Women's Most Loved Man

By Nabil Naaman

An intimate diary unveiled mainly by Bob, the women’s most loved man, and who describes them all. A gallery.
The saintly hypocrites, as well as perverted girls. Platonic and carnal loves, faithful or adulterous ones. Devoted, grasshoppers and kind ones, Bob's sexual journey is incredibly rich. From one continent to another, he ravages. Women of all colors, he seduces. But sometimes he suffers, and vomits his acrimonies. Does Bob suffer from a sex addiction, or is he equipped with a prolific hypersexuality?
The author invites himself to it, and sometimes he adds to his hero’s stories. How? By taking inspiration from his own life, as well as from his former patients’ experiences and friends. Not only does he listen and transcribe, he also participates in commenting and conceptualizing. Especially as he enjoys the confessions and confidences of wild and liberated women. And long lives love, whether for a night or forever, a roll in the hay or with working girls too! Beyond a diary, a hymn to all women and their loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796098518

Book preview

Prologue

When Robert burst into my life, I had already seen it all and lived well. The alchemy resulted from the fact that we both had lost our wives and the days were bygone. The idea of giving birth to our sentimental and sexual experiences with our four hands, as of those playing the piano in the same tempo, never left us. A love diary, intimate, authentic, warm, and sometimes erotic. And a confession path, narrating not only our moments of elation but also our tender weak moments. Even more, of distress.

Except that Robert had lived and learned way more than I did. The globetrotter he always was exceeded me and by far. So I managed to convince him to be my hero and to let me be his scribbler. He resonated with his ego while I was in symbiosis with my twin. We were both delighted and satisfied, especially that we could work in peace, free of daily restrictions and responsibilities of everyday life.

*     *     *

Robert was born in our native country, Lebanon, and shared my joys, sufferings, and sorrows. What brings together brings closer and unites. Notwithstanding our personalities’ differences, him being volcanic and me more reserved, we agreed to get along and share, each in his own way. Our complicity having soon proved to be fruitful, we only had to convince our companions to adhere to it. Aren’t they our best advisers and proud muses? Those who encourage and inspire us filter the air we breathe and give without counting tenderness and generosity.

But this investigation being based on trust and confessions, I immediately emphasize that it is and will remain, as it should be, a fiction. Despite numerous and varied likelihoods, my story is committed to associating with my own experience of life as well as that of my friends and some of my patients’ confessions, all put together. In short, a mirror game, with a tangle of facts, of topics and characters. Isn’t life a theatrical universe? The most refined and authentic on earth? In a few words, I will describe in this love book romantic encounters and erotic affairs of more or less brief duration, intermittent or chronic. A true nostalgic dive, not only in their beauty but sometimes in their ugliness too. Between emotions and portraits, remorse, and regrets. Furthermore, with my hero’s approval, there will be just a few dates in my story that won’t necessarily be accurate. And few chronological elements to shuffle the cards without confusing the minds as much as certain confessions, necessarily secret and sincere, are difficult to admit and to assume. Or even to claim without blushing or failing.

I saw myself led nonstop to erasing the landmarks as well without lying about the body of the story, knowing that if I write, it is not to please. I sometimes do it even to displease, to shove, to upset, to disturb, to shake the coconut tree, and to undo the certainties. Shouldn’t the author constantly keep this preliminary principle? Shouldn’t a writer be judged about his life, especially when writing a notebook of confidences and confessions, some of which appeal to a quest for repentance and redemption? In matters of love, don’t we search, like nowhere else, for a soothing absolution to our sentimental past? ’Cause who says confessions is the beginning of contrition? Of what? Of clumsiness, broken promises, weaknesses and baseness, betrayals, and other lacks of nobility.

I like to often repeat what Michel Onfray wrote, in his Cosmos, about his father: He handed me a legacy, invited me to rectitude at crossroads, to righteousness against zigzags, to live up straight, to full speech. A philosopher who exasperates by his visceral attachment to truth, to probity, and modesty, didn’t he publish in 2014 haikus of which vanity of the vanities, my lantern, my lamppost, and my philosophy of life? And that came, for centuries, in Latin: Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas!

