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.
