The first photo I saw of you was innocently posted in public. A casually posed shot, careless, a little blurry with movement, shirtless, showing an obviously lean body, no detail, a shock of dark hair.
My comment on it was understated, controlled, it was, after all, a photo of some boy I didn’t know and I am rarely moved by them, though I can appreciate beauty in many forms.
“…and thank you muchly for the eye candy you have already provided in your profile photo. You are a very pretty boy indeed.”
Fast forward several months: now I know you.
Now, I see a smart, articulate, young crushing boy who wields his vocabulary as if he is stomping around in shoes two sizes too big. A joyful bouncy optimism coloured brightly with a willingness to argue with me when we disagree, the buoyancy punctuated with moments of introspection, and wide-ranging thoughtful and idealistic opinions of the world.
Now, it is different.
Now, I am rendered inarticulate by how fucking pretty you are.
The photos you create just for me land in my inbox like thought bombs, sometimes unbidden surprises, sometimes requested and expected.
I know already what is coming when I see an attachment, and I am already shaking my head at myself before I even look at what you have gifted me.
I imagine that my response looks like a cartoon double-take, a kind of shocked disbelief when the image opens on screen.
Each photo is new, a surprise, a shock, even though I know by now what your body looks like, all lean and sinewy, dewy skin stretched over tight strong muscles. And it makes me smirk even now as I write this because I know you have pumped it up in the moments before you take the shot for me… maybe some push ups, crunches, fist pumping to pop out muscles and veins for me. Just for me. This thought makes my stomach flutter, it makes me melt a little from the inside.
When I look at your body, my reaction is comical, I know it. I am all head-shakey (“No…nono nooooo!!!!”) with a huge smile on my face. Sometimes I cover my own face with my hand just shaking my head at my own self, and sometimes I laugh out loud and say things like “Oh my fucking god!!” and “Are you serious?!” into the emptiness of the room. I am sure it must be hilariously ridiculous to watch. You are so fucking pretty it makes my IQ drop like a stone, your beauty makes me stupid!!
I often keep the image open on my screen and wander off to do other things.
Later, when I click over to it, perhaps I have forgotten that I have it open there in the background, I am shocked again by it, I have to do a little mental head-shake to loosen the brain cells that completely freeze over, transfixed.
When I look closely, deliberately and carefully, with intent and imagination, letting my eyes travel over the ridges and curves of your body, it makes my throat tighten, my jaw clench, my teeth ache, it makes it hard to breath. I like especially the things you don’t realise you have shown me in the photo. The casual masculinity and strength in your relaxed hands, the tendon standing out at your neck, the bones at your collar, the tilt of your jaw.
Hello, pretty thing.