Cupid's Harrowing Experience

Love in itself is a simple concept to grasp. You love your child or your dog or cake; the blue liquorice allsorts; the list is endless. But if you happen to take love very seriously, and believe me, I do; the issue becomes complex.

For one thing, I have to be wary of infatuation, obsession, fixation, that sort of thing; I could go on and on. But if I had to name love's key positive component, it would be altruism. OK, so you write a love poem, it's all about obsession. Fine. But you can't express how selfless your feelings are. If you do, it ceases to be selfless. It's my job to seek out these altruistic types wherever they may be and shoot them.

Things in Ancient Rome were done differently than they are now. Orgies for example played a vital part in our culture. We didn't have football back then. Orgies were what we did on a Saturday afternoon. Can you imagine if you informed your nearest and dearest in this day and age?

"I'm just off to the orgy now darling."

And she replies "Great! That'll give me plenty of time to nip down to the supermarket to get you something nice for your tea. And would you be a dear and text me when you're done so it'll be ready when you get back?"

Not happening. But in Rome she'd reply.

"Have a lovely time darling. Give her one for me and when you get home if you're not totally shagged out I'll be the one on the bed, legs spread wide open with a long-stemmed rose in her gob."

I can't be accused of being a sexist because I attended a few thousand orgies. I'm the god of erotic love; attendance was compulsory. And besides, I never ejaculated.

Being Cupid, one of the most annoying aspects of life is that people think you only work once a year. I mean, who do they think I am, Santa bleeding Claus? And speaking of that fat bastard, how come he gets all the publicity, all the adulation, all the films made about him? What does he actually do? Deliver a few third rate toys that are binned by Boxing Day. I suppose toys make the world go round, do they? No they bloody don't. Love makes the world go round.

And who has sole responsibility for spreading the love? Cupid, that's who. OK, so in the weeks before Christmas you hear a lot of songs about how if you're good you'll get loads of toys. So I'll give him December. But what about the rest of the year? It's all about love. I own eleven months of the year. Yet how many love songs are about me? Not very many I can tell you. Sam Cooke sang a decent one, but then what about Connie Francis? 'Stupid Cupid?' Defamation. I would've sued her if she wasn't such a babe back then.

That's another thing. How can it possibly be right to portray me as a baby? Granted, I was one once, but that was a long time ago. I'm a big, strong powerhouse now. Look at Ulysses. He was the only one who could draw his bow. You have to have a lot of strength to make it as an archer. Ulysses had it and it's something I'm not short of either. I'm a legendary bowman. Have been for years. I'm known to have an unerring aim. That crappy poem 'Cupid shot himself in the foot'. Never happened. It's bollocks. I never miss.

And the penis thing. I'm pro art, and I appreciate people going to all the trouble with the statues and paintings. But get it right. What is it with the little pecker? Do you really believe a sex god like me would have a tiny todger? It's the bloody Greeks fault with their concept of male beauty and teeny willies. I ask you. Am I a Greek? No, I'm a Roman. And let me tell you, we Italians do not have little ones. Hence the term 'Italian Stallion'.

I'm not one to complain; but lose the blindfold. How could I fly around at supersonic speed wearing a fucking blindfold? No-one puts a blindfold on Superman, and he's got x-ray eyes. I don't need x-ray eyes. If I want a lady to take off her clothes, she takes off her clothes. Can Superman do that? Probably I suppose, but not legally.

It's down to artists again. They recognise that I'm all about the love, so fair play to them. But then to imply that love is blind, what do they do? Stick a blindfold on me! It's true, love is blind, but why make me look like a dick to prove a point? Over all the centuries, how many so-called artists have asked me to pose for them? I'll tell you. None! That's how many. Not even that ass-hole Michelangelo and he actually lived in Rome for ages. Spent years painting a stupid ceiling and couldn't be bothered to pop up the road one afternoon to run off a few sketches of yours truly. The Mrs would've probably invited him to stay for tea. She does a lovely spag' bol'. His loss.

Psyche's her name. Short for psychopath. No, seriously it's just Psyche. That was my little joke. Great girl, magnificent Bristols. I named our son Volupta in her honour. I love voluptuous women. What can I say? She was aware of what I did for a living before we got married. She knew it's not just the voyeurism with me. I'm pig committed to my work, not just chicken involved. You know, like ham and eggs. The chicken is involved, the pig is committed. Psyche knew from day one that my work involved plenty of sex and travel. That's why when I leave she always tells me to

"Fuck off!"

