MDX Redbeat

How Men React To Being Called Beautiful

As International Men’s Day was celebrated on 19 November, the prompt for Club Ink’s November writing competition was based on how ‘Men react to being called beautiful’. The two winning pieces are below.

By Shahd Abdalla, Year 3, Psychology with Counselling Skills

It is at exactly 6:12 pm on a misty late October evening, after a dreary and frustrating Friday at the office, that Maya realises she’s made a mistake.

There she stands frozen in the middle of her bedroom still dressed from head to toe in her office attire, save for one kitten heel which now dangles lifelessly from her left index finger. The only sound she registers is that of the hefty grandfather clock standing tall on the other side of her lavish master bedroom. The incessant ticking sound ricochets off of the wood beams on the ceiling and reaches her ears what feels like three hours later.

Maya forgot to make the dinner reservations for her husband Nick’s birthday.

A fizzing wave of anxiety washes over Maya’s body as she remembers the conversation she had with him that same morning about how she had a “big surprise” for him later, which was meant to be reservations for the two of them for 8 o’clock at Elephante, an upper-echelon restaurant, and lounge that recently opened downtown that Nick has been demanding they go to since he first heard about it.

She plops down onto her linen bedspread as she helplessly racks her brain. You’ve ruined your husband’s birthday, she immediately thinks.

When she looks over at the grandfather clock her eyes lock on the pendulum. She watches it move back and forth languidly and she feels her breathing slow in time with the movement—she closes her eyes, feeling the anxiety dissipate little by little, like a once effervescent soda left out to become flat.

                  It’s still Nick’s birthday even if you’ve forgotten to make reservations, Maya reminds herself. You still promised him a surprise.

This surprise was recommended to Maya by her and Nick’s couples therapist, Nina. They decided to start seeing Nina six months ago when they were coming out of a rough patch (or a rough era, if she’s being completely honest). Although Nick and Maya managed to reconcile and salvage their marriage from imminent divorce, they still needed work. Hence the extra date nights, the couples retreats, the taking-turns-to-pick-up-the-twins-from-football-practice, the gifts—all which are intended to “rekindle the spark” and “sustain the fires of their love”. One of the main things Nina said to them, though, is to try to “maintain the element of surprise” to “keep things feeling fresh and new”.

Has it been hammered home yet that all this sounds a bit intimidating to Maya?

She has to be honest: she’s taken a while to come around. Nick has admittedly put great effort into The Process. He was better at the grand gestures: arranging the trips, taking time off to watch the kids while she works, and bringing her flowers at work. Maya, on the other hand, has been a relatively covert expresser of love: cooking the meals she knows he likes, attentively listening as he vents and bounce ideas off of her, and helping him shop for new suits.

Last time she saw Nina, Maya said that she felt she wasn’t working as hard as Nick to mend their relationship. Nick had been holding back a bit and was acting kind of reluctant around her—she worried that it could be because she wasn’t as outwardly reciprocative as he was. In a desperate attempt to stop Maya from bursting into tears for the fifth time that session, Nina suggested something. Maya was to switch the roles a bit: treat Nick to the kind of surprise he would do for her. Make dinner reservations, drive them there, pay for the meal—the whole nine yards. “An exercise of bravery”, Nina called it. Maya immediately agreed: it seemed like something she could do, and do well. They decided that his birthday seemed like the perfect opportunity.

This was a good idea, and you can still make it good, she reassures herself. You have not ruined your husband’s birthday.

Maya swiftly makes her way into the ensuite bathroom to freshen up while her mind continues to race despite her best efforts to focus on a solution rather than everything surrounding the problem—an ever-so familiar and counterproductive mental rabbit hole she somehow consistently finds herself in.

She stands in front of her closet now. She grazes her fingers along the sleeve of a rich and sturdy denim jacket that hasn’t seen the light of day since her college days and is instantly struck with an idea as if by lightning.

She quickly pulls the jacket off of its hanger, slides into it and faces the nearby mirror. The jacket is light-washed, loose-fitting, frayed at the sleeves, bulky but still soft to the touch, and definitely doesn’t fit around the shoulders as well as it used to. She looks bizarre wearing a pale grey pencil skirt, a white blouse slightly crumpled after a ten-hour day, a single kitten heel, and the denim jacket.

Two memories stand alone in her mind as if spotlit in a dark room. She wore this same jacket when she met him in college at his fraternity’s party and then again a year later the day she realised that she loved him with everything she had.

Her body is bursting at the seams with nostalgia. Her reflection suddenly becomes bleary as teardrops collect at her bottom lashes—the second this happens, she realises that she still does.

