Spain is the land of all beautiful men.
I do not know if it is the over-chlorinated water, the Mediterranean sun, or the free-flowing vino, but for some heavenly reason, a population of genes collided, producing a country of stop-you-in-your-tracks gorgeous men strutting the streets, the shops, the metro in all their God-given glory. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark lashes. Chiseled cheekbones, jaws, lips. Olive skin.
Ladies and gentlemen, it is a whole new sightseeing experience.
But, there is something beneath that Adonis exterior that draws the eye,
Something beyond those dark lashes and dark eyes, extending into some part of cosmic space where the Spanish sun first caught fire.
Desire.
Desire unlike anywhere else on earth. Red-hot, burning, fusing, folding the trinity of our being:
The Carnal. The Platonic. The Spiritual.
In Spain, you want it all. Each as indistinguishable from and just as vital as the other.
Creating a land where Nirvana knows no existence.
Only wanting to wanting to wanting to want.
Have you ever heard the Spanish guitar under the Spanish sun?
It is a hand down the small of the back as the back begins to arch.
It is a red dress.
It is heat. It is movement.
It is stillness suspended.
It is wanting to wanting to wanting to want to standing on a Spanish street, staring into those dark eyes. Breathless. Spanish guitar playing in the distance.
 |
| Barcelona at Sunset |
No comments:
Post a Comment