She's not just a great pair of tits; fantastic sense of humour too. Psyche's more of the emancipated type. She takes a keen interest in my work and insists on a blow by blow job account as soon as I return. I was talking earlier about the perception that I only work one day annually. True enough, if you were to check the year-end figures you might get that impression. Over the centuries my Valentine's Day productivity is nearly always greater than the rest of the year put together.

But in fact I'm at it all the time what with the research and casual sex. That's why it's so important for Psyche to take an interest. Ironically when it comes to personal action, Valentine's Day tends to be a disappointment. I'm generally too busy spreading the love to get much for myself.

Anyhow, some years back after my Valentine's Day tour I remember her sitting me down on the chaise longue with a pint of nectar and then listening eagerly as I told her this story...

I turned up at this celebrity's home for a threesome, unnoticed having flown in through their balcony window. It was open because it was unseasonably mild. I wasn't breaking and entering. They were already at it in the master bedroom when I arrived. Quite a place. Very tastefully decorated, beachfront location.

She was lying stark naked on a four poster bed with her legs draped over the side. They were very pale and slimmer than I had expected. I can't tell you her real name. Confidentiality. Let's just say she's a blonde media type called Jane. But although she was a lot older than the sort of woman I normally get involved with, she clearly kept herself in great shape. I never check a lady's age, but she had to be at least fifty because I'd seen quite a bit of her on my travels over a number of years. Nothing like as much as I was seeing now of course.

God knows how old the husband was. I actually am a god but even I wouldn't have wanted to hazard a guess. He was kneeling in front of her but not saying his prayers. To his credit must have been doing a half decent job with the cunnilingus judging from her language. Let's just say it wouldn't be acceptable on the six o'clock news.

I couldn't see a great deal of him which was just as well as far as I was concerned. His ass was huge and saggy, and his back was flabby and disgustingly hairy. He was an absolute beast. When I say beast, I don't mean sexually. He was a gruesome bastard. I could tell he'd had several losing encounters with the ugly stick and that was just by looking at him from behind.

But whilst he was old and fat, she was a beauty. It's just the same over here. Apart from me, hard currency is the most potent aphrodisiac. I strode towards them to get a better view. He couldn't hear me because his ears were stuck between her slim but muscular thighs. She must spend a lot of time at the gym, but not as a part of quality family time. I mean, as I got closer I could see his man boobs. Absolutely disgusting. Just a few minutes work once a day would have done wonders.

Look at me. All I do is a bit of bow work and some flying and I'm built like a Greek god. Obviously I'm not actually a Greek god, that's just a stupid phrase they use in the English speaking world these days to describe a hunk like me. They like alliteration.

Anyway he couldn't see me either as he was nose deep in her pubic mound. But as I came into her line of sight her lovely baby blues practically popped out of her head. I really must remember to tuck my wings away before I sneak up on people. She was a right trooper and recovered her composure almost instantly which allowed him to carry on with his husbandly duties in blissful ignorance while we got to know each other in a civilised manner.

"I'm Jane!" She gasped.

"And you must be Eros."

I bloody hate when that happens. Why do I always get mistaken for that Greek twat? He gets the glory for everything. I mean that stupid statue in Piccadilly isn't even him. It's his brother. But does he ever admit it? No! And he takes all the credit for my top class work too. Normally this would be my cue to bugger off and find someone with an ounce of sense. But sense isn't easy to find in Weston-Super-Mare and Jane if that was her real name, which it wasn't had a world class body. I dropped my loincloth and replied.

"Actually it's Cupid. Eros is the Greek god of erotic love. I'm a Roman."

She winced. I wasn't sure if it was because she realised she had made a schoolgirl error or if her husband's tongue had found its way onto her clitoris.

"Of course. Cupid. I wasn't expecting someone so tall and strong and with such a magnificent erection. Is that my Valentine's gift?"

So it wasn't the schoolgirl error. She must've seen the stupid statues. I was disgruntled but maintained my composure.

