The Burden of Beauty

Any person that is not similar to the surrounding community has problems that others do not share. The eccentric old woman who goes to the supermarket in her old wedding dress is regarded with caution. The bohemian artist who walks main street in a beret with a cat on a leash will be politely avoided. The mechanic who wears a suit and tie while working on automobiles will be talked about in the Legion Hall. Although they’re all harmless, peculiarities do form a tangible barrier.

A strikingly handsome man might have some social problems, like aggressive or determined women. It is likely to be a much easier problem than the gorgeous woman might have. Men can become aggressive and constant in their quest of a woman that is too beautiful to ignore. She has to be intelligent and wise, so she can stay safe in spite of being seen as a desirable target.

elizabeth-taylor

There was a popular song some years ago, performed by a group that was called “Dr. Hook” if I recall correctly. The chorus was, “When you’re in love with a beautiful woman, you watch her eyes.” There is constant pressure on a man who has an outstandingly beautiful woman on his arm. He must make sure he deserves her.

Women of great beauty should also seek great knowledge. Beauty will desert them, but knowledge gained will always be part of them. The most attractive part of a woman is her brain.

Desire At A Dinner Party

The hostess was a former model and a friend of my wife’s. My wife was an art director and many of her friends and associates were models, photographers, designers and other assorted phonies. My wife, I learned too late, was the Queen Phoney over all other phonies. So we went to the dinner party at the interesting old home of the boring old model.

I found out after I got there that the party was a bon voyage affair for a man who was moving to New York for an interesting job as a writer for a news magazine. His wife was to move with him of course. I looked across the table at Mrs. News Writer and was not able to stop looking at her. She was Israeli I was told. Her face was stunning, her complexion was smooth and tawny and something made me desire her. Her name is Rebekah.

I hope you’ve experienced that kind of thing so you’ll understand what happened to me. I looked into her eyes, dark and deep as an ocean. She spoke with a knowing smile, her voice low and throaty yet I could hear her in spite of the conversations going on around us. I didn’t notice if her husband noticed that his wife and I were flushed with unexpected and unwanted stimulation.

“Arthur is leaving in two days,” she said. “I’ll stay here while he finds a home in New York. I’ll fly down and we’ll make the final choice together. Then I’ll come back here for a couple of weeks to arrange the rental of our home and moving of our belongings to the new place.”

“Do you have kids to put into school there?” I said.

“My kids are adults,” She said. “One’s in university and the other is in the military.”

“You look much too young,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. Conversations around the table had quieted as a next course of the meal was served. I was embarrassed to think that everyone had been listening to our conversation, although nothing out of line was said. I’m sure the intellectual mating dance was obvious to all, with the possible exception of her husband. He seemed to be oblivious to the incredible hotness of his wife.

“Where is your home here?” I said. “Perhaps I’d like to rent it from you when you’re ready to rent it.” My wife heard that and glared at me. I didn’t care. I’d already decided I was done with her phoniness, and had to move on.

She gave me her address and phone number and asked me to call first if I decided to look at the place so she could make it nice. I said I would, and we dropped the dance of seduction we’d been doing below the surface. We returned to the general gab around the table while we enjoyed really excellent squab. The hostess graciously accepted my compliments on the meal. My wife later told me that the hostess hadn’t cooked it, just ordered it from a caterer. It came with the uniformed servant who had brought the courses to the table.

Three days later I left the office at noon and drove to the address that Rebekah had given me. I called ahead from the car and she told me it would be convenient for her as well. She opened the door in a white terrycloth robe, a white towel wrapped around her head, drying the just washed hair.

“I wanted to be nice and clean for you,” she said. “I have a feeling you’re a cunnilingus kind of man.” I was caught off guard and hesitated a moment before I replied.

“You’re right,” I said. “Perhaps you’re a fellatio kind of woman, so please show me where the shower is.

We enjoyed each other that way three or four afternoons each week, until she moved to New York. It had to end, so it was just as well. My wife and I split up as we would have anyway. I enjoy my freedom, but I miss Rebekah.

