Nudity and Jealousy (now rebloggable)
Before I had ever met Amanda, and long before we ever started dating, she’d sent me a bunch of photos she wanted me to write captions for, and she was naked in a third of them. So I’ve never known her as someone who wasn’t naked in photos and such for the world. I don’t get jealous about that. Mostly, as somebody with a proper English nudity taboo, I’m amazed and delighted that she’s not got that, any more than a three year old does.
(Being human, I am absolutely capable of getting myself jealous and upset about relationship issues. But the more certain I am that the foundations of the relationship are real and solid, and that I’m loved and that won’t change, the less the jealousy bothers me or is anything more than a momentary twinge.)
Neil Gaiman, I love you, and I’m not wearing any clothes.
A reply to my poem, and really beautiful:
If you think seeing a naked woman
is a disappointment
because what you had imagined was so much
better than what was there, may I suggest looking at it in a new way.
Maybe instead of pondering
the tentacles and mouths beneath
you could ponder the bright things
that lurk beneath her skin. You can look
at her glistening pussy lips and wonder,
must run through her body to create
that overflow of wetness. You can look at her breasts,
dark and sensitive and soft, feeling
in your hands like the greatest of treasures, and come
up with multiple theories as to what lies
beneath them that could possibly make them mould
to your touch and respond so enthusiastically
to your tongue.
Her body is so much more
miraculous and dream-worthy and mysterious
when naked than when she wears clothes.
The mystery has never been what might be
found under her clothes; that is just something of hers
because she thinks you to be clever. The mystery
is in imagining what writhes under her skin that makes her body move the way it does;
what worlds are inside her that create a gravitational pull so unyielding;
what makes her body a fertile ground, enough to grow the tenderness
of her gaze, the audacity of her courage, and the ferocity of her tongue.
The mystery has always been
how you plan on maintaining your cleverness
for just long enough
to convince her to let you stay
with her, there,
and naked, too, beside her.
(This is a response to a (much better) poem by Neil Gaiman about nudity. The poem is a collaboration with artist Olivia De Berardinis and you can buy a poster of it here. The art is beautiful, and so is the poem, especially if you read it out loud, which I suggest you do. It’s just that, I have never in my life been disappointed when a woman has taken off her clothes for me. I could never be disappointed by nakedness because I know the basics of what to expect, but I will never know what’s underneath the nakedness that makes the person suddenly more mysterious, more miraculous, more dream-worthy, more interesting, more perfect as soon as they’re standing naked in front of me.)