Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Artist's Muse

I've always wanted to be someone's Muse, their divine Madonna, perhaps their Mona Lisa.

Did you know that a French harlot was the Muse for Bouguereau? Yes, a French harlot, just like me.

Oo la la. I'm already an artist, so why do I feel like I want to be fucking one? So that I can have heated arguments over artistic things and then fling one another down to the floor and fuck like rabbits at the apocalypse.

Oo la la indeed.

Real skin tone has real tan lines....


Val was an artist, a Russian artist.

At 25, Val had huge shoulders, and yet, his hands were small and smooth like a woman's, soft like a child's. I became friends with him when my neighbor was hosting him as an exchange student from an art academy in Russia. Interesting, no?

His voice was so light and quiet, I felt akin to him on so many levels, this reason being a huge one. When he expressed himself, his eyes were so lit, so on fire, yet his voice remained still and soft. He knew how to express himself and, like me, he knew volume wasn't the key. My voice is calm and low in conversation and daily speech, sometimes people cant hear me and I'm endlessly repeating myself. My expression is deep and I don't need a loud voice for people to want to hear me. I don't have to be the loudest person, nor the most extroverted - I just have to be myself. Val was so like me on this accord.

I went to spend afternoons with him in the above-garage apartment of my neighbor's house, to lounge on pillows and watch him listening to music and dripping paint all over his canvases. It was so cliche sometimes I would just burst out laughing, biting my fingers to silence myself. It was the summer after I had turned 16 and it seemed so perfect to be spending the majority of my summer (when I wasn't in London) with a foreign artist in his "studio" and chatting away like a college student.

Val and I had never expressed a sexual attraction to one another before.

Before our debate, that is.

We were speaking of the worthiness of Bougeureau's art as "Renaissance" though he was alive during the 1800's. His style is very Renaissance styled, yet more smooth and clear - more realized in lifelike authenticity. I was at the point where I was trailing my fingers along my collar bone, leaning against the wall as I stood near him and his canvas.

I blurted out a passion string of defense for my favorite artist and bang - he grabs my shoulders and kisses me like the world is about to end. I moan spontaneously, his mouth pressed to mine, his fingers tight to my flesh. My lips trained to keep up with his as he kissed me with abandoned passion. My mind raced as it usually does, pulling me from the sensation, I'm kissing a Russian artist because were fighting. I almost giggled and broke the kiss, my mind tumbling back to the fact that I felt such heat in my throat, my chest.

When at last our lips parted and he leant his forehead against mine, his voice was small, full of heat,

I have been wanting to do that for such a great while.

He sighed in something that felt like relief, his great big gray eyes pressed closed, his breath on my face. My heart was shivering in my chest, not knowing what was to come. My mind couldn't fathom it either,

Your eyes are like gems, like something in a painting, do you know I can't will myself from looking into them.

I was shocked by his declarations, for all I knew we were tight friends, artistic counterparts, buds. I felt a warmth in my thighs, creeping down to my calves and wrapping around my feet. He pressed his thumb to my lips, my eyes fluttered closed to hear his voice again,

Please tell me this makes you happy. Please tell me you want me too.

When my voice couldn't fight its way out of my throat, I only nodded heavily. His kept breath slid out of his chest, relief it seemed. Again, he pressed his lips to mine, his tongue sliding along the inside of them, his kisses deep and throttling. I shuddered once or twice, my hands tightly gripping his hips, his hands in my hair, on my neck.

I didn't protest when he helped me down to the floor level bed, the comforter mussed from his sleep the night before. I smiled and sighed when I felt his hot fingertips on my stomach, sliding underneath my thin t-shirt. His breath was hot against my neck as he kissed me there, his teeth lightly grazing my skin. My breasts shown before him, the nipple pointed and awake as he slid my shirt off. His mouth broke their torture, his tongue darting quickly over my sensitive nipples, over the tender flesh along the bottom of my breast.

My fingers snaked under his tee, feeling his hard stomach, his hot skin. His skin was pale and beautiful when I took his shirt from him, his chest large and barreled. My legs snaked around his hips when he lay between them, his chest and stomach touching mine, our skin warming one another. Soon, his touching and kisses became heated, his breathing torrid and quick.