I also tend in my story to refer again and always to science and medicine, to the arts and writings for the indispensable value of rigor. Doesn’t human sexuality vary according to times and cultures, especially that notable differences are observed not only in the diversity of erotic practices but also in customs, beliefs, and ethnicities? And that, henceforth, neurosciences show through medical imagery a relation among those differences with addiction, like the one provoked by released endorphins during lovemaking that can generate not just intense emotions but also euphoria or sadness as well as, and otherwise, passions associated with love that are likely to be the source of both individual or social problems, artistic or literary creativity. Can I ever forget the effect of the painting Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss by Antonio Canova? Or of the poem The Curve of Your Eye by Paul Eluard?

In parallel, isn’t the goal of any private notebook’s author to scramble all tracks and to explore fallow fields while paving the way for speculation and discussions and even for the wildest delusions? I will do it just for the sake of discretion and courtesy. To whom? My characters of all ages and sexes, especially that this is the price of women’s respect as well as her status, which is more than ever in regression or danger. However, isn’t she a treasure between earth and heaven?

Women: Treasures on Earth

We recognized each other at first glance. Both had experienced the same drama, close to a few important details, which I will talk about later.

Informed by a call in the Arabic language, I went to see him for a dental consultation. His surname evoked the same origins as mine, Middle Eastern and through perennial centuries. From Zghorta by his father and Zahlé by his mother, Robert, Bob for his close friends, which will soon include me, confirmed his religion. As to his welcome, warm and joyful, it certified his belonging to the land of the rising. Finally, his accent and his vivacity exhaled his urban roots and embellished his tasty and naughty anecdotes. Funny stories that were lived not far from the secular city of Tripoli in the north of the country, in Zghorta, with its eventful and sometimes bloody past, and especially in the proud and noble Zahlé.

It was in Zahlé, in the Lebanese Beqaa, that Bob was the most attached to. For the beautiful fiancée of the land of Cedar, the Roman Empire’s attic and the first republic founded in the Middle East witnessed his birth. He taught me out of hand that the city, dating from the nineteenth century, celebrated by great poets took pride in being the most Byzantine (the cherry on top of the cake to the Greek Catholic that I am). The love at first sight, which doesn’t hit just the persons of opposite sexes, hit us at the speed of sound and light. And the dental care took place between laughs and nonsense, without pain as the eventual one was swept by the ambient music, the masterly hymn, Beethoven’s paradise choir.

With my tooth decay gently extracted and my crown programmed, Bob invited me to lunch. For a dental surgeon offering his patient as soon as the first consultation to share a meze at the down-the-street restaurant, is a sign not just of friendship but also of perfect fraternity. It confused but touched me at the same time, especially that my colleague opened up to me widely and without complex. His wanderings around the world and his stopovers revealed a rich and especially Romanesque life. But the man in his fifties, my younger by a few years, became febrile when recalling his failed marriage and atrocious divorce as well as the troubles with his ex-wife and their repercussions on the children’s upbringing. In short, a classic that reveals errors and vulnerabilities, which no one can renounce, avoid, or flee. Wasn’t it mektoub [written], my Middle Eastern friend?

After the display of his pains and conflicts, it was my turn to confide in him. I had been a widow for some long years and was not the precious and helpful presence of my companion. I can’t tell him under what dirty sheets I would have certainly been today. Robert sympathized with me sincerely and without detour. Our friendship was sealed between a delicious hummus and a hot oven-cooked kibbeh.

For sure joys assemble and gather. But dramas and sufferings cement relations and make them even more perennial. Especially that I noted another common point with my friend, which can’t be ignored. Aside from his divorce, Bob has always loved women but, most importantly, was loved by them. To start with, his unforgettable and tender mother, his only sister, then his cousins and girlfriends, and other conquests. Some were rebellious but always, to a couple of exceptions, tender and faithful in his birth country as well as in France, Kuwait, England, and the United States, distant Japan, and Brazil, till the little-known Moldavia where he had resided and loved, sometimes to infinity.

Great! My new friend is a real gold mine to feed the imagination of a writer. Henceforth, I will not let go of him anymore. His sentimental relations are so imposingly significant that they become consubstantial; for an author, this is marvelous.

Congratulations! I said to myself. You just made the best pick, dug out the big jackpot, and most importantly, found the hero for your love book. Especially since my fiction will allow me to plunge into the most delicious and passionate of topics: women, treasures between earth and heaven. Notwithstanding the male controversies and reservations about them, don’t their richness and exploits converge to love, pamper, and comfort us even more?

