”

She might have called one Saturday evening, the first week of my return to Lebanon.

My mother answered and hung up because she could not understand a word.

“Marie”, she said (Written in 2003)

It was a time when I was about seventeen.

By early dawn, I was on the balcony, the first floor of a ten-story building,

Facing Main Street.

By early dawn, I was reading or studying on that balcony,

But my heart was looking out for this young girl soon to show up.

She was olive skinned, large dark-eyed and hair done in two pony tails.

I was waiting for her to step out of her apartment building opposite ours.

She would wait for her school bus with another schoolmate

By early dawn, I was sitting or standing on that balcony,

But my heart leaning down on that school girl about fifteen,

In her school dress, white shirt and blue short skirt.

Her blond and chubby schoolmate waited with her for the school bus.

Within two years, that blonde blue-eyed chubby girl

Metamorphosed into a blonde Nordic beauty, a svelte Prussian tall.

My dark-eyed girl used to lower her head

Then raise her cunning eyes up toward me.

It was a game for her.  I was to her that stupid bookish young male.

In that game, she was the Beauty Queen and she was pleased.

She must have got used to me.  Maybe she started to like me,

Or she appreciated the attention that I generously bestowed upon her.

Her errands increased in the neighborhood so did my heart beats.

For a year, I could never muster enough courage

To step down this one ridiculous floor,

Cross the street and chat with her.

One day she was waiting for a taxi.

I rushed down the stairs and waited by her side for a taxi.

I could not speak, my mind went blank and I barely was breathing.

Taxis made themselves scarce for an eternity.

I clumsily blurted out with a dry, unfamiliar voice:

What’s your name?”  “Marie” she said.

That is how it started.  From then on, “what’s your name” is all the conversation

I could have with a girl I like.

Returning from a long stay overseas,

I was told that the local militia ganged up on her.

They used her as their love slave.  She got married.

It was a time when this womanhood was blossoming in roses and rainbow colors,

Fluttering in front of that manhood, shy and dazed with pallor.

It was a time when this womanhood was leaping in bounds, raw,

Looking at that degenerative manhood, crawling and craning his neck in awe.

What’s Wrong With You Men! (Nov. 2002)

She was separated, with a two years boy, from a Yugoslavian.

Korean by origin, she was a peculiar beauty and somewhat chest flat.

I don’t recall her name.

Yes, it is Kim, or at least the odds are high for Kim.

Kim for Kimberly, the odds could be much lower.

She used to dance with every guy who asked her for a dance.

Rumors were spreading that she needs a man.

I danced with her.  She enjoyed my dancing.

Kim gave me her phone number with some prodding.

I called her the next day for efficiency reasons

But she kept giving me excuses.

I called her often to refresh her memory of which guy I might be.

Many calls and persistence gave fruits for a date.

She gave me her full address with directions.

She needed a listening ear and valiantly tried to make conversation.

Warding off my hot hands, my hands were valiantly responding to her talk.

Kim gave in.  It was quick.

I felt sorry. She felt sorry.

Helplessly she said:” What’s wrong with you men?

All you have in mind is that!”

I never felt so ashamed, little, and insignificant in my life.

I felt a surge of great pity for her.

I wished I could make up for a lifetime friendship with her.

It could not be possible.

When a relationship fails at the start, women know better not to resume.


Table of contents

Short stories on women (started in 1998)

1.  Songs for women

2.  Raines’ my initiator   

3.  Twenty kitties around Josephine

4.  Decked in black

5.  You’re hungry, eh!?

6.  I could break your eyeglasses

7.  An inch taller than her country girls

8.  Chica Lupita

9.  I should have told Barbara

10. I’m in love with you kid

11. “Marie”, she said

12. What’s wrong with you men?

13. Smiling for three

14. Rachel’s sixth sense

15. Eve doesn’t mix sex with business

16. Taking a full bath is taboo for her




November 2022

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