His hands worked quickly at the snaps of my jeans, revealing my black cotton boy-shorts. After he has dispensed with my jeans, he rubbed his lips against kitten through the thin cotton, feeling the heat and smelling me. His hands slipped to my hips and pulled at my panties, taking them away - leaving me naked and breathing before him. His lips felt so hot and smooth against my hips, the inside of my thighs, the outer lips of my kitten. His tongue dipped between those lips and licked at my kitten, all the way up and down, heated and pressing.

I looked between my breasts at his head, his closed eyes visible as he pleased me, his mouth busy and working so hard. My back arched s I felt the first heated pricks of orgasm, my pussy seeming to become even more slick and hot. My whimpers became so quick, so loud and desperate. My hips slid in slow circles, imitating his movements, antagonizing my soon to burst orgasm. I came and a blazing light blazed through my mind, obliterating all sense. My back arched up and up, my hips shook and my hands gripped wildly, one at my breast and the other on his wrist. He held me tight as he continued his attack on my clit, the waves of heat gaining until I was screaming out for him to stop.

Needless to say, he was not soon relenting. When my second orgasm hit with blinding fury, tears sprung from my eyes, my cries becoming louder still and my hands grasping in seeming terror upon my breast and his slim wrist. When at last he released me, my breath came as pants and whimpers, moans even.

As I lay in my burning afterglow, I heard the metallic sounds of his zipper being undone and then the hot flesh of him pressed against my legs, my hips. My eyes were still closed, my breath still pounding when he slid his cock deep inside of me. I managed to moan out, my body wracked with little waves of pain, painful pleasure. It felt so good to be filled so completely after such a wild orgasm, his thrusts becoming deeper and harsher. My legs wrapped tightly around him, as did my arms as his pace quickened. His eyes gazed into mine as he pumped his cock deep inside of me, harder and harder. They become somewhat painful, too deep perhaps, but I lived within the moment, needing it, wanting it so much.

My moans wracked my whole body it seemed, my heart beating so loudly inside of my chest. His finals thrusts hit deep within me, his body becoming totally encased within me it seemed. He fell gently on top of me, his hands snaking under my head, his face on my neck, his breath like heated wind on my chest.

When at last our breath and sense came to us, we loll about, laying entwined in one another's limbs. We began speaking again, about our usual topics, art, politics, and now...Our fuck. His cheeks were reddened, filled with blood and warm. I kissed them as he spoke to me,

When you orgasm, you're like this light-filled being, like a goddess. Art, most definitely. You're art my dear. Pure.

I giggled at his passionate dramatism and smiled as I snuggled back up to his chest. I felt a warm comfort as his arms slid around me, our thighs locked together like scissors. It seemed I was drifting on a cloud, or on the wind. I was nearly asleep when I felt him get up and then return, my mind felt glitter as a cold and wet something slid along my hip. I looked at Val and then at the site of the disturbance.....He was painting on me. He hummed as he did it, his face bright as he knelt nude beside me.

When he was through a few seconds later, he took his white tee he had been wearing pre-coital and lay the front of it flat over the paint and daintily pressed upon it. He then gently peeled it away from me, careful not to smudge the paint on either my body or the fabric. He looked satisfied with it and then once again laid down with me. My mind so utterly puzzled, I lent up and looked at his handy work,

Art is a goddess in America.

Black paint etched against my hip and leg, careful and scripting letters. I smiled as a single tear slid down my cheek, his arms tight against my body, holding me close. His comfort ran so deep within me,

Thank you. I don't know why I wanted to say that, but thank you.

He beamed a bright smile at me and laughed very softly and nestled his mouth near my ear, his hand slipping into my mussed hair and stroking my scalp,

No, thank you, lovely.

My artist/fuck experience leads me to want to seek yet another artistically awakened soul. Another man who can revel in his need and emotion, to truly want and need me. To know that they hold a need and a passion. I hope that at least once more in my life I find another being with a fully realized heart.

.......
...

1 comment:

Wintermute said...

Unlike the United States, intellectualism
is respected in Europe and Russia.
One of the most well educated people
I've know was a Jew from the Ukrain
(he would not want to be called
Russian - he hated many of the Russian
for their anti-semitism). I also
found Russian to be a beautiful
language. This was unexpected. I
thought it would be like german, gutteral
and harsh. Instead it was like
french, lyrical and melodic. Like
your writing, which I have
very much enjoyed.

Wintermute