It’s been a couple weeks since I revealed my love for naked man-sculptures.

My official letter to the PM requesting widespread erections (of the statues…in terms of building them…ahem) continues to be ignored.

Despite the lack of government intervention, the gods have answered my prayers.

They didn’t drop a naked man of marble in my lap, but instead it was something of the fleshy variety:

.

.

.

Best visit to Starbucks…EVER.

Much to my surprise, the shape of his body (though perfectly fine) was of little consequence (hmm…maybe I’m only SUPER-superficial when it comes to men made of marble). 

Instead of body-type, it was the sheer idea of being a glass pane away from his (almost) naked self that drove me crazy.  I stared at him for a good long time before I finally snapped the pic (is it wrong to photograph people and post them on blogs? Whatever, there’s no such thing as bad publicity).  For every one of those awestruck pre-pic minutes, I let the vision overwhelm me:

-The cotton white shorts…they looked thin, and I was happy about that.

-He was wearing a bicycle helmet which means he’s athletic, and holding a book which means he probably knows how to read (1+1=jackpot!)

-I could see that he was using his t-shirt as a back rest, so as to limit the back-sweat transference from the chair to the next occupant.  This upset me.  Reason being, I had every intention of nestling my face against that chair after he left, to soak up any remnants of his sweat.  At first glance, that statement seems pretty gross, but in scientific terms, the osmosis of sweat from the chair to my face and into my pores would be the same as being intimate with him (this is why I aced Junior High Health Class).

Even though I never got to access his back-sweat, he left his Starbucks cup on the table, so I put it against my lips when no one was looking (yay, I kissed a guy today!).

The only thing I learned from today’s experience is the following:

-It’s time to hang out at the beach! (maybe they need some extra “sun-tan-lotion volunteers”…)

***

PS: In another world outside my blog, I like to tell a story here or there.  In today’s example, my good friend Billy was kind enough to post a story of mine.  Before I get to that, I highly recommend a visit to Billy’s blog…that is if you’re into ridiculously hilarious real-life stories and societal observations (who isn’t?).  Check it out!  Anyway he just expanded his breadth of humour/life-talks into a fitness blog, and there (over here) you’ll find a story of a 12-year-old Romi, a thirst for wrestling, and interpretive dance with ribbons.   Enjoy.

So I met someone.

To a regular reader who knows about my man-search, this is a hell of a breakthrough.

I won’t waste your time then, here’s what happened…

***

…It was a hot and hazy Summer’s night, so naturally we found ourselves…hiding indoors.

Our latest refuge: the movies.

Walking through the doors was like having Mr. Freeze ejaculate all over you.  Cold.  In alternative terms (ejaculation analogies are not for everyone), it was almost like standing in a meat locker, and oh my god was it stacked with meat.  There were fleshy humans in every size, parading around in various states of undress.  I wondered where all the evaporating sweat from our foreheads was disappearing to…was it floating off into the theatre air?  Was I breathing in (other people’s) dried up sweat?  Sometimes science scares me.

I headed on over to the automated booth, to get myself some tickets for “The Happening” [sidenote: though this contradicts what 10 million critics will tell you, "The Happening" is a very enjoyable flick.  I'm not being sarcastic, nor am I clinically insane.  I simply found myself entertained by this 90-minute morbid creep-fest.  I don't care what else it failed to be, it was gross and creepy and FUN! Okay, getting off the soap-box now...].

I handed two tickets to my friend and her boyfriend (just call me “3rd wheel” Romi), and off we went to find the best seats.

We snagged the back row of the theatre, which was easy enough since most of the seats were empty.  As I buried my face in a mile-high bag of popcorn, I was blind to the fact that someone had landed next to me.

It was a crew of someones actually, a team of 3.

Though it was dark I could tell they were dudes, a fact I determined from their husky voices, as well as the sweet combination of natural musk and Axe bodyspray (so they were young…or pretending to be). 

Thinking nothing more of the man to my left, I proceeded to watch the previews.  Before they were even over, I felt the strangest sensation…on my foot.  The feeling circled my ankle, setting my body awash with all things “horny”.

