Pygmalion

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.