The Hard Stone

            There she was; beauty incarnate. She was a Venus practically floating on a sea of awe from the eyes of the men around her as she made her way onto the CTA train car. Her eyes were blue, her cheeks were blushed, her features were delicate, and her body was the picture of health and vitality. If Cherub’s were floating about her head I was too enamored to notice.

            She found her seat and her gaze about the train car broke the collective laser beam stares of support from the men all around. No one dared make any eye contact with this beautiful woman of porcelain skin and light brown hair. Every man was afraid she could see right through them and they would probably be right.  I felt that if she looked right at me I’d turn to stone. It reminded me of the tragic story of Medusa.

            There are some ancient stories that indicate Medusa was a ravishingly beautiful maiden and in some complicated Greek story of rape by Poseidon and the jealous rage of Athena, she was transformed by an enraged Athena into the serpent haired monster that could turn men into stone. I’m not saying this woman that got on the train was Medusa, but her effect on the men around her was similar. As much as I would have liked to approach her and introduce myself, I was turned to stone and anything I could have said would have fallen to the floor of the train car and shattered to a million bits. I’m just glad I didn’t look her in the eyes. I very well may have turned to ogling dust.

She was pretty extraordinary though and I found myself very jealous of the people in her life, whoever they may be. I started wondering what her laugh was like and if she liked to draw in the wet sand of some quiet beach. I wondered who got to embrace her. I wondered who got to tell her that they loved her. I wondered if she felt lonely and isolated in her beauty. I wondered if she was considering one of those hideous facial piercings. (Ladies, do not put more holes in your face than you already have. For me, it’s not that attractive). This would be a terrible shame. It would be like poking holes in the Mona Lisa or putting arms back on Venus Di Milo with a rude gesture on the end.

I can only say that when she rose to exit the train I felt a sense of sadness. I knew that I would probably never see her again. I didn’t have the stones to even try to talk to her. I think I know why though and I thought about it a lot after her departure. It’s because I’m not interested in just trying to have sex with her, it’s because I would want a relationship with her. If I was just interested in going at it like a couple of bonobo monkeys, then I don’t think I would be so hesitant to speak to her and ply some terrible pick-up lines. That’s not what I want in my life though. It’s not who I am.

I have not been simply interested in sex for the sake of sex in a long while. I may flirt and tease a bit but I’m not just a wham, bam thank you ma’am sort of guy. I’m actually looking for something more meaningful. I have been for a long time. That’s why I think I find myself alone a lot of the time. That and anytime I consider talking to a woman of such obvious beauty I turn into the stone man or the blubbering idiot. I melt faster than butter in a frying pan.

It’s funny though; I often wish I had that same effect on women. That a woman could look at me in my simple and plain face and consider me with amorous desire and an imagination inflamed with ideas of Sunday mornings spent in idyllic splendor. Or at least long enough to go to a wedding with me.