Category Archives: what is love

Go For The Goodnight Hug And Kiss: Become Quiet, Happy in love, Courteous, Or Brave

Nobody wants to be rejected. So how do you know when it’s alright to go in for the very first good night kiss? Well, that is a very tough call to make considering that just about every woman/man is different. As a male, I will tackle this topic from the perspective of the man while referencing the speed seduction ross dating technique.

Body language is really a wonderful way to tell if they’re into you. Let’s begin by looking at several of the things women do that show they’re interested throughout the conversation:

Playing with and/or twirling her hair.

Raising their shoulders up and leaning towards you.

Her hands are open with her palms facing up and outwards.

A lot of giggling.

You know she’s engaged, now what?

It’s time for you to go in for a kiss. Given that she’s in to you, there will probably be a lot of opportunities during the night to make your move.

What if you are not sure?

Just go for it! What exactly is the worst that could happen? You’ve got everything to gain and absolutely nothing to lose; you’ll probably never see them again anyway.

Listed here are 3 various approaches to the goodnight kiss:

Silent: Making eye contact and lean in about 90% of the way.

Polite: Asking them if it’s okay to give them a kiss.

Brave: Letting them know that they have nice lips and asking if you could kiss them.

What occurs when you chicken out?

Absolutely nothing. Opportunities come and go. It definitely comes down to the individual and how they choose to deal with the situation. Some people can care less, when other people take it harder. But the worst is when you regret not going in for the kiss once you know you should have.

It happens to us all. We meet someone we really hit it off with or perhaps a buddy we always had the biggest crush on, but never had the nerve to let them know.

Before you know it they’re gone; it’s like clockwork, they either meet a person or move across the country. And in the end all you are left with are those 2 dreaded words, what if?

Move beyond that “what is love”, visit the site.


How to make Girls Want to Kiss You?

Hungry for your love
Hungry for your love

The first kiss can ensue anytime, and on the fly, too. In love, anything else more wonderful and sweet than kiss. There are some resources that tell you a kiss should only ensue after a few dates. This is not true. A girl shouldn’t need to wait for the kiss that long. A kiss can be an emotional reaction to a situation.

If the mood is right and everything’s in place, a girl would want to lean in for a kiss. A girl can allow you to kiss her just because it feels right. Some guys reach share kisses with ladies they just met. Is there a secret to doing this? Allow me to share some ideas.

Kiss in love

3 Tips on How to Get a Girl to Kiss You

Step 1: Make Your Lips Kissable

A lip balm can come in lots of flavors and colors. Lip balm is a main necessity, not just for ladies but also for men. It’s not difficult to find a good lip balm no matter where you are. Every convenience store on earth has this in stock.

The thought of kissing your lips must be appealing to a girl before you even get to the point of flirting. How silky your lips appear plays a big role in flirting. Dry lips are an eyesore in dating. Lips that look like they’re about to wither are not appealing at all. Besides your eyes, a woman will likely look at your lips while you are talking. Make sure your lips are up to it.

Kiss in love

Step 2: Get in the Right Position

You should always choose a seat beside the woman you want to date, and not a seat that’s directly across her. There’s less chance for a kiss to crop up if you are seated across each other. Lean closer when she tells you something. This way, sharing a kiss is just a heartbeat away. Whenever she really wants to kiss you, she can.

If you’re not kissing, you can invite her to lean on your shoulder. You can play a game of double dare and get her to make contact you in some way. You can taunt her some more if she is returning your mocking. At some point during all the teasing, she will think about kissing you, which means you’d better create the possibility for her to do so.

Step 3: Spend One-on-One Time With Her

Cat’s kiss

If you’re not satisfied with small pecks on the cheek, you can invite her to go somewhere more private. The main reason why she is not kissing you may be the presence of others around you. A woman who’s not comfortable kissing in public will appreciate your offer to go somewhere else. If there is a stairwell or a similar place around, it will do for now. It’s possible that the sexual tension between you and the woman will increase if you can only share a kiss at the most in such a location.


