Some say that lovemaking is an art. An art that requires prowess, dexterity, and a certain creative flair. Art can be beautiful, an aesthetic in and of itself, and one which can bring delight to those participating (and, for some, those simply viewing).
We groom ourselves meticulously in worship of that art, plucking away errant hairs, cleansing our bodies, smoothing out the imperfections to become “beautiful”, lest we are mocked for our flaws.
Lovemaking is an art. Thankfully, the beauty of art, is in the eye of the beholder.
“Is this the hairiest I’ve even been?” Kay said.
I looked up from the couch. My girlfriend, Kay, of four and a half years was in the middle of changing, getting ready for a Christmas Eve dinner. (“Kay” is, of course, a pseudonym.)
“Hmm.”
“I mean, look at the leg hair. And here,” she lifted her arms, “are these not some of the hairiest my armpits have ever gotten?”
The hair was, indeed, prodigious, made even more striking by her perfect, Winter-pale skin. “Well, I still think you look beautiful,” I said.