This vignette came to me while I was on an airplane being diverted to
Chicago to avoid ice storms in Minneapolis. It was too bumpy to type
on my laptop (swoop! zoom! bounce! -- ah, flying in wintertime) so I
wrote it in my mind, then transcribed it when I finally dragged home,
only 6 hours late and sans luggage. I hope you enjoy it more than I
enjoyed my trip home from Tucson!
======================================
A Moonlight Rendezvous (01/01)
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) January 31, 2001
======================================
Nicholas flitted quietly through the moon-washed courtyard. The
plantings that filled the central garden stood out in sharp relief in
the milky light. The voluptuous red roses that drenched the warm night
air with their heavy scent appeared like black velvet in the color-
drained dimness.
He crossed the pillared peristyle into a dim, marble-floored room
lined with precious objects. Looking around, he found what he sought
in an alcove off to the side. The arrogant figure was magnificent in
its nakedness, the expression on the austere face beckoning him
forward as if he were a mere foot soldier called to do some menial
task.
Nicholas approached silently, admiring the marble-white skin, the
perfection of the body that had survived unscathed for two thousand
years to stand proudly before him. Coming to a halt in front of the
imposing figure, he was unable to resist putting out a hand to touch
the hard-planed chest. It was a liberty allowed few; he knew it, and
felt the thrill of a stolen pleasure.
His hand traced the strong shoulder, then trailed downward. His finger
circled the nipple, then drifted further down the taut belly. He knew
every curve and hollow of that body. The familiar contours brought
back the memories of countless hours of both pleasure and pain at the
owner's hands.
Those hands... His eyes drifted to those hands that could be so cruel
to him, and then so gentle. There was unimaginable power in those
hands, the power to pleasure, the power to kill. They had done both,
sometimes in the same gesture. At this moment the long, elegant
fingers seemed to give him permission to explore further.
He did. Almost reverently, he circled the figure, still running his
hands gently over the alabaster skin, exploring every contour, the
swell of the hardened buttocks, the dip of the spine, the breadth of
the upper back and shoulders. "Perfection," he whispered, and drew a
shuddering breath. He felt as if he were discovering an uncharted
land, the form so familiar and yet at the same time so completely
foreign.
Once again facing the still form, he reached out and dared to trace
the full lips that curved in secret, sardonic amusement. They seemed
about to utter his name, and the eyes, haughty in the severe face,
mocked him. "What now?" they seemed to say.
Nicholas stood back for a moment as if to consider his next move. What
now, indeed? His eyes drifted again down the lean form to the rigid
phallus below. The memories flowed over and through him like a river
in flood, memories of exquisite ecstasy, the frightening revelations
of those first times...he was lost within himself while his hand,
almost reverently, palmed the rigid shaft. He relived the pain and the
joy at the same time, the strands of those past experiences
inseparably intertwined.
Dreamily he stroked the moon-whitened skin...and then the scrape of a
foot rang through the echoing halls of the villa. He jarred back into
the present and looked around in mild panic. What to do? Where to
retreat? There was scant cover in here, only the form before him...
With a muttered curse he fled silently into the recesses of the
shadowed room, taking refuge behind a case of rare bronzes. He ceased
his breathing as the heavy tread of the night watchman rang on the
marble floor, passed him, and disappeared into the deeper reaches of
the villa.
Straightening up, he muttered, "Oh, yeah..." as he forced himself to
recall his original mission here. Quickly he went back into the alcove
and with his snowy white silk handkerchief briefly buffed his
fingerprints from the priceless artwork. He stood back and regarded
his handiwork, then gave a jaunty salute to the immobile face.
"Probably the only time I'll find you speechless," he murmured.
On his way out he stopped at the gift shop and picked up two souvenir
postcards that featured the Getty Museum's latest acquisition. The
photograph did it justice, he thought, as he admired the figure yet
again. The ancient artist had indeed been a master.
As he passed the cash register he virtuously stacked a tidy pile of
change on the counter to pay for his postcards. He looked at the pile
and added a quarter. He wasn't sure what the sales tax was in
California --- best to be on the safe side.
Later that evening in the hotel lobby he carefully penned a note on
the back of the postcard. "Lacroix," he wrote, "remember that statue
you mentioned had been lost in a wreck in the Bay of Naples? They
found it." He signed it with an N, and then thoughtfully put the
postcard in an envelope.
Best not to titillate the youngsters who lived at the Raven and did
menial tasks --- like bringing in the mail. It would be bad for
discipline. And Lacroix certainly loved his discipline...
He weighed the envelope in his hand thoughtfully. Then he ripped it
open, removed the postcard, hastily applied a stamp, and dropped it in
the hotel lobby's mailbox on the way to his room.
Discipline, he thought, was vastly overrated.
Finis
**********
The J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu (not to be confused with the new
Getty Museum, elsewhere in the Los Angeles area) is a recreation of a
Roman villa. It is unspeakably lovely, and contains the most amazing
relics of the classical world, including some *very* remarkable marble
statues.