What is Love – Part 2

Hungry for your love
Hungry for your love

Getting to this point logically is harder than it sounds. The love-as- cultural-delusion argument has long seemed unassailable. What actually accounts for the emotion, according to this scenario, is that people long ago made the mistake of taking fanciful literary tropes seriously. Ovid’s Ars Amatoria is often cited as a major source of misreadings, its instructions followed, its ironies ignored. Other prime suspects include the 12th century troubadours in Provence who more or less invented the Art of Courtly Love, an elaborate, etiolated ritual for idle noblewomen and aspiring swains that would have been broken to bits by any hint of physical consummation.
Ever since then, the injunction to love and to be loved has hummed nonstop through popular culture; it is a dominant theme in music, films, novels, magazines and nearly everything shown on TV. Love is a formidable and thoroughly proved commercial engine; people will buy and do almost anything that promises them a chance at the bliss of romance.

what is love
what is love?

But does all this mean that love is merely a phony emotion that we picked up because our culture celebrates it? Psychologist Lawrence Casler, author of Is Marriage Necessary?, forcefully thinks so, at least at first: “I don’t believe love is part of human nature, not for a minute. There are social pressures at work.” Then falls a shadow over this certainty. “Even if it is a part of human nature, like crime or violence, it’s not necessarily desirable.”

I love you - I need you - I want you
I love you –  I need you – I want you

Well, love either is or is not intrinsic to our species; having it both ways leads nowhere. And the contention that romance is an entirely acquired trait — overly imaginative troubadours’ revenge on muddled literalists — has always rested on some teetery premises.

For one thing, there is the chicken/egg dilemma. Which came first, sex or love? If the reproductive imperative was as dominant as Darwinians maintain, sex probably led the way. But why was love hatched in the process, since it was presumably unnecessary to get things started in the first place? Furthermore, what has sustained romance — that odd collection of tics and impulses — over the centuries? Most mass hallucinations, such as the 17th century tulip mania in Holland, flame out fairly rapidly when people realize the absurdity of what they have been doing and, as the common saying goes, come to their senses. When people in love come to their senses, they tend to orbit with added energy around each other and look more helplessly loopy and self-besotted. If romance were purely a figment, unsupported by any rational or sensible evidence, then surely most folks would be immune to it by now. Look around. It hasn’t happened. Love is still in the air.

And it may be far more widespread than even romantics imagined. Those who argue that love is a cultural fantasy have tended to do so from a Eurocentric and class-driven point of view. Romance, they say, arose thanks to amenities peculiar to the West: leisure time, a modicum of creature comforts, a certain level of refinement in the arts and letters. When these trappings are absent, so is romance. Peasants mated; aristocrats fell in love.


An Irish Love story

Love story
Love story

Let’s call him Ian. That’s not his real name—but in Northern Ireland these days you have to be careful about revealing names. There have been more than twenty-four hundred sectarian murders since the recent flare-up of ancient troubles between Catholics and Protestants. So there’s no sense taking risks.

And Ian has had misery enough for his twenty-four years of life.

He came from good Protestant stock, the sort that goes to church twice every Sunday as regular as clockwork. His father, a welder in the Belfast shipyards, steady as they come. Mother kept a clean and tidy house, baked the best bread in the neighborhood and ruled the family with the sharp edge of her tongue. Two elder brothers, both unemployed laborers.

Ian did well at school and was now earning good money as a craftsman in a production plant. Quiet, serious, fond of walking through the countryside during the green evenings and golden weekends of summer, he liked few things better than a book by the roaring fire during the long loneliness of winter. Never had much to do with girlfriends—though men tend to marry late in Ireland.

Two years ago, on his twenty-second birthday, he was walking home from work when a
terrorist hurled a bomb from a speeding car … and left Ian babbling in the nightmare of sudden blindness.

Love story

He was rushed to a hospital, operated on immediately for internal injuries and broken bones. But both eyes were destroyed.

The other wounds healed in their own time, though their scars would disfigure his flesh the rest of his days. But the scars on his mind, though invisible, were even more obvious.

He hardly spoke a word, hardly ate or drank, hardly slept. He simply lay in bed, brooding and sightless. Nearly four months.

There was one nurse who seemed to be able to draw some small spark of human response from him. Let’s call her Bridget—a fine Irish name. Good Catholic stock, the sort that goes to Mass first thing every Sunday morning.

Her father, a carpenter, mostly worked away from home over in England. A decent
man—loved his family, spent weekends with them whenever he could afford the fare.
And they loved him as only an absent father can be loved.

Mother kept a clean but untidy house, cooked the best stew in the neighborhood and ruled the family with a quick hand and a soft heart.

Six brothers, four sisters—with the youngest of them all, Mary, eleven, her father’s darling.

