On Valentine’s Day in 1991, I was hopelessly single and alone in the house I shared with two roommates. I was upstairs in my bedroom, probably commiserating with the lonely, empty pages of my journal when the phone rang. I picked it up, and the voice on the other end said, “Happy Valentine’s Day!” It was a friendly voice; maybe even a little inviting. But definitely not one I’d ever heard before.
I asked who it was; but he wouldn’t tell. He convinced me to stay on the line and talk, and having no good reason not to, I did. For a bit anyway, before I started to feel…weird. I didn’t know if I knew him from school or if he had dialed me at random and was lucky enough not to reach a grandma, or a pizza delivery service, or an answering machine. Maybe, considering my solitary state, I was being a bit too discretionary. Nonetheless, I let him down kindly and hung up.
Hmmm…just a random memory from years ago that pops into my mind, not surprisingly, at this time of year.
These days, at this time of year, I would have just returned from The Dirty Show in Detroit, an annual erotic art exhibition that you may remember me writing about in Shoe Stalking. Except last year I left the show disappointingly un-bewitched, un-bothered, and un-bewildered. You might think it impossible to be bored when that much bare human anatomy is inches away from your face; but I was.
So, this year, I let it come and go without even the raise of an eyebrow.
Well, maybe a slight arch. I still have urges. But the temptation to go, I remind myself, is because I am thinking of it in the way that I want it to be; not in the way that it is. I want it to be truly erotic, and if I were to take an easy out, I’d argue the difference by simply saying, “I know it when I see it.”
But I don’t like easy. I want to think about what is it that makes me know it. And this is what I know...
Erotic is suggestive. It is blades of grass still stuck to a naked body that has just rolled over after being…photographed. I wonder about this body. I fantasize about what might have happened on that lawn. My mind wanders.
Erotic is also imperfect. It is not particularly groomed. Or sculpted. Or symmetrical. And definitely not filtered. It says, “I am vulnerable because I am real.” And this vulnerability is what draws me in.
And, erotic is subtle. It is a whisper that shakes the ground I'm standing on. A peek. A flash. A tease. It lets my imagination complete the picture.
That’s what I like.
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| Conrad Roset does erotic so well. And I LOVE him for it! |