My Grey Dog – Dorian

He was very beautiful, even as a pup. He grew up to be a magnificent Kerry Blue Terrier. We lived in a rural area, surrounded by farms. Some were dairy farms, some were beef farms, and most were growing corn and hay. It was commonplace in that remote community to let the farm dogs have their freedom. Each dog most often stayed around its home farm, and occasionally went roaming and hanging around with others.

I thought Dorian was an elegant name for a country dog. I got it from the famous classic book, “The Picture of Dorian Grey.” I should have thought it through, as you’ll realize if you have read the book. In Oscar Wilde’s novel, Dorian Grey is constantly out on the town. He drank to excess, he smoked a variety of weeds and drugs, and engaged in a seemingly endless numbers of sexual encounters with women, girls, and boys. It seemed to not matter to him that his life was a continuous debauchery. In fact, if anyone attempted an intervention, he simply convinced them to join his depravity.

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My Dorian grey was a lovely guy, and an adventurer by nature. Many nights, while I lay asleep in my bed, or my television chair, Dorian was out. He’d be running with other rough and tough country dogs, chasing cats, including some lynx, racoons, and occasionally a bear, I believe. Still, he’d return home in the morning, spry and happy, having apparently suffered no punishment for his aggressive antics. I felt like he’d had his way with every available bitch in the county.

On the other hand, I’d wake up feeling spent. It was as if I’d been carousing and fornicating all night, like Dorian did. I didn’t always fully recover, and by the time I was 45, I was like a man in his sixties. At the same time, Dorian was 19, and still as spry and lively as a pup. Finally, I realized that I was Dorian’s “portrait”, as in the novel. Dorian, the anti-hero of the novel went on carousing throughout his life, while his handsome face in the portrait, in a locked room at home, grew increasingly aged as time passed.

Confessions Of A Transition Man – part 2

I had grown fed up with the rampant mendacity in my high pressure, high pay profession. The others all seemed to really believe in what they were doing, but I couldn’t see how they could do that. Word games, puffery, fancy presentations and liquid lunches were a way of life. I couldn’t live it. I decided to take time away from it and get a job where I could be alone, outside. I’d had enough of being stuck in a studio, with windows that don’t open and recycled air is pumped in.

One Friday evening when I left my office on the twenty-ninth floor, I caught the express elevator. A courier driver named Jeff got on the elevator with me.

“Do you like your job?” I said.

“Yeah, I love it,” he said.

“Why?” I said.

“I’m alone, but have contact with the dispatcher.  He feeds me calls to pick up and drop off things – small packages, envelopes, stuff like that.

“Do you make a decent living?” I said.

“I get along.”

Out on the street in front of the building I saw the guy’s car. ‘Winged Wheels Couriers’ was on a sign in the back window, and a phone number. I put the number into my iPhone and went home to my empty apartment.

A few days later I was on the road, car S17 on ‘Winged Wheels Couriers’ fleet. I started early in the morning for some regular, every morning runs, and then fielded calls by Herbie the dispatcher.

“S17,” Herbie said in my radio.

“S17 here,” I said into the hand microphone. Herbie gave me a pickup at a small book publisher and I set off to get it.

I walked into the reception area, and the young woman there somehow caught my attention. She was not particularly pretty, but good enough, and had a lovely, creamy complexion. The thing that intrigued me, however, was that she seemed to be hiding herself from herself.

She wore large, round glasses with thick tortoise shell frames. She wore a huge, thick, dark green sweater that was totally shapeless. She kept her face down, and seemed to avoid actually looking at me. The second time I went there she was the same.

The third time I was sent to that publishing house was about two weeks later. That time, I wanted to see her look at me.

“Will you have dinner with me on Friday?” I said. She lifted her head and looked at me for the first time.

“Yes,” she said. We made our arrangements and I departed.

When the end of Friday work time came, I picked up Maria at her office and took her to a nice Chinese buffet restaurant. We had a nice time, talked about her job and about how happy she was to be there with me. It was the first time she’d gone out with someone since she had split from her husband.

When I took her home, we agreed that she’d come to my apartment to have supper with my son and I. He was twelve years old and lived with me. I was having an old boyfriend over too.

She arrived by taxi at the appointed time. It was remarkable how comfortable we all were, even my quirky son. It just was a rare evening when the people and the conversation all flowed together comfortably.