Bridget did well at school, had trained as a nurse at a famous London hospital, and now, at the age of twenty-one, was a staff nurse in Belfast’s biggest hospital.

Lively, though fundamentally serious, a singer with a sweet and gentle voice and a way of her own with folk songs. Never had much to do with boyfriends—though it wasn’t from any lack of young men who’d set their caps at her.

But now her heart was moved by Ian, for there was something of the little-boy-lost about him that brought tears to her eyes. True, he couldn’t see the tears, yet she was afraid that her voice would betray her emotions.

But in a way she was right about her voice, because it was the lilt and the laughter of it that dragged him back from the depths of depression and self-pity, the warmth and gentleness and strength of her words, the blessed assurance with which she spoke to him of the love of Jesus Christ.

And so, as the long dark of his days turned to weeks and months, he would listen for her footsteps and turn his sightless face toward her coming like a flower bending for the sun.

At the end of his four months in the hospital he was pronounced incurably blind, but what he now knew as their love gave him the courage to accept his affliction. Because, despite everything against them—religion, politics, the opposition of their families—they were in love and wandering in that young and singing landscape.

He was discharged and began the weary months of rehabilitation: how to wash and shave and dress without help, how to move around the house without cracking his shins on every chair, how to walk through the streets with a white stick, how to read Braille, how to survive the crushing pity he could sense in the very air he breathed. Their love gave him the hope to go on living and trying.

Not that they were able to spend much of their lives together: an occasional evening, perhaps an afternoon when her duties allowed. But they lived for those brief encounters and knew the beginnings of deep peace and joys.

Their families were appalled. Thinking of getting married? The very law of God forbade it, surely.

“What fellowship hath the children of light with the children of darkness?” thundered his father. “You’ll not be marrying her whilst I’m drawing breath!”

“The Roman Catholic Church,” stated her priest, “discourages mixed marriages, so you can be putting the idea from you!”

So, by all manner of pressures—constant arguments, threats, promises and even
downright lies—they were driven apart. And, eventually, they quarreled, said hurtful things in their black misery, and one evening, with the rain drizzling and their hearts cold, she walked away from him on the weeping street.

He withdrew into his perpetual night. Days and weeks of bitterness. “You’ll not be
regretting it in the long run,” he was told. “You’d have been inviting trouble by yoking with an unbeliever!”

Hungry for your love
An Irish Love Story

She withdrew into her work, too sick at heart to remember. Weeks and months of
numbed agony. “You’ll live to praise the Almighty,” she was told. “You’d have been
asking for hell on earth marrying a Protestant!”

The months drained into a year. And the bombings continued, to the grief of Ireland.

Then one evening, as Ian sat alone in the house, there came a frantic hammering at the door. “Ian, come you quick!”

By the voice, hysterical, choked, with tears, he recognized young Mary, Bridget’s sister. “A bombing! She’s trapped and half-dead, so she is! Screaming after you. Come you, Ian! In the name of God, please come!”

Without even shutting the door behind him, he took her hand. And she led and stumbled and cried with him through the merciless streets. The bomb had devastated a little restaurant where Bridget had been eating supper with three other nurses. The others had managed to scramble out from under the shifting rubble. But she was trapped by the legs. And the fire was spreading, licking towards her.

They could hear her screaming, but couldn’t yet reach the pit where she lay.
Firemen, soldiers, lights and special equipment were on the way.

Ian moved into the chaos. “You can’t go in there!” shouted the official in charge.

“She’s my girl,” said Ian.

“Don’t be a raving lunatic!” shouted the officer. “You’ll not be seeing your hand in front of your face in the darkness!”

“What difference does darkness make to a blind man?” asked Ian.

And he turned toward the sound of her voice, and moved through that black inferno with all the skills and instincts of the blind, all the urgency of love. “I’m coming, Bridget! I’m coming!”

And he found her and cradled her head in his yearning arms, and kissed her.

“Ian,” she whispered, “Ian …” and lapsed into unconsciousness like a tired child.

And with her blood soaking into his clothes, the fire reaching them, he held her until their rescuers chopped a way through. What he didn’t see, being blind, was that the side of her lovely face had been seared by fire.

In time, a long time, she recovered. Despite cosmetic surgery, though, her face would always be scarred. “But,” she said, “the only man I love will never have the seeing of it, so what difference does it make to me?” And they took up their love from where they had never really left it.

