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Lola the legend. Lola the myth. Lola the superhero. I hear these sorts of comments all the time. Few, if any, can believe that a woman such as Lola — nymphomaniac, sex-addict, compulsive masturbator — exists in flesh-and-blood reality.
Undeniably, I have contributed to the inflation of both Lo’s notoriety and her ego through my poetic praise, but the Lo I know is indubitably human, real, and made of flesh and beauty, as well as charm, wit, love and lust. She exudes sensual seduction while being simultaneously self-possessed. She is a slut under the surface disguised by an aura of pure primal pleasure.
There I go again, mythologizing her. What I meant to say is that for all of Lo’s super-human features, she also is a woman of flaws, foibles, and imperfections. I know — very hard to believe given all the laudatory language I’ve heaped upon her here. But, ʼtis true. There is no need to delve deeply into her dark recesses, metaphorically speaking of course, but you probably have identified the more obvious of her “adorable quirks,” as she would call them: jealousy, bouts of anger, occasional waves of paralyzing insecurity, unhealthy attachment issues, daddy issues, and constant craving for cock and cunt.
Perhaps love is the ability of the lover to transform each vice of the beloved into a virtue, for, as I write these words, it occurs to me that those are just the characteristics about…