Pygmalion
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Pygmalion
By Cal Y. Pygia
Some of the coed students in Professor Higgins' Sculpture 101 class
regard him as a sexist or, as Amanda Blake describes him, as if she were
living back in the sixties, "a male sexist pig." He does have an eye for
the ladies, I'll grant you that (he's ogled me enough times!), but what
man doesn't who isn't gay or dead?
Amanda's suspicions of Professor Higgins' sexism were confirmed (for
her) when, as our final art project, he assigned us the task of
sculpting our respective ideas of The Perfect Woman. I decided to have a
little fun with Amanda.
As a woman myself, who is, if I may say so without being labeled
narcissistic, a true beauty, I resent feminists' arrogant assumption
that anyone who has a cunt between her legs is, ipso facto, going to
agree with women libbers' extremist views regarding men, sexism, the
dreaded Patriarchy, and similar subjects. In my opinion, if anyone's
sexist, anymore, it's the lesbo feminists. Sculpting my idea of The
Perfect Woman was just the way to stick it to Amanda. To annoy her even
more, I'd call my masterpiece "Galatea."
When we unveil our final projects at the end of the semester, which is
only a few weeks away, we must provide a brief oral report as to how and
why we chose to create our particular versions of the ideal woman. In
presenting my figure to my classmates (and to Professor Higgins, of
course), I'd recount the myth of Pygmalion, explaining how an ancient
Greek sculptor created a lovely ivory portrait of The Perfect Woman,
naming her Galatea, only to fall in love with his own creation.
Seeing that the local women prostituted themselves, Pygmalion had no
interest in the fair sex--until he created Galatea. She was so beautiful
that he simply had to have her. Venus, taking pity upon him, answered
his prayers, bringing the ivory image to life. Sculptor and sculpture
married, sculpting a child together, as it were, whom they named Paphos.
I might also include a reference or two to the alleged theological and
psychological significance of the myth. On the basis that Pygmalion's
inspiration had been the goddess of love, Aphrodite herself, Medieval
theologians regarded the myth as a cautionary tale concerning the
effects of idolatry. For psychologists, the story is an imaginative
depiction of the consequences of narcissism, for, rather than falling in
love with an actual woman, Pygmalion succumbs to the charms of an
artificial woman--an image of the ideal woman he has made himself.
Galatea, in the final analysis, they argue, is a "man-made woman" and,
as such, she is a depiction of her creator's anima, the "woman within."
It's an interesting theory.
Pygmalion's inspiration may have been Aphrodite, but mine was myself--
well, myself and as many artistic representations, in both oil and
marble, as I could find. I wanted to see how other artists had
represented the ideal woman so that, learning from their masterful
techniques, I could all the better carve an image of myself as the
awakening Galatea.
I examined such paintings of my intended subject as those by Jean-L?on
G?r?me, Honor? Daumier, Edward Burne-Jones, Auguste Rodin, Ernest
Normand, Paul Delvaux, Francisco Goya, Franz van Stuck, Francois
Boucher, and Thomas Rowlandson. I studied the smooth stone curves of as
many statues as well. In doing so, I viewed Galatea from the front, the
sides, and the back. Her every view was beautiful, whether of her
smooth, round breasts; her concave tummy; her sleek flanks; her shapely
legs; her lustrous buttocks; or her polished pubes. The sight of her was
arousing: it was easy to understand how Pygmalion had fallen in love
with her or, for that matter, why Professor Higgins had an eye for the
ladies.
I could never hope to surpass the skill and art with which these
painters and sculptors had, as it were, brought their interpretations of
Galatea to life in oils and stone, but, it was my hope--call me arrogant
if you will--that I might equal them. After all, as I have explained, as
raw material, I am quite beautiful, both by others' accounts and by the
evidence of my own eyes.
With color photographs and mirrors, both handheld and full-length, at
hand, I labored for hours, days, and weeks, to create The Perfect Woman,
toiling to make the marble I'd chosen for my medium to take on the
texture and tone of skin; to suggest muscle and bone beneath the sleek
contours of the limbs and torso of my creation; to breathe, as it were,
through my art and skill, life into the cold mineral that was her flesh
and form.
Finally, the final week of the course had come, and it was time to
present our projects to our classmates and to Professor Higgins.
There are many talented artists among my fellow students; consequently,
there were many beautiful versions of the ideal woman, but none, I dare
say, surpassed my own.
Amanda may hate men, but, judging by her statue of The Perfect Woman,
she loves the ladies well enough. Her sculpture was exquisitely
beautiful. The eyes, the nose, the lips, the chin, like the hair, the
breasts, and the rest, were lovely almost beyond compare. Only in the
best paintings and sculptures I'd studied in preparation for my own
carving had I seen anything as lovely as her ideal woman, her Eve, as
she'd named her.