True, both families fought it every step of the way. One dramatic confrontation almost led to a fistfight: shouted abuse, insults, desperate threats. But, in the middle of it, Bridget took Ian’s hand. And together they walked out of that place of hatred. Yes, they would marry. All the conventional wisdom warns of failure. But do you know a more excellent way than love? And what other healing is there?

– George Target

Hungry for your love – My Darling

Hungry for your love
Hungry for your love

It is cold, so bitter cold, on this dark, winter day in 1942. But it is no different from any other day in this Nazi concentration camp. I stand shivering in my thin rags, still in disbelief that this nightmare is happening. I am just a young boy. I should be playing with friends; I should be going to school; I should be looking forward to a future, to growing up and marrying, and having a family of my own. But those dreams are for the living, and I am no longer one of them. Instead, I am almost dead, surviving from day to day, from hour to hour, ever since I was taken from my home and brought here with tens of thousands other Jews. Will I still be alive tomorrow? Will I be taken to the gas chamber tonight?

Back and forth I walk next to the barbed wire fence, trying to keep my emaciated body warm. I am hungry, but I have been hungry for longer than I want to remember. I am always hungry. Edible food seems like a dream. Each day as more of us disappear, the happy past seems like a mere dream, and I sink deeper and deeper into despair. Suddenly, I notice a young girl walking past on the other side of the barbed wire. She stops and looks at me with sad eyes, eyes that seem to say that she understands, that she, too, cannot fathom why I am here. I want to look away, oddly ashamed for this stranger to see me like this, but I cannot tear my eyes from hers.

Hungry for your love
Hungry for your love

Then she reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a red apple. A beautiful, shiny red apple. Oh, how long has it been since I have seen one! She looks cautiously to the left and to the right, and then with a smile of triumph, quickly throws the apple over the fence. I run to pick it up, holding it in my trembling, frozen fingers. In my world of death, this apple is an expression of life, of love. I glance up in time to see the girl disappearing into the distance.

The next day, I cannot help myself-I am drawn at the same time to that spot near the fence. Am I crazy for hoping she will come again? Of course. But in here, I cling to any tiny scrap of hope. She has given me hope and I must hold tightly to it.

And again, she comes. And again, she brings me an apple, flinging it over the fence with that same sweet smile.

This time I catch it, and hold it up for her to see. Her eyes twinkle. Does she pity me? Perhaps. I do not care, though. I am just so happy to gaze at her. And for the first time in so long, I feel my heart move with emotion.

For seven months, we meet like this. Sometimes we exchange a few words. Sometimes, just an apple. But she is feeding more than my belly, this angel from heaven. She is feeding my soul. And somehow, I know I am feeding hers as well.

One day, I hear frightening news: we are being shipped to another camp. This could mean the end for me. And it definitely means the end for me and my friend.

The next day when I greet her, my heart is breaking, and I can barely speak as I say what must be said: “Do not bring me an apple tomorrow,” I tell her. “I am being sent to another camp. We will never see each other again.” Turning before I lose all control, I run away from the fence. I cannot bear to look back. If I did, I know she would see me standing there, with tears streaming down my face.
Months pass and the nightmare continues. But the memory of this girl sustains me through the terror, the pain, the hopelessness. Over and over in my mind, I see her face, her kind eyes, I hear her gentle words, I taste those apples.

I miss you
I think of you everyday and I still miss you

And then one day, just like that, the nightmare is over. The war has ended. Those of us who are still alive are freed. I have lost everything that was precious to me, including my family. But I still have the memory of this girl, a memory I carry in my heart and gives me the will to go on as I move to America to start a new life.

Years pass. It is 1957. I am living in New York City. A friend convinces me to go on a blind date with a lady friend of his. Reluctantly, I agree. But she is nice, this woman named Roma. And like me, she is an immigrant, so we have at least that in common.
“Where were you during the war?” Roma asks me gently, in that delicate way immigrants ask one another questions about those years.

“I was in a concentration camp in Germany,” I reply.
Roma gets a far away look in her eyes, as if she is remembering something painful yet sweet.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I am just thinking about something from my past, Herman,” Roma explains in a voice suddenly very soft. “You see, when I was a young girl, I lived near a concentration camp. There was a boy there, a prisoner, and for a long while, I used to visit him every day. I remember I used to bring him apples. I would throw the apple over the fence, and he would be so happy.”

