Dreama’s Diary–September 15
I let the plush bathrobe fall from each shoulder. I pretend it to be the flutter of moist wings entranced by a moonlit rose. I clung to the fabric with insecurity. There is greater beauty elsewhere. But I let it fall free and shyly reveal my shapely backside like a statue awaiting an artist’s decisive hands. Instead, I pull the cloth back over me when there is no one to touch me. Surely angels watch humans with great pity. I wrap the material tighter and take my place in the temple of despair where Aphrodite herself lies forgotten. She won’t come out because society would tell her to go on a diet and get some implants.
Would Michelangelo discard me as an insult to true beauty? If so, give me Giacometti, who celebrated the small chested. And what about Modigliani, who made wide hips sensual? Or Botticelli, who made fleshy seductive. I look more like a Picasso, only shorter. Give me any artist who won’t minimize my flaws, but find appreciation in them. Well, here, have this, Michelangelo, purveyor of beauty, I mentally taunt him, tossing my robe into a pink mass. This is me!
I like my body on some days. Maybe if I had a silk robe, I’d feel sexier; something smooth and light against my body to awaken the sensual part of me. Actually, I’m only concerned about my body when I think of someone else viewing it. I’d want him to savor every inch.
I like to imagine Stefan lying back in bed as I remove each piece of clothing. That’s the good thing about men. While women always find some minute thing that they don’t like about themselves, men quickly zero in on exactly what they do like. I feel better already!