If I titled my story Women’s Most Loved Man, could I have equally presented it differently? The Man Who Loved Women? Why not? ’Cause in this notebook, I intend to list and to inspect the maximum of possible and imaginable situations in which love and sexual relations are at stake. Without being exhausting, I would like to cover some of the main and essential ones with my pen with all sincerity. Can we, or the others, confess differently than with the truth? Don’t we have a limited number of opportunities to unburden our remorse and regrets? And even less to unveil and admit extravagances and eccentricities?

First Crushes and First Frights

Bob is sixteen and is opening up to life. His father, an educated notary, is a respected, wise, and knowledgeable citizen. Didn’t he give his eldest son some daring books in French and Arabic that were banned by religious and scholar authorities, like One Thousand and One Nights"?

The solid and well-built adolescent read them with greed and appetite, sometimes secretly, with difficulty, from his mother, like with the controversial Madame Bovary. Did he understand at that time the societal and philosophic concepts of Flaubert? Whatever, since Emma’s marital infidelities, put the young man, who is emotionally beardless, in a state of strong excitement?

However, Bob’s sentimental life almost started badly. To this day, I wonder how could he have confided so brutally in me to confess it ’cause in the fifties and especially in the land of the rising, adult sexuality remained secret and muted, making one so guilty that he puts it to waste and, often, let it be boring to death, tied up and limited by religions’ principles, Christian and Muslim morality equally. Surely for men, but more for women.

Robert will know its torments without being able to defend himself, to complain, or to moan.

*     *     *

In little Bob’s native town, across from the villa where he lived with his family, stood a three-floor hotel for visiting tourists that served a mezze of fifty dishes, and that attracted Middle Easterners of all beliefs and ethnicities. The lady owner, who was gallantly approaching her sixties and following her husband’s death, ran it with authority and severity. Vis-à-vis who? Her thirty-year-old daughter—who, in the absence of a fiancé in the horizon, was frustrated, lonely, and in need of embrace, hugs, and kisses—started to wither. Don’t be mistaken: men rape; women more rarely for sure, but Camelia will also violate.

Bob is only six, too bad for him. He will not remember, so she hoped, and it was practically doable with no trouble.

When winter came and clients were rare, Camo, short for Camelia, took the little kid to her room for thorough molestation, legally, morally, and formally forbidden. Few motherly kisses are given on the cheeks of the boy, followed by Bob’s stripping, speedily done by a panting Camelia, soon herself to be without panties and numb with fear. To accomplish her dirty work, she held a jar of salted chickpeas in her left hand, which were cherished by all the country’s kids, something to neutralize Bob with, who stuffed himself relentlessly, just to forget the enormous offense.

This is how my little, but not dumb, hero’s sexual life began, unwanted forced learning that occurred much too early, and that was never sanctioned nor forgiven. By whom? A Middle East that lived consubstantially with denial while as far as I am concerned, I was flurried by Bob’s confession. Will this his episode, occurring at regular intervals, ruin my friend’s sentimental and sexual life? On the contrary.

Didn’t his first objectively traumatizing experience with women lead him to be loved by them beyond what should be? Many times have I questioned him about it. His answer remained consistently and strictly negative. Isn’t it the image of every hero and of mine too brave and resilient, as resistant as a camel in the Arabian desert as he described himself? Unless, one day, he accepts to go through psychoanalysis, that would be a healthy catharsis, a way to explain invisible flaws yet rooted in him, still for so many years later, and that would need care and therapy.

But I promise this isn’t my story’s most essential concern, especially that Bob’s life was so rich that he managed to outgrow it well, not fully peaceful, but optimistic, perky, and unbruised, with, on the sexual field, a huge appetite.

*     *     *

In return for these criminal and disgusting events, I gave away a few confessions with equal transparency to my new friend. Indeed, I told him that I also have some stealthy yet instructive memories from my childhood at a boarding school that was run by priests as related to me by my brothers.

There were stolen kisses from my classmates that I disapproved of and that made me feel uncomfortable, even disgusted me, my teachers’ out-of-place gestures and some of their colleagues’ in the darkness, at nightfall, as well as on Saturdays’ confessional. There were latent rape attempts in the pinewoods of the religious institution that I attended, told by my schoolmates, as well. The most baffling thing in those never-punished excesses is that the victims that we were didn’t necessarily consider them as offenses.