"Well it's certainly not for your husband. That's more a Greek sort of thing. Eros would be the god for that. This is strictly for the ladies."

She rolled her eyes. Again I was in two minds. Was this because she knew her husband wanted some man on man action or because the porker had found the spot again?

"Of course, we invited you here because my husband wanted to watch me being fucked by another man."

What a relief! You'd be surprised how many blokes ask me to fuck them in front of their wives. And some of them genuinely believe they're in with a chance of diddling me too! This particular bloke was still oblivious to me and right in the way. A Iesser god would have given him a backhander and got down to business, but conscientiousness is key to great lovemaking and I was quite happy for him to continue prepping her for me.

I then informed Psyche that I would leave the rest to her imagination. I could go on about this particular example to you, but you've got the gist. The point has been made. Jane said I was "tall and strong" and had "a magnificent erection."

Those are her words, not mine.

As soon as I half-finished the story, Psyche joined me on the chaise longue and seductively removed my loin cloth. She took hold of my godhood in one hand and peeled back my foreskin with the other before licking my helmet which soon brought me to my tumescent best. When she was younger, back in her human days, Psyche performed a sword swallowing act. So despite the formidable girth of my weapon, she was able to deepthroat the lot whilst managing to lick my bollocks with her long tongue.

She knows me so well that she was able to bring me back from the brink time and time again before deciding to allow me to cum by frigging me off while still holding me in her mouth. I shot volley after volley of my red hot semen shot down her throat but being an expert cocksucker she was able to swallow it all with ease. And although she may not have been gagging as such, after all the sex talk and fellatio she was definitely gagging for it so to speak.

Some so-called gods such as Eros would have been totally drained and unable to perform for several hours, but I own sex and in no time I was rock hard again. I pulled up her stola and spread her legs over the chaise longue. I'm not just saying this because she's my wife, but her cunt is gorgeous. She has a lovely labia. It's really quite tiny but protuberant and becomes flushed when she's ready for cock action. It was already starting to leak a little love juice, so I straddled her masterfully and was able to ease myself in bollock deep with a single stroke. Psyche is now actually a goddess herself and she's got all the tools to enter the family business. Her cunt may appear to be small on the outside, but it's like elastic and there's plenty of room even for me. She's also very sensitive and moaned with pleasure as I made my dramatic entrance.

Being able to fly comes in very handy at times like this as I can hover whilst thrusting away. This gives me the ability to caress every part of a woman's body as I make tender love to her. Or grope her tits while I fuck her senseless. It depends on your perspective.

Another superpower is my limitless sexual stamina, so I was able to bring her to orgasm time and again before she tightened the grip of her powerful cunt muscles around my cock and I felt myself start to cum. I increased the tempo which Psyche matched whilst starting to scream.

"Ego venio! Ego venio!!"

A stream of fluid spurted from her over-stimulated cunt and I began to counter-spurt deep inside her. It took her ages to milk me dry as we continued to cum together. I realised we hadn't said a word to each other from the premature end of my story until Psyche started her orgasm. That's what communication is all about. Giving your partner what they want without them having to ask.

Earlier I just happened to mention a liaison with a celebrity. It doesn't mean anything to me. I'm a god. God trumps celebrity every day of the week even if the celebrity's Trump. In the area where I grew up all the women were gorgeous. Of course they were, they were gods for god's sake.

I'm totally relaxed in these everyday situations because my mom is Venus. When your mom's Venus you get a sense of perspective. You're at ease when you're out there in the sexual marketplace. I'm totally relaxed. Never overawed. From an early age I believed I wasn't destined to meet the perfect woman because the only perfect woman is my mother. It's not like I'm Oedipus.

In case you're not familiar with the story, I'll tell you the very abridged version. He was the son of Laius and Jocasta who ruled Thebes. After a long series of increasingly unlikely events he blinds himself having realising he's killed his father and married his mother.

In my opinion the run of bad luck starts many years before when Laius rapes Chrysippus. I suppose having the story read to me by my mommy at such an impressionable age put me off incest, rape and buggery all at once. Again, if you're not aware of the story, Chrysippus was a young man. This is why I never shoot a lady with a gold tipped arrow unless I'm out of sight. Think back to the Jane story at the point where she says.

"Of course, we invited you here because my husband wanted to watch me being fucked by another man."

