Every year, over nine million people flock to the Louvre to witness the masterpieces of some of the greatest creators of art society has ever known. Millions upon millions of dollars are spent, and many miles logged, for people of all walks of life to see first-hand the singular works of sculpture contained therein. They are the works of extraordinary artists, who, through their vision, effort, and dexterity, brought forth the human figures from the cold, unyielding blocks of Carrera marble. Surrounding the works of Michelangelo, Bernini, and Donatello, patrons sit in stunned silence taking in every contour and sinew the Venus de Milo, Spartacus, and Cupid and Psyche have to offer.
It wasn’t long into my marriage that I quickly recognized that, for all of the longing to travel and see these works of art, I had a living, breathing, masterpiece under my very own roof—one more inspirational and artistically breathtaking than anything a museum had to offer. This lovely being who was intoxicating me with her love was also hiding a work of contours and curves draped in alabaster skin that rivaled any Italian marble. Every new phase of life is like a radiant new exhibit put on by a master curator. It is nearly impossible to get enough of the breathtaking inspiration of my muse’s body. After memorizing every hill and valley of my lover’s figure, I still am driven like a student to immerse myself in her study.
My modest lover doesn’t appreciate nor understand her beauty and is not one to flaunt her figure, much less to walk around naked while I take in her majesty. But I was finally able to solve this problem, bringing my wife to see herself in the same light as I do, and more fully appreciate her from every imaginable perspective.
I found an intimacy mirror from Embir Products and installed it level with our bed. Every time we make love, I tilt it towards our bed and twist it 90 degrees to see the full length of her body laying across our sheets. I am able to take in my masterpiece of a wife and her gorgeous legs crawling across the bed, witnessing her slender figure as she runs her hands across her sumptuous breasts, arching her back in rapturous pleasure, or throwing back her head while on top of me. I am now able to experience her in all of her raw perfection—every flexed muscle, every enveloping wave of relaxation that pours over her body.
My collection of memories that stem from my wife rivals any collection of sculptures found in galleries throughout the world.
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