After we had several happy hours together, I drove her home. She invited me in and I went. We made love with the same inexplicable ease and comfort as we had enjoyed at supper. The following evening I was invited to her apartment where she made supper for me. We then made love again, and it felt very loving.

The next day she phoned me. It was nice to hear from her.  There was a blush of happy excitement in her voice. That somehow made the sad message that she delivered to me not so sad and almost sweet.

“I want you to know how wonderful you are, and you have saved my dismal life,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“You reminded me of why I loved my husband in the first place, and what our marriage was meant to be, and I’ll be grateful to you forever. I can’t see you anymore. I’m going back to Keith and I just thank you so much. I didn’t realize that I needed help to make the transition back into my marriage. Keith agreed we’d do it right this time.”

I wasn’t really happy that I’d never again enjoy Maria’s body, which is magnificent. Her skin was just wonderful to touch and taste. But I’m just a transition man. I don’t get to have a real relationship, I guess.

Confessions Of A Transition Man – part I

It was never my intension to be a Transition Man.  In fact, I didn’t know I was one until a woman told me I was. Even stranger, I actually never heard of Transition Men until Judy said it to me. She was a very beautiful, tall, slender married suburban mother of two teenage children. She popped up on my monitor back when I had ICQ on it.

“Hi!” she wrote.  “This is Judy in Chi.”

“Hello. How did you know I would know what Chi is?” I wrote back.

“Everybody knows Chi is Chicago, don’t they?” she wrote.

“I don’t know what everybody knows,” I wrote.

As time passed, we corresponded, and I guess we both liked what we read from each other.  She told me she’d married a guy who had been a platonic friend in high school.  Such a pal, it seems, that he took her out to lunch the day after she lost her virginity to some other guy, I assume. Somehow, they eventually married and had first a daughter and then a son, both of who were teenagers and in high school. Her husband had grown indifferent to her, and I suspected he had an outside lover.  I still can’t understand a man who would grow indifferent to a truly beautiful woman with a remarkable body and flawless skin. One thing that especially drew me to her was her desire to do ‘everything’. She had a movie-star kind of face, a lovely body with large breasts and nipples, long legs that were very attractively shaped. Long black hair was a perfect top to the whole.

We grew to trust each other, and even feel strong affection for each other on line. Eventually, I had a good excuse to go to Chicago, and after I was checked in to my hotel room in the Ritz Carlton, I wrote to her with details of where I was. She wrote back about her estimated time of arrival, and I prepared by stripping down and putting on my Japanese silk robe. She tapped lightly on the door and I welcomed her in.  She was just as beautiful as the photos she’d sent, and I hoped I measured up to the photos I’d sent to her. Apparently, I did.

I undressed her and lay her across the bed and lowered my face between her thighs. She made delightfully encouraging sounds, whimpers and moans mostly until the climax when she stifled a scream. She lay on the bed in a magnificent living graphic pose of beauty, her eyes closed as she recovered from her intense convulsions. I looked down at her in appreciation of her alabaster skin against the dark pattern of the hotel bedspread.  I removed my silk robe and draped it over her. I sat at the obligatory hotel room corner table and sipped coffee I’d made with the hotel’s in-room equipment.

Looking at Judy, I was able to fully appreciate how fortunate I was that this fine, lovely, neglected woman permitted me to enjoy these special moments with her. I was attracted back to her internal sweetness and had a sudden impulse. I held hot coffee in my mouth and swallowed it at the last second before I put my lips and tongue on her.  She caught in her breath at the feeling and almost immediately had another series of spasms.

As she left the room, five hours later, she said, “I never knew one could make love all day.” Now she knew it.

We met in this way once each month for about a year. During that time, she moved ahead to leave her husband and kids.  She found an apartment not far from them with an extra room should they want to visit her overnight. She did not force the sale of their mutual home at that time.

When the affair had run its course, I was becoming interested in a woman closer to home. Judy and I met a final time, happily. I thanked her for the wonderful hours of love-making, and the new ‘firsts’ she had shared with me. She thanked me for being there for her, restoring her excitement in making love, and also the ‘first time’ things we explored together. Finally, she thanked me for being her ‘transition man’, from stilted married woman’s life to a level of freedom and adventure.

