Cindy said I was plagued by beauty. I was not a man content to appreciate a sunset or a cup of Earl Grey on a snowy day. She said I needed beauty, it was part of my nature: the curve of a waitress hip as she leaned to pour that refill; the silk blouse that slid over the bank teller’s shoulder; the rain-drenched hair of women waiting for a cab; breasts, legs, smiles. But never touch, never taste. Look, but don’t take. Listen to her voice, but don’t be the voice she needs to hear.
I was mostly faithful, and Cindy knew that mostly was the best I could do. I stayed with her, and she with me, but I needed to find the next beautiful thing. And it wasn’t sex; it was a need to find the perfect cast of light on a feminine face, the perfect fabric gliding against her belly, the perfect secret hue in her eyes. And it was sex; flesh and shadow, muscle and flex. I resisted most of the time. I imagined myself cock-less and impotent, a disillusioned eunuch. But beauty was stronger than will; it always offered more pleasure, and I was never pleased. I was always looking for an even loftier definition.
And Cindy, I don’t know why, stayed with me.