(the dude was playing footsies!).

Since when do people do that to total strangers?  It was a bold and daring move, but I supported the assertiveness.

Feeling too nervous to respond in kind, my foot sat frozen as the rest of me trembled.

The movie was about a third of the way through, and footsie-man was having a field day with my lower half. 

I felt it was time to respond to his advances, and so our war of the lower extremities began.

It was fun, it was secretive, and it was even a little romantic.

(does this mean I have a boyfriend now?)

As the credits rolled and the lights came up, it was time to sort things out with my brand new man.

I tapped him on the shoulder and smiled suggestively.

He turned to me, looking a little bewildered.

(oh what, the lights are on and suddenly you’re shy?  Silly you…)

I whispered something sexy in his ear, and that’s when he pushed me away, stating that he had a girlfriend (and that his brother was a police officer).

I stood there feeling 50% confused and 50% mortified.

Had I imagined the entire romance?

That’s when I felt the familiar circular move on my ankle.

My eyes darted downwards, where I found a foot protuding from under the seat.

(?)

I bent down cautiously, frightened and excited for what I would find.

It was…a troll.

(??)

Well either it was literally a troll, or I’m being very insulting to an unattractive “little person”.  Anyway he looked like this, and naturally I asked him what the hell he’d been doing groping my feet.

He explained that he’d been fired from the circus a few weeks prior (apparently the “bearded lady” is a bigger draw), and finding himself homeless, he’d taken up residence at the movies.  Living under the seats had been his greatest chance at survival (due to the variety of snack-scraps to feed on).  It had also been a while since he’d been with a woman, hence the active “foot play”.

I pondered his predicament.

I was sad that I didn’t have a brand new boyfriend, but pleased with his skills in the realm of romancing the foot.  Knowing that it might be a while ’till I find an actual man, I scrawled by number on his forearm.  After the 7th digit I ran out of room (he’s small), and completed my number on forearm #2.

And why did I give him the number?

Well I’m certainly not a charity-case (no you can’t live with me troll-boy), but if he’s feeling blue and he gives me a call (and if my own “foot-on-foot” play doesn’t cut it), maybe I’ll invite him over.

So like I said, I met someone.

Yup, a pretty good night…

See these pants?

See ‘em?

Well then I ask you…why?

I promise not to hate on our cartoon-model friend…she actually looks pretty good, but can anybody in “human-world” pull it off?

Why yes!

Take this girl over here for example.  She looks pretty fab in those up-the-arse pants, so I guess that explains why these high-waisted pants are all the rage.

But wait: how many girls in the world look like her?   Well…considering she lost almost all of her flesh in a science experiment gone wrong (what else could it have been? the barfy-barf?), I’m gonna say not too many. 

So what’s the problem?

Am I jealous because I never got to lose any flesh to Science?  Or because I have a big butt “and I just can’t lie”?

I’m not jealous at all, but the “businesswoman” in me is having a conniption…

…I’m just wondering…why would the fashion world support a trend that can only be adopted by a tiny percent of women?  That’s like making ”half sunglasses” for one-eyed pirate folk…it’s just not a broad enough market.

In fact…the more that I ponder this obvious conflict with profit-maximization, the more and more baffled I get.

 Let’s think about this for a minute:

-Even if the profit margin on each pair of high-waisted pants is strong, (owing to the cheap labour provided by my pant-making nephews and nieces in India (by the way kids, where’s Auntie Romi’s cut?)), you’re cutting out 99.9% of women (you know, the ones who have all their flesh still attached).

So really, no matter how much profit-per-pant you can earn, you’ll never achieve “billionaire status”.

That’s poppycock.

But what about a mass-market offering at a tidy profit?

I’m thinking of a loose sack, potentially made from potato-bag material.  We could dress it up with sequins, brightly coloured dyes, maybe some yarn…lots of options.  Not only would my loose-sack be breathable, but it would never crawl up your ass like those high-waisted pants (which by the way will block all your farts and send them back up the chute…talk about a health risk).

Profit-wise, I would definitely utilize the impeccable skills and low-cost labour of the kiddie-variety.

