Poems have been written, wars have been waged, songs have been sung, and coups have been staged…all inspired by the passionate love for a woman. It’s hard for me to imagine living in a world in which the only way to communicate with the person I love is face to face or through a hand written letter that she will receive weeks after I’ve written it. If absence truly makes the heart grow fonder, I imagine that the people who were in love hundreds or thousands of years ago were very fond of each other, indeed. I currently have both the blessing and misfortune of experiencing that cosmic connection with a woman who is often here tonight and gone tomorrow.
Never before have I seen a woman whose natural curves flow like a silk sheet blowing in a gentle breeze, its surface softly billowing in a curvaceous shape that can only have come from the blueprints of nature’s grand design. Whenever I look at her, I experience a physical satisfaction that is rarely experienced by a man who is at his sexual peak. I know I’m supposed to feel inspired to procreate with every fertile female I meet who boasts round breasts and hips, but here is an example of femininity so fine that, next to her, any other woman looks as appealing as a prison inmate who is fresh out of a 6 month stretch of solitary confinement. I imagine that the statue of a sphinx must have had its eyes modeled after a woman with eyes like hers. They’re almond shaped with lashes that curl like the cascading surf of the black sea. The colors of her eyes are rarely the same from one moment to the next, but they usually drift between star-flecked honey and burnished bronze. All of this is framed by a mane of hair that flows to the middle of her back in a wild cascade of milk chocolate curls with caramel swirls. Watching her try to tame her hair is downright entertaining, since modern man has yet to produce a product that can keep it straight for more than an hour. But whenever she does straighten her hair, I’m shocked at the way the colors of it blend and contrast with her skin.
Her skin is a landscape that inspires aesthetic awe, scientific fascination, and endless sensory pleasure within me. It has a cinnamon sheen to it that makes it appear as if it would be slippery, but touching her skin betrays that illusion since it truly feels like a cool blend of satin and felt. Watching her pull on clothes merely enhances the illusion that her skin is wet and my scientific mind routinely asks the question, “How is it possible for human skin to naturally look like that?” I have what is considered to be very “good” skin, but whenever my skin touches against hers I feel like an alligator rubbing against a newborn fawn. Whether it’s my skin on hers or it’s her skin on mine, I often wonder if I’m touching a creature that was never meant to exist in such a harsh and abrasive world. I want nothing but the smoothest silks to drape her body, and the thought of any scratches or scars marring the surface of her skin is almost as painful as watching her leave.
Every time she drifts away, I inhale deeply to breathe in an impression of her essence strong enough to last me until the next time we embrace. What makes her scent so addictive is my awareness that the sweetest part of it is entirely natural. Every time she steps fresh out of my shower, out of the bathroom wafts a scent that pleases my senses more than walking through a field of lavender. It’s as distinctive as the smell of a baby, but it’s a musky, wild, and lightly spicy scent that is always an undertone to any fragrance she wears on top of it. It’s amazing how I naturally measure the turning of the globe in terms of how long I will have to wait until seeing her again.
When I’ve gone more than a few days without seeing her, I experience withdrawal symptoms like a nicotine addict attempting to quit cold turkey. I feel a physical sensation in my chest like the slightly uncomfortable buzzing of an electrical current. And just like electricity, I’m deeply aware that this feeling has just as much potential to shed the most beautiful warmth on my heart as it has to cook my heart itself. My only solace comes from being in her presence, when the strength of my grip meets the curve of her hips. Every night I ask myself if it’s healthy to be so emotionally dependant on a woman, but I justify my infatuation with her by reminding myself that she isn’t real. And just like every night before, I close my eyes and drift to sleep, hoping that my mind will take me to where I can be with my dream girl once again.
By: Michael Verdun