Ah, the East and its denials! Between digressions and convolutions, between circumlocutions and distortions, so much is unspoken. Ah, the Orient, its blindness and foul play. Even repeated solicitation of a handjob, by a math or French teacher, was considered as an almost innocuous request or, even worse, out of fertile imagination of a mythomaniac child or an uncorrectable chatterbox so that no one dared to whine or complain. Not only was it useless, but we were also suspected of deception and trickery. By whom? Obviously by the head office and also by our own parents, they who refused to believe their kids of which we were hurt. What was the value of a ten-year-old word at that time up against a teacher’s obloquy and contradictions? Especially since my archbishop of an uncle, a saint, a probe and sane man, had given his episcopal benediction and a blank check to the religious institution chosen by my father and his brothers.

The educational, parental, and religious, united and reunited conservatively, conspired to shut our mouths and make our sufferings pass for rude allegations and preposterous ineptitude! The guilt was likely shared by the adults, but it also devastated us to infinity. Bruises that are plucked with forceps out of my memory? Or stinky, rotten revulsions finally vomited?

Many long decades later, and I am still flustered about it, when I watched the American movie Spotlight by Tom McCarthy (Best Movie and Screenplay in the Oscars, 2016) that unveiled pedophilia scandals in the Catholic church of Boston, I was definitely comforted but not totally healed. In France, the painful and chronic pedophilia case resurfaced in 2016, and priests were put to question, and many risked being sanctioned and punished. The Cardinal Barbarin was in the spotlight, and his silence about his subordinates’ offenses was badly taken. The church is in trouble, and the pope stormed and roared against his peers. The celibacy question of the clergymen reappeared. Obviously, the sexuality of those to whom we entrust our children will never stop being a perennial concern.

Bob and I, ulcerated, disgusted, and marked for life, had one word to say: enough! If our love for women ended up by prevailing against all villainies, wasn’t it programmed and registered in our genes? Thank God! we both thought in unison.

*     *     *

Seated in a Parisian café at the Trocadero, we talk about women one more time. Isn’t it men’s topic, the favorite one? There is nothing more pleasant and stimulating for our senses and mind. Robert gives his opinion about French women—beautiful, well dressed, and mainly sensual. They attract him like powerful magnets. And there he goes again about his adolescence’s confessions.

My first memories, he tells me, merge with my dreams, but they are always the same—young women by the dozens, little dressed, if not completely naked like worms, wriggling their buttocks with pervert grace and zest. Then they approach me without any struggle from my part and with a smile!

But you see yourself in a brothel. It is libidinous and shocking at our age, Bob! Come on! I said in a very little affected tone, actually delighted and laughing about it!

"No, don’t be mistaken. It is paradise for me! Paradise, I’m telling you! It comes from my childhood memories that have been rooted in me for decades. And it goes back to when I was eight, two years after my rape by Camo at her mom’s hotel."

Go ahead. I am all ears.

"Being the eldest of my siblings, I spent most of my time in the pinewoods surrounding the restaurant, frolicking in the open air, worry free. There, in the afternoons, the female residents, in the absence of their husbands, gathered around and sat on the benches to chat and take some fresh air, all perky and available. Often in light, flowing in the air, summery clothes, exhibiting their legs, and offering the top of their breasts to the breeze, and to my glances that were in principle innocent but, in fact, forbidden. So many gracious affections, sensual coquetry, and other cuteness. I was the devoted coffee boy to his clients, body and soul, with my smiling face and my childish answers. A funny and nice clown who served the ladies free of charge and in all courtesy. Results? To thank me, I had the right, here and there, to kisses and caresses.

"And then, my friend, I lost my patience and couldn’t stand still, agitated with curiosity and envy.

"And then . . . and then, little concerned by my actions, the women, between their thirties and forties, opulent and smiley, let themselves be touched lightly and gracefully. When the most confident or impulsive ones invited me to sit on their chubby knees or to stand in front of them and opened nonchalantly their arms and legs to retain me, my hands, agile and febrile, touched what they could reach through their dresses or straight on to their skin. Never will I forget that softness, the lines of their curves, and the fragrance of their smells.