And the best part is…one-size fits all!

So let me see if I’ve got this right:

-clothing for everyone, AND a profit…smells like a billion-dollar idea!

Wow, somewhere out there my business professor is releasing an orgasmic sigh for a teaching job well done (luckily I never had to offer my body in exchange for his wisdom (not that I wouldn’t have done him it, but his boobs were bigger than mine, and that’s no good for the ego…)

Okay then, who wants a piece of my latest venture?

Call me.

Whatever happened to glory of man, in all his rugged nakedness?

I’m not too sure, but when it comes to “art and anatomy”, all I hear about is women.

I don’t deny the beauty that is smooth and curvy “woman”, but I certainly have my limits (such is the curse of being “hetero”…).

And that brings me to men…manly men.

I happen to believe that men are…beautiful (relatively speaking of course…(don’t get your boxers in a knot fellas, I’m no more superficial than you)). 

My love for their bodies was awakened by my good friend Red, who posed the juicy question:

“What’s your favourite body part?”

Much to the surprise of anyone who reads this blog, I didn’t choose the obvious one…instead I went with “forearm”.  It’s a hard one to explain, but you can read my comment here to psycho-analyze.

In the end, it’s not even about a limb or chest or “wang”.  It’s about the beauty of male anatomy, an admiration that has dwindled over the years…

And how was it anyway, in those supposed “glory days”?

Well there was  Michelangelo’s “David”, and later on there was Rodin’s “Thinking Man”…in fact, let’s have a look:

Goodness.

Are you as moved by the beauty as me?

Magnifico…

…So as I sit here now in a pool of my own wonderment (is that what that is?), I’m also a bit saddened.

I mean…why don’t they make ‘em like they used to?

If you want to see a man as “a work of art” today, look no further than an airbrushed cover of Men’s Health.  It’s “easy-access abs” no doubt about it, but how can you compare a digitally-enhanced photo to the labour of love that is clothes-free “Marble Man”?

And part 2 of my sadness:  these beautiful sculptures are very far away, Florence and Paris to be exact.  Maybe that means I should get off my arse to see them (come on Romi, there’s a whole world out there), but that isn’t going to happen today or tomorrow.

So what about the meantime?

Well that’s where the Canadian government comes in…

***

Dear Mr. Prime-Minister,

I know that being “green” is the name of the game (i.e. planting a tree for every twenty-five thousand we chop), but I need to inform you of a bigger problem:

-Today’s children are losing their appreciation for Art (*GASP*!)

This crisis is a lot more grave than the loss of breathable air or dewy meadows.  In fact, if we focus too heavily on nature (and in turn lose our wonder for man-made creations), the following will happen:

-We’ll be reduced to things like jungle warfare, generalized speech in the form of grunting, and a sharp re-growth in body hair.  It’s what scientists refer to as DE-Evolution (if you don’t think it’s a frightening concept, take a good look at Neanderthal Man).

Q:  So how do we handle the crisis?

A:  We’ll increase the production of beautiful Art, everywhere.

And what sort of Art exactly?

Well that one’s simple: we’ll concentrate on sculptures of naked men.  It’s an easy call, since everyone knows that idealized male anatomy is Art at its best (i.e. the muscular creases, the tight (but prominent) bottom, the euphoric feeling of marble balls on your cheek…I could go on). 

Once we’ve erected enough of these naked sculptures, we’ll “plant” them everywhere: in parks, in city squares, at nursery schools; artistic beauty for all!

And so Mr. Prime-Minister, this is your solution to the loss of intelligence within your borders (I can’t speak for the rest of the world…perhaps we could form a coalition?).

I don’t require a cash award for my ingenuity, but a naked bronze statue of myself on Parliament Hill would be much appreciated.

Regards,

romi41                        

 ***

And there it is then, the renaissance of “naked man”!

(hmm…how much time do I have before they sculpt a nude Romi in my honour?  I better go work on my abs…)

My name is Romi, and every time someone touches, grazes or “fingers” my hair, I…FREAK..OUT. 

