This vignette came to me while I was on an airplane being diverted to Chicago to avoid ice storms in Minneapolis. It was too bumpy to type on my laptop (swoop! zoom! bounce! -- ah, flying in wintertime) so I wrote it in my mind, then transcribed it when I finally dragged home, only 6 hours late and sans luggage. I hope you enjoy it more than I enjoyed my trip home from Tucson! ====================================== A Moonlight Rendezvous (01/01) by Nancy Kaminski (c) January 31, 2001 ====================================== Nicholas flitted quietly through the moon-washed courtyard. The plantings that filled the central garden stood out in sharp relief in the milky light. The voluptuous red roses that drenched the warm night air with their heavy scent appeared like black velvet in the color- drained dimness. He crossed the pillared peristyle into a dim, marble-floored room lined with precious objects. Looking around, he found what he sought in an alcove off to the side. The arrogant figure was magnificent in its nakedness, the expression on the austere face beckoning him forward as if he were a mere foot soldier called to do some menial task. Nicholas approached silently, admiring the marble-white skin, the perfection of the body that had survived unscathed for two thousand years to stand proudly before him. Coming to a halt in front of the imposing figure, he was unable to resist putting out a hand to touch the hard-planed chest. It was a liberty allowed few; he knew it, and felt the thrill of a stolen pleasure. His hand traced the strong shoulder, then trailed downward. His finger circled the nipple, then drifted further down the taut belly. He knew every curve and hollow of that body. The familiar contours brought back the memories of countless hours of both pleasure and pain at the owner's hands. Those hands... His eyes drifted to those hands that could be so cruel to him, and then so gentle. There was unimaginable power in those hands, the power to pleasure, the power to kill. They had done both, sometimes in the same gesture. At this moment the long, elegant fingers seemed to give him permission to explore further. He did. Almost reverently, he circled the figure, still running his hands gently over the alabaster skin, exploring every contour, the swell of the hardened buttocks, the dip of the spine, the breadth of the upper back and shoulders. "Perfection," he whispered, and drew a shuddering breath. He felt as if he were discovering an uncharted land, the form so familiar and yet at the same time so completely foreign. Once again facing the still form, he reached out and dared to trace the full lips that curved in secret, sardonic amusement. They seemed about to utter his name, and the eyes, haughty in the severe face, mocked him. "What now?" they seemed to say. Nicholas stood back for a moment as if to consider his next move. What now, indeed? His eyes drifted again down the lean form to the rigid phallus below. The memories flowed over and through him like a river in flood, memories of exquisite ecstasy, the frightening revelations of those first times...he was lost within himself while his hand, almost reverently, palmed the rigid shaft. He relived the pain and the joy at the same time, the strands of those past experiences inseparably intertwined. Dreamily he stroked the moon-whitened skin...and then the scrape of a foot rang through the echoing halls of the villa. He jarred back into the present and looked around in mild panic. What to do? Where to retreat? There was scant cover in here, only the form before him... With a muttered curse he fled silently into the recesses of the shadowed room, taking refuge behind a case of rare bronzes. He ceased his breathing as the heavy tread of the night watchman rang on the marble floor, passed him, and disappeared into the deeper reaches of the villa. Straightening up, he muttered, "Oh, yeah..." as he forced himself to recall his original mission here. Quickly he went back into the alcove and with his snowy white silk handkerchief briefly buffed his fingerprints from the priceless artwork. He stood back and regarded his handiwork, then gave a jaunty salute to the immobile face. "Probably the only time I'll find you speechless," he murmured. On his way out he stopped at the gift shop and picked up two souvenir postcards that featured the Getty Museum's latest acquisition. The photograph did it justice, he thought, as he admired the figure yet again. The ancient artist had indeed been a master. As he passed the cash register he virtuously stacked a tidy pile of change on the counter to pay for his postcards. He looked at the pile and added a quarter. He wasn't sure what the sales tax was in California --- best to be on the safe side. Later that evening in the hotel lobby he carefully penned a note on the back of the postcard. "Lacroix," he wrote, "remember that statue you mentioned had been lost in a wreck in the Bay of Naples? They found it." He signed it with an N, and then thoughtfully put the postcard in an envelope. Best not to titillate the youngsters who lived at the Raven and did menial tasks --- like bringing in the mail. It would be bad for discipline. And Lacroix certainly loved his discipline... He weighed the envelope in his hand thoughtfully. Then he ripped it open, removed the postcard, hastily applied a stamp, and dropped it in the hotel lobby's mailbox on the way to his room. Discipline, he thought, was vastly overrated. Finis ********** The J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu (not to be confused with the new Getty Museum, elsewhere in the Los Angeles area) is a recreation of a Roman villa. It is unspeakably lovely, and contains the most amazing relics of the classical world, including some *very* remarkable marble statues. ========================================== comments, criticisms, and fully-illustrated guidebooks to the Getty may be sent to nancykam@mediaone.net ==========================================