I loved you for your beauty; that doesn't make a fool of me
You were in it for your beauty too
I loved you for your body; there's a voice that sounds like God to me
Declaring that your body's really you
Obviously I didn't write that. If I was able to write something like that, I wouldn't be an industrial journalist. I'd be a Canadian treasure, or else a Hallmark writer specializing in anonymous cards to ex-boyfriends you don't actually want to see again but who you've had a nice dream about.
Actually the nice dream about Bluebird was awhile ago. Last night's nice dream was one of the stranger ones I've ever had. It was naked, yes, but very Leni Riefenstahl naked, not really Mistress La Spliffe naked, and not actually a sexual dream, certainly not in the sense of the old in out in out. More healthy than hot. It featured a man who I can only describe as a cross between Bo Duke and Shah Rukh Khan, except a giant. And me being aware over the course of the dream that I was looking at the most beautiful man I could possibly be looking at, and that by default made him the most beautiful thing ever. I mean, like, Reinaldo de Souza beautiful. Except a giant. And naked. And blond. Which usually I'm not into, actually, but it worked in the dream. I was worshipping him, basically, he was beautiful enough that my ego was subsumed, and I woke up quite sacral.
Anyways, it made me get to thinking about male beauty and female desire, probably sparked off by re-reading Jane Eyre yet again and realizing how pantingly in lust Jane was with Rochester. I mean, every description just oozes her appreciation of his athletic form and masculine essences and whatnot, and I had never really appreciated just how close the bit where she tells him she's leaving gets to literary rape fantasy. I always assumed he was threatening to kick the shit out of her, or kill her, or something. That whole section makes a lot more sense now, actually. But anyways. I was going to go on about something else altogether, but now I have to get back to work.