The word “talent” has always made me uncomfortable in its application to female beauty. I’m not sure why, exactly, but it has. I guess because it seems to assert a sort of collective male sense of power and entitlement in the face of female beauty, as if we men are the ultimate determiners of women’s beauty (and, by extension, their worth).
But here I sit, in a room filled with attractive women, trying to work, and the word “talent” is bouncing off the insides of my skull.
There’s the demure brunette to my left, in low-cut khakis and a green hoodie, with a solid six inches of olive flesh between the top of the pants and the bottom of the hoodie, her thong (pink) peeking up above the pants. Her right ear has a diamond stud near the top of it, and her hair is scrunched into a ponytail at the top of her head and off slightly to the left. She looks tired – her green eyes are heavy-lidded. She’s not wearing make-up. If I had to guess, I would say her first language is Italian.
And then, before me, about twenty feet away, a black-haired beauty, almost the opposite. Her hair is arranged neatly in a topknot, with bangs hanging just so over her left eye. Her eyelashes, long, have mascara on them. Her nose is angular, her skin, bright and clear. She wears an elegant scarf and understated lip gloss. Her pink silk top is stretched tight across her breasts, and her short skirt reveals her athletic legs under the table on which she is writing.
Behind me sits a red-headed beauty, in a short denim skirt and tight cotton top. As she lowered herself into her chair, it was hard to decide where to focus – on her cleavage, on her legs, on her crotch, on her ass. (She’s at almost a 180-degree angle to me – all were possible.)
All this, and I have work to do.