I’ve always had this vision of God in heaven, sitting at a something resembling a cobbler’s work bench, the tools of creation laid before him and a lump of flesh and bone heaped in the middle of it all, like a hunk of clay or a batch of plaster. In this vision of mine, God resembles Gepetto in the story of Pinnochio, right down to the kindly face and round spectacles perched on the bridge of His nose. Only, instead of a leather worker’s apron, He’s wearing a smock because clay is messy like that.

In this child-like perception of creation, I picture God sculpting each person with His powerful hands, not using a mold but rather, relying on His own divine blueprint. And when the shell, or body, is finished, and before God pours the soul into the blood pumping heart, He measures out His own recipe of character: a tablespoon of love, a heap of honesty, a pinch of loyalty, and a smidgen of kindness. But the ingredients don’t stop there: two tablespoons of pride, a teaspoon of meanness, a dollop of cruelty, and a few granules of hate. The recipe is different for everyone, of course, as diverse as the many people living on this earth. But I’d always thought that the formula for character was concocted in direct proportion to the physical attributes and talents of the being in the midst of fabrication.

That was until I met you.

You, with your pouty lips and sweet smile that lights up a room, a stage, a stadium. You, with your deep sea eyes and wide, helplessly expressive brows. Your chiseled features and strong jaw and perfect -yes, perfect- physique. You’re beautiful. And that makes all the difference.

Some days, I would give anything to be you. I lust after your body, not because I want to ravage you -or, perhaps, I do- but mostly because I’d love to be on inside looking out, to see the world through your eyes instead of wondering if the Monnet-like painting of faces and places looks the same through your blue crystalline spheres, as they do through my funny cat-green. Because, to be you is to be beautiful. I’ve always wanted to know what that’s like.

It would help if you were a talentless waste of space, a do-nothing, achieve-nothing, be-nothing. But you’re not. You can sing like a goldfinch or a meadow lark or a songbird of olde. You can dance like the rhythm isn’t just in you, it’s of you, and the flow in your veins is as natural as the motion of the sea.

I envy you. I covet the way you don’t have to say a word, only show up, and people nearly wet themselves with gratitude. I admittedly begrudge you your image, the one custom fitted for you by a team of experts, pop-chemists who’ve tapped into some secret formula and have since made it their mission to collect the elements therein like so many action figures. More than that, I begrudge your willingness to play your part because you’re not really playing at all - it’s who you are. Or, rather, who you’ve become. And that, like everything else, is so easy for you.

If you didn’t do it so well, I would hate the way you laugh off your few mistakes and faux pas as effortlessly as if they’d never even happened at all. You get away with so much in the minds of so many. When you slip up, you need only to flash a rueful grin, tug on your curls a bit to remind the world of your magnificence, and suddenly, it’s all erased as cleanly as chalk off a blackboard. I think I’d consider selling my soul to know what that feels like, the surge of power that must run through you every time you skate your away out of or around something you’ve done.

How does it feel to be looked upon as the prince of common man, as the entity to whom an entire segment of the culture is dedicated? You blushingly declare yourself an average guy, but really, you’re well aware you are a godling among men. And you love it; you live for it. I suspect you’d die for it, too. Tell me, if you can, what goes through your mind when you see the minions lined up to meet your every need? The gaggle of curvy girls and handsome men who linger in the lobby after each show, hoping, praying you’ll pick them. The cluster of production assistants that hover over you like a flock of hens whenever we’re booked for an appearance. The hundreds -no, thousands- that wait out in the sourest of weather conditions, only to get your half hearted scrawl and -if they’re lucky- a personal word, or two. You take it all for granted, and maybe I would too, if I were beautiful like you.

I think maybe that’s why you’re so flippantly apologetic when you hurt me like you do. When you’re rough and leave marks that burn beneath the spray of the shower the next morning. When you show up outside my door, reeking of musky sex and still somehow smelling baby-soft and sweet all at the same time. When you’re careless with your kisses. When you forget the important things, like my deepest dreams that I tell you about at night, after you’ve come inside me. Or even the simplest of my life-long preferences, like the fact that I take my coffee black, with one packet of sugar to cut the bite of the caffeine.

I suppose it’s pie in the sky, as my mama used say, to hope that you’ll someday come ‘round. That, in the future -next week? Next month? Next year?- you’ll do something to surprise me, something unexpected like saving me the last glass of orange juice in the morning, or letting me have the good seat at the next award show, or thinking to introduce me to your frequently made new friends instead of leaving me hanging there like so much excess baggage.

Oh, the things I would do if I were-

My phone rings. I answer it.

“Hey Lance.”

“Hello, Justin. I was just thinking about you.”

I can hear the smile in your voice as you say, “I’m not surprised.” Remarkably, you are not cocky, simply matter of fact. “I was just calling to see how you are.”

I think about that statement for a moment and the reasons it’s so wrong, the way it smacks of a foreign Justin and not the one I know and, unfortunately, love. “No you weren’t.”

“I..huh? What? Lance,” you say, tone carrying your patented little-boy-lost inflection.

“You didn’t call to ask about how I am, Justin. We both know that.”

“Do we?”

“What do you need?”

“Well...”

“Go on.”

“I was wondering if you’re doing anything tonight?”

“Why?”

“Lance,” you whine, and I can hear you pouting on the other end of the line.

“No,” I sigh, “I’m not. And I’m sure you already knew that, too.”

“I just...” you pause, and the silence is full of implied meaning. A baited hook, meant to snare me like the fish that is my namesake. I know what you’re doing, Justin. “I need you,” you say to me.

And there it is. In the huskiest of voices, invoking the sweatiest of images, in the most complicated terms. You either need to fuck or be fucked. A small, selfish part of me hopes it’s the latter so that even for a handful of minutes, I can be inside of you, conjoined with you in the closest I’ll ever come to being you, to see the world as you see it.

“Lance?” you ask with false timidity and I realize I’ve been silent two seconds too long.

“Where are you?” My walls crumble, as they always do, because tenacity was never one of my ingredients as far as you are concerned.

The doorbell rings.

“Guess,” you instruct. I can hear the Cheshire grin in your voice.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m coming.”

I hang up the phone in the kitchen, already picturing the way you’ll look on my doorstep, probably leaning against the frame, arms folded across your chest, and your eyes showing far less than the thoughts that are most likely going on behind them. You’ll smile at me, and charm me, and make me simmer inside until I’m primed for your touch. And then you’ll take me as you want me, and it will all be over far too soon. Then you’ll go back to being The Justin Timberlake.

Shame on me, for wanting so badly to be beautiful like you.

“Beautiful Like You,” by Joydrop

If I was beautiful like you,
All the things I would do,
Those not so blessed would be crying out murder.
And I’ll just laugh, and get away with it, too.
Like you do.

If I was beautiful like you,
I would never be at fault.
I’d walk in the rain between the raindrops
Bringing traffic to a halt.

But that’s another thing,
That I will never be,
Because I’m not beautiful like you.
Beautiful like you.

If I was beautiful like you,
I’d be quick to assume,
They’d do anything to please me.
I see the reaction when you walk into the room.

But that will never be.
That will never, never be.
Because I’m not beautiful like you.
I’m not beautiful like you.
Beautiful like you.

If I was beautiful like you,
I’d have so many friends.
I’d fight all the time to be next in line,
So if I hurt one, I’d wouldn’t have to make amends.

That would never be,
That would never, never be,
Because i’m not beautiful like you.
I’m not beautiful like you.
I’m not beautiful like you.
Beautiful like you.