==========================================
comments, criticisms, and fully-illustrated guidebooks
to the Getty may be sent to nancykam@mediaone.net
==========================================
Chicago to avoid ice storms in Minneapolis. It was too bumpy to type
on my laptop (swoop! zoom! bounce! -- ah, flying in wintertime) so I
wrote it in my mind, then transcribed it when I finally dragged home,
only 6 hours late and sans luggage. I hope you enjoy it more than I
enjoyed my trip home from Tucson!
======================================
A Moonlight Rendezvous (01/01)
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) January 31, 2001
======================================
Nicholas flitted quietly through the moon-washed courtyard. The
plantings that filled the central garden stood out in sharp relief in
the milky light. The voluptuous red roses that drenched the warm night
air with their heavy scent appeared like black velvet in the color-
drained dimness.
He crossed the pillared peristyle into a dim, marble-floored room
lined with precious objects. Looking around, he found what he sought
in an alcove off to the side. The arrogant figure was magnificent in
its nakedness, the expression on the austere face beckoning him
forward as if he were a mere foot soldier called to do some menial
task.
Nicholas approached silently, admiring the marble-white skin, the
perfection of the body that had survived unscathed for two thousand
years to stand proudly before him. Coming to a halt in front of the
imposing figure, he was unable to resist putting out a hand to touch
the hard-planed chest. It was a liberty allowed few; he knew it, and
felt the thrill of a stolen pleasure.
His hand traced the strong shoulder, then trailed downward. His finger
circled the nipple, then drifted further down the taut belly. He knew
every curve and hollow of that body. The familiar contours brought
back the memories of countless hours of both pleasure and pain at the
owner's hands.
Those hands... His eyes drifted to those hands that could be so cruel
to him, and then so gentle. There was unimaginable power in those
hands, the power to pleasure, the power to kill. They had done both,
sometimes in the same gesture. At this moment the long, elegant
fingers seemed to give him permission to explore further.
He did. Almost reverently, he circled the figure, still running his
hands gently over the alabaster skin, exploring every contour, the
swell of the hardened buttocks, the dip of the spine, the breadth of
the upper back and shoulders. "Perfection," he whispered, and drew a
shuddering breath. He felt as if he were discovering an uncharted
land, the form so familiar and yet at the same time so completely
foreign.
Once again facing the still form, he reached out and dared to trace
the full lips that curved in secret, sardonic amusement. They seemed
about to utter his name, and the eyes, haughty in the severe face,
mocked him. "What now?" they seemed to say.
Nicholas stood back for a moment as if to consider his next move. What
now, indeed? His eyes drifted again down the lean form to the rigid
phallus below. The memories flowed over and through him like a river
in flood, memories of exquisite ecstasy, the frightening revelations
of those first times...he was lost within himself while his hand,
almost reverently, palmed the rigid shaft. He relived the pain and the
joy at the same time, the strands of those past experiences
inseparably intertwined.
Dreamily he stroked the moon-whitened skin...and then the scrape of a
foot rang through the echoing halls of the villa. He jarred back into
the present and looked around in mild panic. What to do? Where to
retreat? There was scant cover in here, only the form before him...
With a muttered curse he fled silently into the recesses of the
shadowed room, taking refuge behind a case of rare bronzes. He ceased
his breathing as the heavy tread of the night watchman rang on the
marble floor, passed him, and disappeared into the deeper reaches of
the villa.
Straightening up, he muttered, "Oh, yeah..." as he forced himself to
recall his original mission here. Quickly he went back into the alcove
and with his snowy white silk handkerchief briefly buffed his
fingerprints from the priceless artwork. He stood back and regarded
his handiwork, then gave a jaunty salute to the immobile face.
"Probably the only time I'll find you speechless," he murmured.
On his way out he stopped at the gift shop and picked up two souvenir
postcards that featured the Getty Museum's latest acquisition. The
photograph did it justice, he thought, as he admired the figure yet
again. The ancient artist had indeed been a master.
As he passed the cash register he virtuously stacked a tidy pile of
change on the counter to pay for his postcards. He looked at the pile
and added a quarter. He wasn't sure what the sales tax was in
California --- best to be on the safe side.
Later that evening in the hotel lobby he carefully penned a note on
the back of the postcard. "Lacroix," he wrote, "remember that statue
you mentioned had been lost in a wreck in the Bay of Naples? They
found it." He signed it with an N, and then thoughtfully put the
postcard in an envelope.
Best not to titillate the youngsters who lived at the Raven and did
menial tasks --- like bringing in the mail. It would be bad for
discipline. And Lacroix certainly loved his discipline...
He weighed the envelope in his hand thoughtfully. Then he ripped it
open, removed the postcard, hastily applied a stamp, and dropped it in
the hotel lobby's mailbox on the way to his room.
Discipline, he thought, was vastly overrated.
Finis
**********
The J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu (not to be confused with the new
Getty Museum, elsewhere in the Los Angeles area) is a recreation of a
Roman villa. It is unspeakably lovely, and contains the most amazing
relics of the classical world, including some *very* remarkable marble
statues.
==========================================
comments, criticisms, and fully-illustrated guidebooks
to the Getty may be sent to nancykam@mediaone.net
==========================================