She does not have much time to dwell. Through watery eyes, she manages to make out the time on her watch. Thankfully her mother agreed to have the kids over at her house for the night so that she doesn’t have to worry about them during her date night. Nick should be back from the office in around twenty minutes, so she has enough time to get her act together—

“Honey?”

Maya nearly jumps out of her skin when she looks up at the mirror and sees that Nick has miraculously materialised behind her, his face coloured in concern.

She turns away from the mirror and discreetly dabs at her under-eye areas with her ring fingers (as advised to her by her aesthetician) as she tries to find words to say as if frantically searching in the dark for something she doesn’t recognise. “You’re home early.”

A pause. “Yeah, I didn’t want to be late.” From the corner of her eye, she notices him shuffle in place, like he wanted to take a step forward but then decided against it. He must have noticed that she had been crying because he says, “Maya, are you okay?”

She suddenly feels the urge to jump into his arms and hide there for the rest of the night.

Hide from what, though, she’s not sure.

Maya turns around, straightens her posture, and aims her gaze in the general direction of his eyes but doesn’t actually fixate on them. “Of course I am. I’m just getting ready.” “Are you sure?”

She nods.

His expression opens up into what might be a relief and he lets out a curt sigh. The faint touch of amusement dances across his lips, ebbing and flowing as if he can’t control it. His gaze treks along her body, taking its time and rests on a point on the floor near her feet.

She hears herself giggle. “What is it?”

Nick shakes his head like he wishes he could backpedal faster. “No, nothing, you just look so … ” He trails off. The corner of his right lip twitches upwards and his eyes squint ever so slightly and she knows him well enough by now (ten years is a long time) to know that his mind is racing. He’s holding back.

There they stand, looking at each other from opposite sides of the room. The room somehow feels so much smaller, but the space between them feels so much bigger. Through the open window, a breath of chilly autumn wind sneaks into the room (which is what she chooses to blame for the goosebumps she feels creeping down her arms).

She loves him so goddamn much. As this thought flashed behind her eyes, she realises that she hasn’t actually told him that in weeks. Suddenly, it’s all she wants to say. Over and over again.

The tears come back, this time with a seething vengeance. She can barely see him anymore, but she notices his eyes widen in a simmering panic. Before he can say or do anything, the words tumble out of her mouth like they’ve been waiting for far too long: “I love you so much.”

Nick’s smile opens up like a flower planted in the springtime: slowly and then exactly into what you wanted it to be. All of a sudden he’s laughing. The laughter gushes out of every part of his body and fills the room until it swallows her whole and she loses her breath. Overcome with emotion, she covers her face while she tries to figure out whether she’s laughing or crying.

Maya feels her hands being pried apart, and she opens her eyes to find Nick beaming at her as if trying to impart an ounce of his happiness onto her.

“Hey,” he musters between laughs. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, man.” The words come out like treacle, thick with emotion. “I just realised how much I love you and how beautiful you are.”

This time he throws his head back and cackles at the ceiling. She watches in awe and immediately feels silly for ever forgetting for a second her feelings for this man. She forgets why she was crying, forgets what she spent the past few weeks doing if she wasn’t telling him she loved him every second of every day.

Their laughter dies down after some time and he says, “You’re killing me here.” She bites the smile off her lips and shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Well, I love you too, sweetheart.” He purses his lips. “I like hearing you say it.” “Yeah?”

He nods. “I don’t even want to go out anymore.”

“Well, that’s good because I forgot to make the dinner reservation.”

“I don’t care about the dinner reservation,” says Nick, the smile never leaving his face. “I just want to hear you say you love me for the rest of the night.”

“We have to do something, though,” she insists. “Let me take you to a bar.” “Only if you promise to wear exactly what you’re wearing right now.”

And just like that, their laughter carries them blissfully into the night.

Eleanor and the Beauty of Men

By Ma. Josefina Belen Garcia, Year 2 Education Studies

I had heard women being called beautiful many times before. Indeed, I’ve sketched their beauty myself. But what about men? Aren’t men worth appreciating?

At least, that’s what I thought, especially with my cousins, whom I was lucky to find. They haven’t been in my life for very long, but I’ve always welcomed any family that came into my life. They’ve all revealed themselves to me in their unique way, deeming them noteworthy in my eyes. How to describe their beauty to you?

First, there’s the oldest cousin: Richard. To this day, I don’t understand why he didn’t become king, and that role was passed to my sister, Piper (there was a ritual of some sort, but that’s not important). I think Cousin Richard is one of the best men I’ve ever known. Oh, he isn’t perfect. His temper is a sight to behold, especially when his brother, Asher does something foolish, and he can never keep a stoic face. But Richard prefers a simple life. Whenever he visits, I always find him at the forge, sweat pouring down his brow as he pounds the metal into something sharp and beautiful. I always see him swinging a sword at a dummy or sparring with Piper in our courtyard. He also likes to listen to us; Piper says he’s the best listener, and I found that to be true when I had a nightmare, and I found him in our family common room. I talked, he listened, and I wasn’t so afraid anymore. I always thought him brave, especially after he charged into battle with us to save our kingdom.