Love hug
Love Hug

Roma sighs heavily and continues. “It is hard to describe how we felt about each other-after all, we were young, and we only exchanged a few words when we could-but I can tell you, there was much love there. I assume he was killed like so many others. But I cannot bear to think that, and so I try to remember him as he was for those months we were given together.”

With my heart pounding so loudly I think it wil1 explode, I look directly at Roma and ask, “And did that boy say to you one day, ‘Do not bring me an apple tomorrow. I am being sent to another camp’?”
“Why, yes,” Roma responds, her voice trembling.

“But, Herman, how on earth could you possibly know that?”
I take her hands in mine and answer, “Because I was that young boy, Roma.”

For many moments, there is only silence. We cannot take our eyes from each other, and as the veils of time lift, we recognize the soul behind the eyes, the dear friend we once loved so much, whom we have never stopped loving, whom we have never stopped remembering.

Finally, I speak: “Look, Roma, I was separated from you once, and I don’t ever want to be separated from you again. Now, I am free, and I want to be together with you forever. Dear, will you marry me?”
I see that same twinkle in her eye that I used to see as Roma says, “Yes, I will marry you,” and we embrace, the embrace we longed to share for so many months, but barbed wire came between us. Now, nothing ever will again.

Almost forty years have passed since that day when I found my Roma again. Destiny brought us together the first time during the war to show me a promise of hope and now it had reunited us to fulfill that promise.

Valentine’s Day, 1996. I bring Roma to the Oprah Winfrey Show to honor her on national television. I want to tell her in front of millions of people what I feel in my heart every day:

Darling, you fed me in the concentration camp when I was hungry. And I am still hungry, for something I will never get enough of: I am only hungry for your love.”

– Herman and Roma Rosenblat
As told to Barbara De Angelis, Ph.D.

What is Love – Part 1

ots of Love for you
Lots of Love for you

What is this thing called love
HOWEVER PUNCTUATED, COLE Porter’s simple question begs an answer. Love’s symptoms are familiar enough: a drifting mooniness in thought and behavior, the mad conceit that the entire universe has rolled itself up into the person of the beloved, a conviction that no one on earth has ever felt so torrentially about a fellow creature before. Love is ecstasy and torment, freedom and slavery. Poets and songwriters would be in a fine mess without it. Plus, it makes the world go round.

Until recently, scientists wanted no part of it.

The reason for this avoidance, this reluctance to study what is probably life’s most intense emotion, is not difficult to track down. Love is mushy; science is hard. Anger and fear, feelings that have been considerably researched in the field and the lab, can be quantified through measurements: pulse and breathing rates, muscle contractions, a whole spider web of involuntary responses. Love does not register as definitively on the instruments; it leaves a blurred fingerprint that could be mistaken for anything from indigestion to a manic attack. Anger and fear have direct roles — fighting or running — in the survival of the species. Since it is possible (a cynic would say commonplace) for humans to mate and reproduce without ) love, all the attendant sighing and swooning and sonnet writing have struck many pragmatic investigators as beside the evolutionary point.

What is love?
What is love?

So biologists and anthropologists assumed that it would be fruitless, even frivolous, to study love’s evolutionary origins, the way it was encoded in our genes or imprinted in our brains. Serious scientists simply assumed that love — and especially Romantic Love — was really all in the head, put there five or six centuries ago when civilized societies first found enough spare time to indulge in flowery prose. The task of writing the book of love was ceded to playwrights, poets and pulp novelists.

Love never fails
Love never fails

But during the past decade, scientists across a broad range of disciplines have had a change of heart about love. The amount of research expended on the tender passion has never been more intense. Explanations for this rise in interest vary. Some cite the spreading threat of AIDS; with casual sex carrying mortal risks, it seems important to know more about a force that binds couples faithfully together. Others point to the growing number of women scientists and suggest that they may be more willing than their male colleagues to take love seriously. Says Elaine Hatfield, the author of Love, Sex, and Intimacy: Their Psychology, Biology, and History: “When I was back at Stanford in the 1960s, they said studying love and human relationships was a quick way to ruin my career. Why not go where the real work was being done: on how fast rats could run?” Whatever the reasons, science seems to have come around to a view that nearly everyone else has always taken for granted: romance is real. It is not merely a conceit; it is bred into our biology.