"Ah! Their bright looks, their subtle perfumes, their happy voices, and nonstop laughs! Ah! The sensations and the exhalations, at the same time a delicious suffering and a sensual yet tender ordeal. Already paradise on earth, I am telling you, with any makeup or disguise! In my opinion, this singular and unique experience that occurred two years after the very negative one with Camo will have saved my sexuality and shaped my sexual life forever. Do you get it?

"This episode reminds me of a similar one I experienced but in another context. I was ten, and the women gathered at my mom’s place to wax. They did it the Oriental way, with beeswax, on the big veranda that surrounded our house. They also had to expose their body parts from feet to groins. One of the most erotic shows but, necessarily, even more appetizing once they had finished their waxing. Only my eyes took advantage of the ceremony, and I stayed on my hunger.

"Since then, I insist that my partner stays perfectly clean regarding that issue. And I happened to pack up and leave if it wasn’t the case without explanation or debate. I insist on glabrous skin, wartless, and without any other damage! Here it is, we never change! This doesn’t prevent me from appreciating the splashing eroticism of the painting L’origine du monde [The Origin of the World] of Courbet, that I find to be sublime, but also from criticizing the lack of any integral intimate hair removal instead of it going here and there. Let’s get back to you, beyond that fabulous physical contact that came before it’s time and was granted to you by those women. According to you, what would the most determinant psychological element for the majority of women to love you as much, consistently, and without suspicion be?"

I think I know, thanks not just to my numerous feminine conquests but also to my disappointments and setbacks. In general, women are more instinctive than men—it is a fact. So if for one reason or another, deep inside yourself, you hate them, or dream of humiliating them, or even count on imposing your laws upon them, you will have all the chances for payback. On the other hand, they will desire and love you to the exact extent that you desire and love them yourself. Then their generosity will be holy! It is limitless. Never forget that it is the woman who gives herself to a man, and it’s to him that she abandons herself. And that, as Michelet says so well: ‘There is no old woman. Each, at any age, if she loves and if she is genuine, gives the man the time of the infinite.’ The Goncourt brothers also said it their own way: ‘For a forty-year-old woman . . . a lover is a protest against her birth certificate.’ Isn’t it funny? Also, isn’t humor the key to her desire while your love’s authenticity makes her languish, furthermore, your tender and sincere words, more than your real or supposed virility, make her crumble? Then, one day and by surprise, all of it well articulated around her sensations and emotions, you will get her to moan. And sometimes, as long as you are patient and enduring, you will bring her to orgasm. So ended Bob his lesson, while bulging out his torso, sure of himself, without any hint of a smile.

But what do you think of the seduction game, before winning or succumbing to finally end up joining in the same bed?

Surely this counts, but for women, it is not essential. Anyway, you shouldn’t worry about these gazelles. Either you would be seen, at best, as Don Juan or, at worst, as the ‘supermarket seducer.’ On the other hand, women need to admire before going to bed. It’s a universal principle, easy to understand and to explain.

If I understand well, they are sensitive to finesse and tenderness with a zest of know-how, much more than to roughness.

Well seen. You understood it all about ladies. For my part, and until my divorce anyway, I never considered women as enemies but rather as allies and friends. This is why they, too, have always shown me affection. When will men understand that they aren’t territories to conquer, but hearts to sincerely move and shiver?

Certainly, but you are forgetting to mention that your childhood denotes a well-marked and an early taste to the fair sex, a pronounced appetite that is no stranger to your luck with women afterward. Admit it! By the way, you actually didn’t tell me about your dream type of women. Brunettes, blondes, ‘milk coffee,’ or maybe Asian?

All, my friend, without any distinction. And not only those who would say yes to me. And the most mature particularly. Exactly those who remind me of my childhood in Zahlé! Definitely, sexy is my only condition for them to be even if they are not necessarily very pretty. From all continents and countries.

Talking about continents, would you tell me about your American experience in this area?

Oh! Not so fast for God’s sake! Don’t you want me to start with the beginning of my sentimental life? So let’s go back to my twenties, forty years ago, at my arrival to France. This doesn’t make us feel any younger, but so be it.

It is you who decides and I who write. Also, I bend to your wishes, and I am all ears, waiting for the rest.

And here goes Bob about his favorite topic. I didn’t get tired of it. On the contrary, I looked forward very willingly to an unedited