Álainn (Beautiful)

Beauty is a witch, Against whose charms faith melteth into [hot] blood.”  – Shakespeare


He is beautiful. I don’t mean gorgeous, sexy, hunk-o-licious, or even delectable. I mean beautiful. He is beautiful because everything about him sparkles. His body, his spirit, his smile, everything. The man shines from the inside out, and it makes me cry. I watch him from behind an open, hopefully upright Bradbury paperback and half-mast eyes. He sits a few tables away, engrossed in something he is writing. He does not look up from his notebook. We are at a campus coffee house, studying.

His hair is such a dazzling blue-black it seems perpetually wet; he always looks and smells as if just from the shower. The fresh-water lakes of Fraser Island are the only other place I’ve seen the shimmering, liquicent blue of his eyes. Such eyes. They glow from within—as the sea does when phosphorescent deep-sea creatures surface to congregate and mate. His skin reminds me not of marble, ivory, or pearl. Nothing nearly so hard, cold, or collectible. Glazed white chocolate seems more fitting: edible, tasty, energizing. Not a drop of vinegar in him—only salt and sweetness. And his smile—that dazzling, self-effacing, little boy grin—reveals an exuberance and gentleness as rare and precious as Truth.

His name means, “High Mountain,” or “Inspired.” Inspiring. I don’t know his last name, or at least, I never seem able to remember it. But, people like him don’t need last names. Michelangelo’s David didn’t need a last name to be remembered. One word, two syllables, and everyone knows what you are talking about. Perfect. And, being surnameless, as well as beautiful like David, he deserves to be painted or sculpted. Had I the skill, I’d be more than happy to paint him. Anywhere he’d like. Or perhaps it would be more fun to sculpt him. All that cool, moist clay...

No doubt I would have as much fun as She had when making man and woman. I’d sculpt him with as much care and precision as Michelangelo and Madame Tussuad combined, making sure to part the lips just slightly so as to be able to breathe Life into my creation as She did. (It’s a little known fact that as She gave the first man and woman Life, She also gave them tongue. She loves us all, you see.

Unlike Her, however, I’d be inclined to breathe Life into my creation before finishing; I’d like to hear the delicious sharp little intakes of breath, the soft moans, and the deep-throated growls as I traced with feather fingers the fullness of the mouth, the gentle curve of a buttock, the silken solidness of an inner thigh, the fuzzy softness of a testicle, and the quiet strength of an embarrassingly ticklish instep. I’d like to watch the lids close over those fresh-water eyes—darkened now by warm undercurrents of pleasure—and feel his reserve melt beneath my ministrations. And, like Her, I’d have no reservations whatever about giving him tongue—or anything else of me he wanted for that matter. And for the finishing touch, I’d set and purify him in the Beltane fires, see him perfected in a ruddy glaze of glistening sweat, blazing eyes, dancing feet, and throbbing heart. The King Stag awakened to the pulse of the Beltane Drum, awakened to the pulse of Life, awakened to the pulse of the Goddess, who on this Night of all nights looks out at Him through my eyes. Beautiful.

All at once, my musings are interrupted by the sound of metal scrapping against cement. The man looks up abruptly from his writing. That dazzling grin once again escapes his lips, revealing pearly whites, precious Truth. He is not looking anywhere near me. He stands to acknowledge the presence and shake the hand of the man come to greet him. No…not to shake his hand. To embrace and kiss this other man. Suddenly, his sparkle refracts into slivers of brilliance, paining me behind my eyes, in my heart. Inaccessible. Totally inaccessible. Like his namesake. The scrapes begin to ache. All over. I struggle to close both heart and eyes, to turn away, to hide my thoughts. I think that is what is making me cry this time, but I may just be kidding myself.


“The beautiful are never desolate, but some one always loves them.” –Bailey