Monthly Archives: August 2014


A Faded Romantic's Notebook

Soft August afternoon.

The garden overripe

And wild.

Tanned and indolent,

He stretched in the sun


Sleepy from wine

Full with bread

It only needed fish

For a miracle.


And so it happened.

An hour passed,

Trailed by another.

He had forgotten her




Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from younghappy

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Posted by on August 31, 2014 in Uncategorized


Art of Seduction

A Faded Romantic's Notebook

‘The art of seduction is knowing what she really wants and slowly giving it to her in a way that takes her breath away’

Romantic Dominant



Photo stolen from NoirFeu

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Posted by on August 29, 2014 in Uncategorized


Many a submissive girl’s fantasy

A blast from the past

A Faded Romantic's Notebook

A past lover adored this painting

‘The Assessors’, by Jack Vettriano.

To be naked and bound.  Perhaps blindfolded.  To be examined, admired and studied intently by strangers.  Smartly dressed men.

Perhaps touched and fondled.  If the Master allows it.

It is many a submissive girl’s fantasy.



Originally posted in my blog Love Affair Diary

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Posted by on August 28, 2014 in Uncategorized


Not an end



This is not an end

Summer is almost over. It hangs in the air, chilled by September’s cool fingers. Its faded plumage is already drooping its head, fearing the first frost. Yesterday I harvested a brave bunch of final, fragrant roses and they filled the room with romance and loss.

I have become fascinated by cloud, Wispy, delicate cirrus, puffy, storybook cumulus, layers of cumulonimbus, filling the sky. I know a coming storm by sight. And by smell. The fresh tang of rain in my nostrils. Electricity raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

The heavens are black with the future. For the first time in my life I am afraid of it. And afraid for it.

I have been adored. By women of beauty and intelligence who I usually did not deserve. I have lit candles, carried torches, and burned sacred flares through long, holy nights.  And yet I have seldom revealed my soul fully in the light. I know to some I have become a constant source of vague, haunting, nagging disappointment they have never been able to shed.

And now, today, with my life changing, I no longer feel I can be adored.

It is not simply a question of age. I am a distance from young, but some men are lucky in the way time etches their faces and imposes itself on their bodies. I am one such man. Neither is it  a dark temperament, although I can be cold and aloof, cynical and severe, and unreachable by choice. And It is certainly not about charm – I can still turn it on like a spotlight to blind and seduce.

It is something deep inside me I cannot define.

Like the taste of Autumn in the gathering breeze, or the touch of a friend as they take their leave, or the sight of smoke on the horizon.

Something is drawing to a close.

Yet this is not an end

This is a beginning.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez





Posted by on August 26, 2014 in Still Life


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Two years ago

A Faded Romantic's Notebook

He is trying so hard to be good.

It is not that he does not love her.  Without her his life would be without meaning.  Her light is all around him.

It is not that he is unhappy.  Especially during these recent weeks, together in their secluded, leafy home by the river, the days have been almost blissful after the detached, deceitful, untidy, complicated and eventually painfully sad years of being half away.

It is not that he still harbours angry resentment over their long-term sexual incompatibility.  His desperate unrequited desire for her has somehow become dissipated over his wicked affairs, the wanton trysts and the wild, wonderful relationships. She is his best friend. They will never be lovers again. It doesn’t matter.

But every now and then, when the night is velvet and pierced with stars.  When his gaze is caught by a stranger’s perfectly turned ankle or delicious thigh…

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Posted by on August 24, 2014 in Uncategorized



A Faded Romantic's Notebook

Jack Vettriano - Tutt'Art@ (30)

Beyond the blindfold.

Beyond the ropes, the cuffs, the collar and the whip.

Beyond the dress, the leather, the heels, the silk.

Beyond the clamps, the toys, the oil, the pin wheel.

Beyond her kneeling, head bowed, at my feet

Beyond her stretched naked, tied to the four posts of this bed

Beyond her whispered ‘yes’

Beyond her wondrous, glorious, sacred submission.

Beyond everything

It still isn’t enough.

It is never enough

To cure this endless ache.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

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Posted by on August 22, 2014 in Uncategorized


No way to say …


Time has become liquid

There is seven of them. They have escaped work, the conference, the day. Comfortable in each other’s company. safe in the velvet night that hovers beyond the candle light, romantic at an outside table beneath the awning sky of a restaurant just off La Rambla. The evening is drenched in intimacy and alcohol. They are gently, sometimes noisily, submerged in a warm sea of easy acquaintance which sees them laugh, and chatter, and tell stories, and become friends.

It is getting late. It will be an early start for all of them to travel home to their various countries. Yet clocks mean nothing. They want the time to stretch and yawn, but not show its hands.

But they must go.

He starts to sing. An ancient Leonard Cohen song of leaving that he has known forever from someone else’s life. His voice is hesitant at first, but deep, rich and dark. The others are quiet. Perhaps they do not know the words, or are happy for him to touch the night with the poetry they feel. There is sorrow in the song, but gratitude for what has been shared.

Her voice joins his on the ‘many’ in the fifth line. It is pure and innocent and holy. It lilts and drifts above his own.  It harmonises and caresses and then soars and swoops. It glides and caresses, softens and lifts. It thrills the air, and him. She is an angel from a heavenly choir.

As she sings with him he watches her. Her green eyes stay on him, her brave, almost slavic features are heroic and lovely, bathed in the flickering light. A mane of thick blonde hair cascades over her shoulders as she tilts her head towards him.

They reach the end and improvise an ending which dances, then tumbles, falls, and finally soothes like a lullaby, achingly into silence.

It is a rare moment. There is a hushed, almost electric pause before the others applaud and nod appreciative heads. He smiles at her, and she smiles back.

They have become connected, combined, kindred, allied, confederate.



I will always remember the beauty of your voice, the magic of that moment, and the joy of our union.

And the memory

of ‘your hair upon the pillow, like a sleepy golden storm’



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Peter Ochabski


Posted by on August 21, 2014 in Lovers Past


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