Armani Model

By Delbert H. Rhodes

giorgioarmaniimageShe walks along the runway and I watch her, her hair flowing and perfectly prepared. Each fiber combed and caressed by the architects of style. Gleaming, her lustrous hair radiantly dazzles the eyes, her lips purse with touches of red, beige, or black. Ten rainbows embrace her hands displaying splendid coloration. The colors tease illuminating sexually.

The room becomes warmer. The jewels kissing her finger round neck are fragile tasteful and wanton. The pearls they bare speak of deep seas and deeper mysteries. Her smiles tenderly ask, “Am I affecting you. Are you awed?” I think, yes. I watch her as she moves with technique and the industry’s grace.

She is confident and I am curious. I wonder why it has to be that way. I wonder why she must appear so gaunt. I ask me questions without solid answers. Maybe, I think, I should enjoy the show and surrender to the process. After all, they are the experts and who am I?

Seductively, the human mask the thriving mannequin captivates me. Look there in the window, she moves. Although emaciated she is beautiful and I think I adore her. Oh, yes, she is pretty. Then she pivots, waits, smiles, and then looks at me. Does she truly see me? Truly? She opens the garment displaying its inner skins. I think the material is fabulous simply lovely –Fine, Pure, Expensive.

The Armani model thin and rail like a tree’s limb. The limb reaching branching out, the broken limb about to fall, and the limb lying on the ground-a twig I toss into the hearth to warm the fire. Her gait is artificial the leg lift robotic. The knees seem as though lifted by tight string, the feet heavily rise, and then fall to the floor like the hooves of horses. Yes, she walks like a horse. I wait to hear the whinny, but instead she pauses.

She smiles and then spins returning down the runway–Clop, Clop, Clop. Her garment trails to music of tiny cross threads, the sleek fabric mindful of water trickling over skeletal stones. I envision an Ice Cream Cone straining beneath its milky flesh. The cone and fingers quickly covered by sticky droplets, a lusting tongue consumed by pleasure.

The woman captivates me. She is Syren singing to lure men, Aphrodite whose beauty (even) the gods envy, and then Medusa her hypnotic stare a beacon of destruction. The woman is impressive and whatever her flavor, I think, ‘Delicious.’

Copyright © 2006 Delbert H. Rhodes