Her oral account of her creation's origin was also somehow charming,
despite its underlying ugliness. In short, she claimed, her image of
woman was meant to portray her as she'd been--or might be again--
"unsullied" by the sexism of "male chauvinists and sexist pigs." She'd
made this particular comment while her gaze was trained upon Professor
Higgins. In response, he'd merely offered her a smile, which seemed to
incense her further.
"Natalie Mann," the professor said, calling my name.
I gave my speech about Pygmalion and Galatea, about the artistic
celebration of life and beauty, and about narcissism and idolatry. Then,
I grasped the cloth with which my statue was veiled, drew it away, and
heard the gasps and muttered comments of the shocked assembly who
stared, eyes wide and mouths agape, at my version of The Perfect Woman.
In every detail, I'd obviously been the model. The likeness of both the
statue's face and form were undeniably those of my own; the figure could
have been my stony twin.
Amanda, in particular, I noticed, was stunned.
I looked at Professor Higgins. He was beaming, genuine appreciation and
respect as well as a paternal pride radiating from his grinning
countenance. In his face, I saw the satisfaction and the bliss of a
teacher who knows he has not taught in vain, but who has been, on the
contrary, a midwife, so to speak, to the creative talents of a prized
pupil, helping her to give birth to the genius within. He was, I
realized, a Pygmalion of sorts himself, as much as I'd become one in
creating my Galatea.
The other students, both male and female, continued to stare in
amazement, in disbelief, as horror stole over the features of some faces
and confusion over those of others'. The whispered commentaries
thickened. Some pointed at my statue, others at me. Faces of disgust and
revulsion were made. One by one and in small groups, my fellow students
began to take their leave, scorn all but dripping from the acidic
glances they directed at me and my lovely Galatea. Were my ideal woman
made of flesh instead of stone, I had no doubt, she'd have melted under
their stony looks.
After the last had left, Professor Higgins approached me. "She's
lovely," he said. "She is you very likeness,"
I knew his comment was no mere compliment; it was a critique, and,
coming from such an accomplished artist as he, I did not regard it
lightly. "Thank you."
His gaze traveled down the statue's abdomen, trailing as if it were a
caress, over the figure's high, firm-soft, smooth, round breasts; the
sleek, inward-curving concavity of her belly; and the slight knoll of
her lustrous pubic region, lingering where the glances of the horrified
students' gazes had dallied.
"Tell me," he said, beholding the perfect, flaccid cock that dangled
before the small pouch of lined scrotum supporting the oval shapes that
suggested the presence of testicles within, "is she like you in every
detail?"
He meant, of course, Galatea's male genitals.
My ideal woman was not female, any more than she was male. She was a
transsexual.
"Yes," I confessed, smiling at him. I knew that, as an artist, he would
want, most ardently, to see, not only to hear, the answer to his
question and, as we were now alone, the other students having fled in
disgust at the shemale Galatea I'd created, as perfect and whole as
Athena, sprung from the brow of Zeus, I unzipped my jeans and extracted
the cock within that was the perfect match to the marble penis with
which I'd endowed my stone twin.
"Beautiful," Professor Higgins said. The word had issued from his lips
in a hush of awe.
Again, I knew his praise was not just a complement; it was the
assessment of an artist known the world over for his understanding of
beauty and his ability to depict and to create figures and forms that
showed such appreciation.
I kissed him.
He kissed me back.
Understanding, like knowledge, comes through experience. We know by
seeing, by hearing, by touching, by tasting, and by smelling. It is only
after the perception of the thing that we can contemplate it, examining
with the mind and the heart what we have captured with the senses.
Professor Higgins knew the beauty of women because he had seen many,
heard many, touched many, tasted many, smelled many. He had also thought
about many, holding his memories of them in his mind as he considered
their charms and felt the majesty and splendor of their inner selves,
their hearts and souls, as much as he'd admired their physical and
sexual aspects. He'd learned the Beauty of Woman because he'd known many
beautiful women.
He confessed to me the afternoon that we made love in his studio, among
the students' many versions of the ideal woman, that he'd never made
love with a shemale before. He also confessed the sense of honor and
privilege that my allowing him to do so had conferred upon him.
"You are my Pygmalion," I told him.
As his erection entered my anus, penetrating my rectum, he brushed the
hair from my neck, kissing his Galatea.
Inch by slow inch, he fed his thick, hard cock through my asshole until,
at length, I felt his pubes press firmly against the lower halves of my
flattened buttocks and the silk-soft flesh of his risen scrotum bobbed
against my perineum. He'd buried the full length of his cock inside my
rectum. I remained still, delighting in the feel my ass being crammed
full with his swollen, rigid erection.
Then, I felt the drag of the firm member as Professor Higgins withdrew
until only the glans of his prick remained within the portal to my
bowels, propping open my anus. He paused for a moment, and then slammed
his meat back through my asshole, deep into my bowels, flattening my
buttocks again before his driving pubes. I felt the coarse hairs of his
groin, like tiny needles, in the flesh of my smooth, bare ass. The
sensations aroused me, as did the presence of his manhood inside me. My
own soft, limp prick swelled, stiffening, and stood upright against my
belly. I took it in hand, jiggling and squeezing it.