My fear sets off an automatic reflex of searching through my hair psychotically: what’s in there?  What’s that tickle?  I rifle through the roots, looking for something that’s never there, and yet, maybe it is there…maybe I just don’t see it.

I wasn’t always this way (a.k.a. insane).  There was a time when I would swing my precious locks to and fro, like I was pimping them out at the local wig fair. 

But one day….everything changed.

***

Autumn 2001.  

20 years old.  

An experienced applier of mascara (2 years running), and also having found the perfect padded bra, I was finally a woman. 

There was a boy in my Canadian *Snooze* Law class who I fancied.  He can only be described as the “leading man” of University.  He’d often tell stories of his Summers spent sailing along the Pacific coast. These pompous tales were a lovely match for his striking eyes (as sparkling blue as the sea he sailed on…sigh…). 

I’d never actually had a conversation with Mr. Hollywood (as he’ll be named), but I was always the girl sitting two seats away, laughing with heart at his stories (maybe one day he’d notice…??).

As the Autumn chill took hold, Mr. Hollywood began to wear sweaters.  Sometimes they were draped over his shoulders, and other times they hugged his taut upper body, in that snug “bloody glove” kind of way. 

A lovelier creature I had never seen. 

One day in class whilst ignoring my assigned reading (and instead watching Mr. Hollywood pick the lint off his sweater), I felt a tickle in my scalp.

Hmm…weird.

I thought nothing of it and continued to watch.

Then another tickle, and another.

I started to rummage through my hair, having no idea what to look for, but determined all the same.

The instant I felt something moving in my hair, I retracted.

(did I imagine that?)

I gave my head a little shake (like a dog would do post-bath), and that’s when the moving object fell on my book.

It was a bug.

(%#@&!?!?!)

I snapped the textbook shut, murdering the bug and hoping that the “bug-on-head” crisis was over.

20 seconds later I felt more tickles in my hair.

I slowly, ever so slowly, brought my hand to my scalp.

I felt the mushiness of another “bug body”, and that’s when I knew.

I had head lice.

(%#@&!?!?!)

Now to explain to you, the mortification of having head lice at age 20, when I took so much pride in the haircare process, and when I wasn’t an immigrant in 1907 whose cargo ship had docked at Ellis Island…well it’s difficult to put into words.

And then my other issue:  should I inform the class of my disease? 

I had no desire to put myself out there “lice-wise”, but weren’t these buggers contagious?  And wasn’t it my ethical and moral duty to go into quarantine?

According to the Law book I hadn’t been reading, I suppose the answer was yes.

At the same time, the idea of my professor ushering me to a showering station where I’d be hosed by people in Haz-Mat suits wasn’t exactly strengthening my moral compass.

So I said nothing, quietly hoping that the bugs on my head would sleep until the class was over.

As soon as the lecture ended, I ran.

I ran to my car, ran inside the nearest drug store, shamefully asked the pharmacist for “head lice meds” (kill me), and raced straight home for a shower.

I lathered, I rinsed, I lathered, I rinsed…too many times to count.  Hmm…was there something else I was supposed to do?

The only other time I’d gotten head lice was at age 6.  Back then my mom had used a tiny comb to get all the lice-eggs out of my head.  She’d given up after only ten minutes, at which point she buzzed all my hair off…

…Well at age 20 and in the prime of womanhood, a buzz-cut was not an option.  So I meticulously combed all the lice-eggs out myself.

I removed each one through a blurry cascade of tears (yes, I was sad), burned my sheets/clothing/hair accessories, and hoped that I had killed the beast.

The lice were fully gone within a week or two (I think), but I checked my hair for months thereafter.

***

And so today, when anyone should accidentally stir my nest of hair, my paranoid mind travels back to 2001. 

This certainly doesn’t mean that my current state of hair is hideous.  On the contrary, it’s a vision, but in the 1% chance that the creepy-crawlies are back, I’d rather they hibernate and leave me alone.

So please don’t fondle my hair.  Boobs, ass, thighs?  Go to town!  But the hair?  Off limits (and let’s be honest, would you even come near my hair after reading this?…)