The naked woman in front of me turns around and gives me the smuggest grin as she arcs her back and stretches her arms.
“Well that was fun, but it’s getting late so you should probably put some clothes on. I’m going to have to hit the sack soon,” she says as she rests her weight on her left arm, exposing her chest to me.
Hers were smaller than mine, but it was still an amazing sight. “Can’t I just sleep over? We can do manicures and talk about cute boys and pillow fight in our underwe—“ I cover my face as a pillow starts flying towards it.
“Fine you can stay but don’t start braiding my hair and putting on makeup.” I mouth a thank you and smile as she lies down beside me. Her back facing me, she starts to doze off. I leave her to her dreams and suddenly I’m alone with my thoughts.
With nothing else to do I look at the beautiful person next to me.
She was art.
I’ve never lusted for someone because of their looks. Though it would be a lie to say that I wasn’t attracted to seeing someone’s bare body. It was always wonderful to see someone naked. I love it. Not because it was sexy or anything but because the body is the most beautiful thing in the world.
I’m not exactly what you’d call a model Catholic. It was hard for me to keep myself as the pure maiden considering I liked both prince and princess. But one thing that always stuck with me after Sunday mass was the claim that we were made in God’s image.
I used to kneel down and thank the Lord for making such beautiful creatures.
If I could I would kneel right now and thank the Lord for this amazing woman right next to me.
I stare at the mole on her right shoulder. The stretch marks on her waist. The scar on her leg. Little imperfections that added to a beautiful painting, the imperfections akin to brush strokes made by a painter. She had scars on her left arm, each one holding a horrible story. She told me the reason for each scar one time, the conversation ending with a promise to never add to the story.
The more I look at her the more I appreciate the imperfections she has. She isn’t the model type, the beauty in her body was more real, more concrete.
I’ve always found it annoying that people were so closed about one’s body. Men would treat it like a prize, a goal. Women also fall victim to this objectification of the body. There’s nothing sexual about the body if you don’t make it sexual. The body is a work of art, a sculpture meant to be adored and appreciated. Fat, skinny, average, flat, muscled, the body is an amazing thing. A person’s body is an artwork painted by evolution or God or whatever anyone else believes in. It is something worthy of worship and appreciation.
Like how the person right next to me is a prayer I sing before falling asleep.
She stirs, “What are you doing?”
I move closer and grab her hand, wrapping my fingers around hers.