I was reading Will - from Designer Blog (I think that has now become his proper name: Will-from-designer-blog) and he brought back memories of my trips as a high school student to the Museums of New York City.
I, and my way too cool friends, used to scam our high school teachers into signing cut-slips for us to tool the 40 miles down to the city to see "The artwork, we swear!" for whole afternoons. Our fellow students truly hated us for the suck ups we truly were, if only they had known... we actually went to the museums.
I fell in love with works of art there. The sculptures and painting left me hyper with need. I wanted to see it all, I wanted to do it all... especially the naked men types.
If ever I got seperated from my friends, they knew to look for me around the Canova Perseus. How did they not know I was gay? I would stand and stare. Never up close, but from a discrete distance. What I really wanted was to touch it. I wanted to rub my hand up it's leg and thigh. I wanted to caress it's face and stare it in the eye. I wanted it to rest one muscled arm on my shoulder, while I leaned my head on it's perfect chest.
Was that too much too ask? Oh hush up, I was a sensitive youth.
We all have things we want to do before we die. I want to touch that stone. Just once.
