Tuesday, Jun. 21, 2005 - 9:00 PM
How much is too much?
How well do I need to know Clay Aiken?
Is it necessary to be familiar with every freckle, intimate with every hair, acquainted with every pore?
Necessary? Well�no. But once I'm there, I'm SO there.
Some truly amazing hi-res photos were sent to me recently. Photos of the Aiken Boys. Photos from one of the most incredible photo shoots he's ever had. And I can't stop looking at them.
The first time I opened this gargantuan file, I spent probably ten minutes just looking at his right ear. The tiny hairs that grace the arc of the pinna, trailing to those delicious earlobes. Just knowing how sensitive those hairs make his ears�how they would pick up even the slightest change in my breath, or sense my lips just before they actually touched him.
Those short-but-manly sideburns, so coppery in color and rough in texture. My tongue goes numb just thinking about them�the way they not only beckon me to his ears but to the stubble on his cheek. The stubble that makes me beg to be hurt by it, knowing that the sharp edge of each hair would stab at my delicate skin, but it would be worth any redness that might linger until the next day.
And, just beyond, lurking in the shadows, the contrast of the smooth skin behind his ear. Knowing that he's such a clean boy, and he'd always be sure to scrub behind them�preparing the area for me to explore for hours. I just hope he's not too sensitive right there. I don't think I'd be willing or able to back off. Even if he begged me.
Now that's just good stuff.
You can tell a lot about a man from his arm hair. And his eyebrows. And his eyelashes. But more on those later.
I don't think anyone would be surprised if I said that I'm all about Clay's hairs. Every last one of 'em. I love them anywhere and everywhere they grow. I love them long, I love them short, I love them fuzzy and curly and sparse and thick. But I mostly love them RED.
It's hard to say what's more inviting here�the thick, masculine patch of gleaming copper threads or the baby-smooth region just past it? That soft, delicate area on the underside of the upper arm�my god, what it must feel like. Smooth as glass, and so warm. And to imagine what's waiting for me just under that sleeve. More hair. Just as red and just as wonderful. Almost too much. Almost.
Don't you look at me like that, young man. If you insist on carrying on in this manner, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
It pains me to think that there are people in the world who don't celebrate their freckly goodness. All those Jan Bradys rubbing lemons on their cheeks and cursing their genetics.
What could possibly be wrong with freckles? Like hairs, seeing this many of them makes me want even more to find them in non-public places. Of course, they'd be more scarce in those areas never before seen by the sun�but maybe Clay's got a naughty secret about camp we've never heard about? Freckles don't lie. Angels can't kiss ya where they can't see ya.
Speaking of kissing, I'd like to get to know this back pocket a little better. Ask it if it prefers to hang so low on his impressive thigh, or if it aspires to be located a touch higher. And I wonder where that pocket would hit him now that his ass is perkier.
Again with that look. It's gonna get dangerous here in a minute if you don't cut it out.
Look at that upper lip, curling away from his teeth like that. He's trying to do his "I'm getting my picture taken" smile, but his genuine gummy smile is trying to break through. He's thinking about something. Something really good. Curling lip, slightly flaring nostrils�oh yeah, bring it on, baby.
Are you kidding me with these veins? I've never been more turned on by blood flow�as least not this far north. And again with the fur.
Gotta quickly thank Matthias Clamer for the lighting and the skillful choice of background blue. It's perfect, absolutely perfect. You knew exactly what we all wanted to see, and you made damn sure we got it in spades. Bless you, sir. Bless you.
Before I go on, I must touch upon the alabaster glory that is his skin. He's got the underlying pinkness, that freckly puppy-belly pink, but it's just so pale. I can only imagine how much his outdoor life has mirrored mine�stay way from Mr. Sun, because he's mean, and you'll simply burst into flame if you get too friendly with him. This is skin that will never go leathery. Skin that will always look fresh and alive, because of the warm blood flowing visibly just beneath it.
(and, as with all other visible bits, it only makes me ache more for the things I cannot see, except in my mind's eye�I can't help but wonder if there is at least a hint of what Billy Connolly calls the "pale blue Scottish person", as there is in me)
Dang. Had to actually shrink this one down.
Oh, man. Despite being a blonde myself, I'm a little annoyed by the monotone array of chicks reflected in those shades. Kinda lookin' like someone went down to the local Hooters and asked the waitstaff if any of them wanted to be on a magazine cover. But, hey, if that's the way he smiles when he sees a blonde�well, that just about does it for ol' Julie.
And that's his real smile. The smile that happens when he's so happy he can't control the curling in that lip. Love that smile. Love everything about him that isn't a showbiz affectation or the result of a makeover. This is Clay. Can't hide it from me at this range.
And what a range. Seeing so easily that wonderfully perfect crooked tooth. Every hair along the bridge of his nose. That bleached-but-still-there baby monobrow. (it's okay, honey, you're a guy�you're allowed to be hairy) And the not-so-bleached spots on his teeth. He's so amazingly human when I'm up this close.
Now that's what I call a purdy eye.
It's purdy even if I wasn't seeing it at this level of detail. It's purdy even when I don't realize that I can see the reflection of the photographer in it. It's purdy even if I can't make out the edge of that contact lens.
But it's mostly purdy because of the life in it. That sparkle isn't only the lights in that studio�it's coming from the spirit behind it. There is so much going on behind his eyes that they can't help but destroy me.
That color. That perfect iridescent jade with flecks of gold. The dark ring around the edge that's nearly gray, providing an even better contrast to the clear sclera.
Seeing the moisture protecting it. The beautiful freckles adorning it. The laugh lines surrounding it. And every single gorgeous lash.
Now there's something I never thought I'd see. A view of Clay's eyes so intimate that I can count lashes. Making out the darker roots and following each one to its strawberry blonde conclusion. And being jealous that his lashes are way prettier than mine are.
And while I'm on the subject of intimacy, those lashes and eyebrows�and all those glorious hairs on his forearms�they bring to mind thoughts so naughty that I'd be ashamed of myself if I wasn't so busy sliding off my chair. He can just go right ahead and keep me guessing about all those other hairs I've yet to see. A gurrl's got to have a hobby.
If only there were an eyebooger here to complete my experience. (hey, when I'm close enough to see pores and nosehairs, why shouldn't I be looking for eyeboogers?)
I'll admit that it feels weird to be this intimate with Clay Aiken. I don't think I'd be comfortable knowing people had access to such high-resolution photographs of me, where they could see every spot on my face that morning and each grain of face powder clinging to every hair. And I must say that while I'm sure that pictures like this exist of other people, I have no interest in studying them.
So what is it about these pictures? What is it about this face?
He's real.
When he's airbrushed and overly "perfect", he's like a dream. A face unlike any I've seen before. An ethereal creature with an otherworldly beauty. A person I have to remind myself actually exists, and is something more than a figment of my incredibly active imagination.
When the eye in that picture looks at me, I get the same feeling that I did when his actual eyes looked right into mine. He exists. Clay and I are two people who have pores and hairs and spots and freckles and wrinkles and the occasional eyebooger. We've both got tiny chips in our top teeth and one crooked tooth on the bottom. Sometimes our eyes get a little red from lack of sleep. Sometimes makeup cakes around the sides of our noses. Sometimes we smile bigger than usual because we really like what we're looking at.
He's flawless in his imperfection. He reminds us how incredibly beautiful and sexy the simplest things can be. And how love is the most potent aphrodisiac of them all.
Oh yeah�and how effin HOT redheads are. ;o)
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