Confusion About Cleavage

I don’t understand the fascination with women’s breasts. I certainly share the fascination, but I have no idea why. We might say, “Well, we were nourished and nurtured with breasts.” That’s true, but then, so were girls and women. Is it possible that women, heterosexual or lesbian, are as drawn to pretty breasts as are men?

The proliferation of cleavage is overwhelming. Many gowns at the Academy Awards were excessively revealing. They seemed to be designed to reveal everything except nipples and pubic hair. I’m sure such private places will soon be also revealed, at the next level of shock intent.

Those are extreme garments and they are worn as a sort of advertising of the wearers’ value. The presence at the Oscars, the impressive designer, the evident wealth to get that ranking designer to design for the ‘star’, all say thumbs up for the woman. But what of the stenographer, the shop girl, the female lawyer, doctor, CEO and teacher?

All mature and younger women exhibit cleavage almost all the time. I like it, I’m pleased with it, but I don’t understand it. A fashionista told me it’s for style. I accept that, keeping in mind that style used to be lace to the jaw. Many garments do not count on cleavage for style, but many more do.

Excepting the ‘plumbers’ cleavage’, which is revealed over the rear of the pants of a kneeling tradesman, most any cleavage is attractive. That leads to more confusion. The time honoured ‘undoing blouse buttons to turn a man on’ indicates that women are keenly aware that they’re carrying a built in magnet for the male animal. Therefore, it seems out of place for female executives, television anchors, and sales persons to be showing cleavage. They are not likely intending seduction… I think. We men are at a loss to know what is meant by a lovely cleavage.

I conclude that there are two parallel paths to peace in the question of breasts. Men must learn to interpret correctly, the exposure of cleavage as either a lure, or merely a style detail. Simultaneously, women must learn how to expose cleavage as a lure or merely a style detail. It might be by square inches of exposure, or exposure based on the woman’s sitting or standing position in front of a standing male. Women at office reception desks would be wise to expose minimal cleavage because many males would be standing looking down over their desk. On the other hand, you could open up, to make the couriers happy.

Men are childish, women are women

There’s a big deal on television today. It’s called the Super Bowl. It gathers a vast amount of attention and costs people a vast amount of money. It doesn’t mean anything. The Super Bowl is meaningless, yet a great deal of false meaning has been injected into it. Fanatics pay thousands of dollars for seats that are worth thirty bucks. They could even watch it for no charge, in their own homes, with their own snacks and get a better view to boot.

Any sort of fanaticism is not a good idea. Things like Nazism, Aryan Brotherhood, Super Bowl and so on. This obviously doesn’t include harmless fan preferences like fans of Bruce Springsteen, The Beatles, Harrison Ford, Dolly Parton and so on. Not all Super Bowl fans are childish and some women do as some men do for the big game.

Although some people paint their faces and even their bodies in the colours of their preferred team, it is childish. It’s fun, it’s troublesome and it’s childish. There are women who cook and serve special snacks to be consumed during the game. It is a game, remember. It’s only a game that for some reason commands great attention and much money.

Well, not for some reason – for the reason that it’s a business enterprise. The people that own the teams, the stadium and the series of games, spend much money to hype up the interest in their business. Fanatical fans should remember that it is not really a game, as in a game people play for pleasure like bowling and poker. It is somebody’s business. The painted faces and heaps of snacks are all in celebration of someone’s very successful business promotion.

We all know that men are childish. It’s true that little boys grow up to be big boys with big toys. It’s true that little girls grow up to be women, and they take care of life more properly than do men. We have to mention that while men behave childishly, women also have their oddities.

Women prepare their faces like painting on a canvas. Black, lengthening material is applied to lashes. Colour is applied to upper lids, sometimes with sparkles in it. Dark lines are drawn around the eyes and beyond their corners. Skin is enhanced with skin coloured crème. Lips are enhanced with colour, sometimes two shades on one lip. Cheek bones are accentuated with highlights and shadows carefully applied.

There’s not room for all the hair and body enhancements to be described, so we’ll end here… except to say that women are odd too, and should willingly forgive men for loving their trucks and painting their faces to show their fanaticism.