Again and again, Professor Higgins thrust his dick home, with increasing
speed and force, making my buttocks bounce and dance and my frame shake
and shudder. I gasped and moaned. My own cock was so hard that it hurt,
and my balls ached. I needed release, both emotional and sexual. Tears
welled within my eyes--not from pain, but from the intensity of my need
to find release.
"Fuck me!" I encouraged my Pygmalion. Only with his semen inside me,
flooding my rectum, and his sperm swimming through my bowels, could I
become a "real girl," I thought. As his Galatea, I desired his desire; I
needed his need. "Fuck me!"
His lightning cock flashed between my buttocks again, penetrating my
rectum anew. Repeatedly, his penis, thick and hard, parted my buttocks,
ramming and slamming its way past the smooth, inward-curving mounds of
my bottom as it impaled me anew, stabbing me again and again, not only
claiming, but also reclaiming, its conquest of the territory it had
invaded.
Suddenly, Professor Higgins, his cock inside my ass to his balls,
stopped. I felt him straining into me as he gave his hips a few, intense
pumps, jostling my impaled buttocks with his heaving belly. I felt his
thighs tremble, and he moaned, delirious with orgasm, as he emptied the
reservoir of his semen into the depths of my ass.
Finally, spent and exhausted, he pulled free, his wilting cock sending a
last streamer of white semen across my back and streaking the cleavage
of my ass with the warm, sticky remnants of his molten seed.
My own prick sent streamers of my liquid seed over my breasts and belly
as I felt the soft tickle of his semen trailing between my buttocks,
over my perineum, and down the back of my scrotum.
He stayed inside me until I shit his cock, limp and soft, as if it were
a turd. He walked me to the door, carrying my Galatea for me.
Handing off the statue I'd carved of the ideal woman, he gave me a final
kiss, his lips soft and warm, and I left, promising to sign up for one
of the courses he was teaching next semester and vowing to keep him
company before then as well, in a more intimate way.
At home, my ideal woman safely in her rightful place, upon her pedestal,
I fell asleep upon the divan in my studio, and slept as if I were dead.
In a soliloquy, the ever-philosophical Hamlet says, "What dreams may
come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil?" While I hadn't
actually shuffled off my mortal coil, I was sleeping the sleep, at
least, of the dead, and these are the dreams that came to me.
I'd brought my precious, beautiful Galatea apples, pears, and grapes
upon a sliver platter, setting these gifts of fruit at her feet, where I
sat, gazing adoringly up her sleek thighs, past the ornaments of her
full, round breasts, into her wide eyes, which I imagined to be blue,
like the cloudless sky, wishing, with all my heart, with all my
strength, and with all my mind that she were living, breathing flesh,
rather than mere marble. "Live," I wished aloud. "Live for me."
I took her cold, smooth palm in my warm, fleshly hand, and, gazing upon
her loveliness of face and form, I begged the ravishing beauty to move,
to reach her hands toward me, to stir and to embrace me, that I might
become one flesh with her, both this night and forever. "Live," I
repeated fervently. "Live for me."
There was a stirring of the curtains at my chamber's casements, and a
brilliant, golden light filled the room. I blinked, squinting at the
brightness, and a voice, as soft and beautiful as Love, said, "Stone,
become flesh; carving become woman; figure, be transformed!"
As I clutched my statue's calves against my breasts, she stirred!
Galatea lived!
I woke to the golden sunlight streaming through my bedroom window.
My beloved statue, come to life, The Perfect Woman, stood at my bedside,
the silver platter of fruit in hand.
Some may imagine that, faced with marble become flesh, I might have
recoiled in terror, but I could but weep with joy as, ignoring the
platter, I clasped the warm, soft flesh of my dream girl, crushing her
sleek curves against my own. A latter-day Pygmalion, I understood the
joy that my mythical predecessor had felt, and I knew the true meaning
of passion and the true name of bliss: it is Galatea, The Perfect Woman.
But, unlike Galatea in my dream, I had not actually awakened; I had
stirred only in my sleep, as I found when my telephone, ringing, woke
me, and I answered its summons.
It was Professor Higgins, calling his Galatea. We agreed to meet for
dinner the next evening. . . . and for dessert--for endless desserts--
ever after.
I am content to be his Perfect Woman, for he, like me, is flesh, not
stone, and blood, not veined marble; his hands, hips lips, his cock and
balls, like his love and passion, are real. Likewise, my hands, my lips,
my breasts, my buttocks, my cock and balls, my love and passion, are
real.
With him as my Pygmalion, I am happy to be a modern-day Galatea and to
leave stone women to the likes of Amanda, who prefer the abstract to the
concrete and the ideal to the real.
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