We all know that happened. It's down in black and white. But let's say I reply.

"Then have some of this!"

And pierce her with a gold tipped arrow before giving hubby the brush off and proceeding to pierce her with something else. It wouldn't be right. I might just as well have just poured a double rohypnol down her lovely throat.

It's been suggested that the escalating divorce rate shows I've lost my touch. Yes, it's true that I've become more heavily involved on the threesome circuit lately. But the threesome is the most common fantasy around today and as the god of erotic love it's frequently up to me to provide the third member. I think you know where I'm coming from.

But however much sex I'm forced to have, I will never neglect my quiver. And I'm still as discerning as ever. It's just that you're not. I'm very selective about the people I shoot and according to my unimpeachable sources, Cupid related marriages are 100% successful. Yet people flock to Tinder like sheep.

"Fuck them!"

I say. That's the Tinder clients, not the sheep. You should never have sex with a sheep unless you're a sheep yourself, or a resident of a certain Principality.

I'm also highly selective with the threesomes. That doesn't make me ageist or fattist as has been claimed by my critics. They forget I'm actually hundreds of years old myself Plus, if I spot a couple of old fatties together and deem them to be compatible, I don't give them the lead arrow. They get a gold one just like everyone else.

Next time you see a couple of lard arses waddling down the street hand in hand, just consider that. But if you're still thinking I'm a bit of a fattist, as far as I'm concerned that's not a term even in these way too politically correct days. And bear in mind I was brought up in a different era. We certainly didn't have concepts such as fattism. In fact, being gods, we didn't even have fatties anyway.

Look, I shouldn't be kissing and telling, but you're getting me all concerned about the ageist, fattist and uggist allegations. So I'm compelled to continue the Jane story to silence the cynics. Fucking Cynics. What a bunch of miserable Greek bastards they were. Just would not shut up until in the end I had no alternative but to shoot them. And not in a good way. Anyway, if you remember, Jane a celebrity of at least fifty was receiving cunnilingus from her ancient, fat, ugly husband. She was saying.

"Of course, we invited you here because my husband wanted to enjoy watching me being fucked by another man."

Right, you're up to speed. I was up for it there and then but waited patiently. I used the time productively, admiring her taut, slim belly and firm breasts and discussing the mild weather as she continued to be tongued. Soon she tightened her grip on his head. Her whole body began to tremble, her back arched and she let out a further stream of colourful language. And with that it was over. She unclenched her thighs to release her husband who inhaled deeply. As the oxygen filled his sunken chest he became aware of the large muscular presence by his wife's side. Me, in case you're not actually up to speed but were claiming to be.

"Who the fuck are you?"

He demanded rather unpleasantly. I replied.

"I'm from the Dale Carnegie Charm School."

Sarcastic, but witty I'm sure you'll agree.

"And I'm here to teach you a lesson you'll never forget sonny."

The old one-two, sarcasm followed by condescension. He was reeling on the ropes, but Jane stepped in to save him from further verbal punishment.

"Now, now boys, let's be friends."

She interjected.

"He's actually here to teach me a lesson I'll never forget. I'm going to be the lucky recipient of a seeing to of a lifetime. Cupid's the god of erotic love."

He'd been given a second chance and sneered.

"I thought that was Eros."

I briefly considered giving him a taste of what the Cynics got. After all, I'm a lover and a fighter. But some women take a dim view of it when you kill their husbands during a threesome no matter how boorish their behaviour might have been. I then responded calmly.

"Smarter people than you think that too, but Eros was just a shabby Greek prototype for the magnificent Roman Mark II version."

He'd been comprehensively outgunned in the battle of wits, but his big head was still obscuring the view. I was masterful but polite. Polite and classy.

"And now let the dog see the rabbit if you don't mind."

He didn't mind and got out of my way. I'd heard that he was very big in men's retail, but it was clear his trouser department was in need of refurbishment. I can never help noticing. It's a disease. But in my defence it was only a momentary distraction. Now he'd moved I could finally examine Jane's 'mound of Venus'. I usually prefer not to use that term for obvious reasons. However, if forced I'd say I prefer the 'mound of mommy' to be presented au naturel. Fortunately this was the fashion at the time, and I was delighted to discover that she was a natural blonde.