Works/After Pygmalion

Venus herself graced their marriage with her presence,
but what happened after that we do not know.
- Edith Hamilton

I remember the nights more than anything. At night he would sleep, which I could not do, and I would listen to the sounds of the walls and settle into a kind of nonsleep, dreaming of things I did not know.

The sounds of the walls were outdoors. I could not know that then. My world was one room, a room I sensed without seeing, and his touch.

He would touch me often. He would rub his hands along my cold body, warming it, feeling me absorb his heat. Sometimes his fingers would meet something that did not satisfy him. He would make a small noise and then file the area gently, with finer and finer tools in succession, with infinite patience. No part of me was allowed to be less than absolutely smooth.

He called me perfect. He called me many other wonderful things. He would talk to me all day, while he worked.

One night, one hot night when the shutters were open and the wind meandered through the house, he took off his clothes, covered in sawdust and wood shavings from that day's sculpture. He stood before me, nude, and paused, as if unsure of himself. He embraced me. When his chest met mine, he shivered once, but held me until I was as hot as his skin. He cupped my rigid breasts in his hands. He rubbed his body up and down against mine, belly to belly, his penis growing firm against my smooth body.

Then he let go suddenly, and collapsed to the floor in front of me, shaking silently. Crying.

As he slept at my feet, still where he had let himself fall, I listened to the sounds of the walls, and I ached.

That was how I learned he loved me.

And then the Goddess found him, and granted his inner wishes, and I came alive. I could breathe, and I could sleep the true sleep, and I could see what lay outside the room. I discovered a world. I discovered what he had so badly wanted to do, that night when he cried for me. I discovered many things.

Our sex was loud and ardent, my body no longer cold. We talked and laughed and played together. I knew I was happy. I believed he was happy.

All was well until the day when whimsy or curiosity took him, I do not know which, and he asked me, "What did it feel like, when you were a statue?"

I told him. I told him the way wind felt across my motionless body. I told him about letting my mind drift to the night sounds, while everything slept. I told him about the state of not seeing, but sensing, what lay around me. And I told him how wonderful it had been to feel his hands, to feel the heat from his skin flowing into my body.

And though I assured him that the pleasures of being flesh were so amazing as to be beyond comparison, I had said too much. For, as the days passed, he grew wistful. He would stop sculpting for long periods - and I had found that he was only truly happy while sculpting or lying in my arms. Then, one day, he was restless even in my arms.

"What can I do?" I asked him. "Do you no longer love me?"

"I love you," he said, "but I envy you, for you have had something I can never have, and knowing that may drive me to despair."

"Think of the things you have in the world of flesh!" I cried.

"The world of flesh holds nothing for me at present," he said, and pulled away from my embrace.

Nothing I could say would console him, and that night, for the first time since I drew breath, we slept apart. And it was I that cried then, in the dark.

Come dawn, I woke and called his name. He did not answer. Worried, I rose and went into the main room, where I found a gloriously realistic male statue in marble, perfect in its depiction of the form, chin raised, penis erect.

But he could not have made this overnight, I thought. Then I realized.

So now I explore the world that, as a statue, I did not realize I wanted so badly. And he stands, waiting endlessly for my touch.

I have remained faithful; I have lain with no other men. On nights when my blood runs hot, I climb onto a small stool and place my arms around his shoulders. Then I lower myself slowly onto his marble penis, and I sigh, and I feel sure that he must enjoy this almost as much as I do.

I do not know how long he will stay this way. Only the Goddess knows. Perhaps forever. But it scarcely matters. I believe he is happy. I know I am happy.

I have learned that I love him.

Copyright © May 2009. Do not distribute or reproduce.