“Richard, I think you’re beautiful,” I tell him plaintively.

It seems to take him aback. “Uh…thanks,” he says, uncertain. But something in his expression shifts and his tone is surer. “Thanks.”

Then there’s my second male cousin: Sky. Sky reads. A lot. However, unlike my sister, Sky prefers factual books; books that tell you why his namesake is blue, why the ocean is salty, or why the kingdom is the way it is now. All of this and more sticks to his head. When I find him asleep, his head is cushioned upon a book; he’s never seen without them. At dinner, he likes to regale us with an exciting anecdote he’s found. I’ve learned a lot of things from him that way; I like to think it helped me breathe life into my art. Sure, he likes babbling his head off, and I’ve seen him everywhere, a stream of facts rolling off his tongue. However, it’s done with purpose, often followed by grateful exclamations for his knowledge. People whisper behind his back that the only reason he’s even gotten this far is because of Piper granting him status as a scholar. I don’t think that’s true. I’ve seen him stay up well into the night just to finish his work; I’ve seen him give out his knowledge without behest. I’ve seen the proud look on his face when all his hard work paid off, and he was awarded a scholar’s chain.

“You look beautiful, Sky,” I told him; his face was glowing as brightly as the new chain around his neck. He bursts out laughing at my statement, but I don’t think it was one of cruelty. I thought he looked slightly awkward when he did so.

His brother, Maxwell, is tough to figure out. Like Richard, he prefers to stay out of scrutiny but seems to like it for the thrills. I always find him in a corner, watching, eyes narrowed. On numerous occasions, his sister, Layla, is with him. This is usually when his façade melts, and a fraction of a smile worms its way to his face. He looks more human that way. He likes to work with his hands, and sometimes, I’ll join him. He doesn’t mind me; he says that I’m quiet when he works. I’ve watched him work with all kinds of mechanisms. He’s had a recent fascination with clocks, pulling apart gears and springs, examining the woodwork. He’ll do that and sketch a few ideas out in his notebook. He also likes to play with cards; he’s taught Luisa and Warren a few card tricks and games. His hands work with astonishing speed and accuracy. I’ve found myself sketching them; the movements are hard to capture, but I’ve mapped out his calluses, his scars, even a few burns he’d acquired from working with Richard in the forge.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell him when I’ve finished sketching his hands. He pauses, before smoothing his hair. “Thanks,” he says, smirking before returning to his work.

Asher, Richard’s brother, liked the outdoors. Sometimes, I would go with him because there were so many things to draw, and Richard didn’t want him going out alone. Asher always has his dog, Magellan, with him nipping at his heels. Asher would pet him and occasionally sneak him treats from the kitchen. Asher also loved to talk, and his favourite companions were the Guardians of the Land. I had listened to him speak in the crackling tones of Giants, the flowing voice of Mermaids, and the wispy language of the Nymphs. Sometimes, he would just glory in nature: rolling in the grass, making snow angels, or splashing in the sea. He always came alive at those times: his eyes would light up, and there would be a flush to his brown cheeks. I loved playing these games with him and listening to the sound of his voice.

“You’re beautiful,” I told him as we lay side by side, our arms tired from sculpting the surrounding snow.

“Thanks,” he says, chuckling a bit and ducking his head. His cheeks were red, though, from the cold or the compliment, I couldn’t tell.

Warren was Luisa’s best friend, but he would spend time with me sometimes. Particularly if he was training. I often watched him as Warren dodged, ducked, swung, and fought his way through an obstacle course that grew more and more complicated as Maxwell modified it. Sometimes, he would go out riding. Warren liked to go fast, and he would leave me breathless after challenging me to a race. A few times, much to my reluctance, I would join him on his hunts, where he seemed to shed the recklessness that he carried with him throughout the day. There would be grace and precision in every movement; a fluidity whenever he shot down whatever creature crossed his path. The passion and energy he brought radiated with everything he did.

“You’re beautiful,” I blurt out, as we’re carrying fowls back to the castle for dinner. He stops in his tracks.

“Huh?” he asks.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell him.

“Uh…thanks,” he says, though I catch a tiny, flattering smile as he passes me on the way back.

Women are not the only beings to be graced with beauty from Dei. I’ve known and loved men who are brave, intelligent, clever, loving, and passionate. They’re people I’ve come to treasure, and that makes them beautiful in my eyes.