My Pretties


He is an admirer of the beautiful and artfully lays claim to what most men cannot. He adores the line of a long neck, the symmetry of a face,  the depth of dark eyes,  the valleys and curves of his woman.

He knows this.

He’s quite discerning, yes.

And simply put, his prey is willing and begging for his attentions.

He chooses from the offerings based on a myriad of his desires at the time.  With a wave of his hand they fall.  Each kneel before him is a beginning.  And each touch, and stroke,  and promise an experience each has agreed to explore.

His gravely tone instructs and adjusts them. His breath comes deep from his chest.  His roar revving up, while his mind and core is swelling. And his women dance and twirl and attend him.

The beauties give more than each meant,  most generous, so sweetly, with vulnerable and honest intent.

He places each one on a pedestal of his love, for a time.  Until he remembers his elevated needs can never be met by just one.  With regret he mercifully turns their hearts and minds to stone. They forget. They forgive.

He decorates his garden with each new failure and walks amongst them in the early dawn when the light is less harsh.

All around him,  his lovely frozen art teases his memory and hardens his resolve to do better. Next time he will exhibit more control.  Timeless vows, always broken; as is his promise to stop sating his appetite with the devouring  of the compliant darlings of his liking.

In the moonlight, his goddesses arch pretty spines, set stubborn jaws and strike romantic poses. Each reaches for the shine of starlight; one with delicate wrist bends in beckoning; the next,  an ageless lover,  calls forth a simple man.

Ivory skin, the curve of flank,  her ornamental thighs and breasts no longer yield to his enraged grimace.

Exposed to nature’s whims, the seasons of his choices burden the shoulders of his women.

Smothered by jealousy, her feminine ways are extinguished and her giving nature flies headlong into the concrete walls of his lair,  just like all the pretty faces have gone before, each mirroring fears he tried to assuage through the hunt and the entanglement, and the owning of the prize.

Dark or dawn, it is revealed; he is forever unable to pleasure a captured songstress tethered with iron shackles to his heart within love’s fortress.

Standing testament to his truth,  his muses all stand- now silent-  in homage to his prowess.

And he walks, again,  alone.


 Don’t dress him up as a common gentleman. Separate the gentle from the man. 


#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

10 thoughts on “My Pretties

  1. This is a very lyrical, poetic piece Ret. I admire the sculptor’s artistry, though not the man. It also reminded me of the Snow Queen in the Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.


  2. Ah, Monsieur, most muses are seen and rarely heard. And most artists, blinded and deaf, so tormented and taken by the arias of her eloquent eyes and form, are rarely able to heed her advice. Your question an ageless conundrum, the answer a timeless chase as each muse wants to be carefully studied just as much as each sculptor seeks to be lured.


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