Painting Her Page 9

  Gushing a river of cum into my mouth, he fills it up to the brim with two quick spasms of his cock. I remain still for a few seconds, and when Blake’s finished I start rolling my lips back. His cock pops out of my mouth with a wet sound and, before I can even think about what I’m doing, I simply swallow.

  “Fuck, you’re amazing,” Blake tells me, reaching for me and grabbing me by the hand. He pulls me up to my feet and then makes me lay down on the bed, joining me a second later.

  “You’re the one who’s amazing,” I tell him, rolling to the side and resting one arm over his chest. We stay like that for a long time, the shadows growing around us and tumbling over our naked bodies. Surrounded by canvas, old brushes, and the smell of new paint, I close my eyes and surrender to the moment.

  This is a memory I’m sure I won’t forget anytime soon.

  Chapter 18

  Katherine

  The rays of the sun caress the back of my neck as I make a cup of coffee in Blake’s kitchen. At first, I only stare at the glistening beast of a coffee machine. I am nearly dizzy from the number of buttons on the silver appliance, but I persist, and it does not take too long before I hold a steaming mug of hot black liquid.

  I take a sip and close my eyes, enjoying the hot liquid caress my tongue before I swallow. This is excellent coffee.

  Coffee is one of my weaknesses. I probably drink too much of it. And I like the good stuff, exactly like the one I am holding in my hands right now. I am a coffee connoisseur.

  Life, I believe, is too short to drink bad coffee. And there’s nothing better than good coffee after a little nap, is there? After what happened inside the studio, I simply nodded off. I must have slept for a couple of hours before I finally woke up. Blake was nowhere to be seen, so I just made my way toward the kitchen.

  Dressed in nothing but one of Blake’s t-shirts, and with bare feet, I now meander through the apartment and back to the studio.

  I make my way through the living room, remembering how it felt to be with Blake. A little color rises to my cheeks as I recall the wild animalistic passion I had felt when Blake and I were having sex.

  Dale had never been so near Neanderthal in his approach to sex, at least not with me.

  I push thoughts of the ex-boyfriend aside. He is well and truly history.

  Curiosity arouses I continue my exploration of this oversized apartment. I seem to still be floating on clouds, the after-effect of sex lingering.

  I keep reminding myself that this is just a fling, not a long-lasting attachment, to the point where I’ve nearly convinced myself.

  I have to admit, up until I stood in his workspace, I hadn’t been entirely convinced of Blake being an serious painter. Sure, I had seen his work on exhibit the other night, but it was no proof he was an artist. A real artist.

  And now I stand in his workspace, and an explosion of color and feeling emanate from each and every piece of art scattered through the vast area stretched out before me.

  It is not neat and tidy. I spot two, no, three working easel with canvasses on them. One of them appears to be blank, but the other two have been started, although it is unclear exactly what they are paintings of.

  Some of the finished pieces are leaning against the wall, while others are hanging up. More of them are lying on the floor. He sure is prolific.

  Slowly, I move from painting to painting.

  It is as if a giant has taken me into his cave and laid his soul bare in front of me.

  Open-mouthed, I stare at a large canvass filled with dark blues, grays and blacks. The storm raging within the artist is unmistakable. It must have been a dark day for Blake the day he painted this one.

  I move on.

  I’m intrigued. As a writer I understand all too well how your emotions can rule your creative side.

  A canvass covered in every red and orange on the color spectrum has me reel back. I fear if I stand too close, the heat will burn my skin. I wonder if it is a raging fire he is portraying or something else.

  I keep staring at the blast of reds, and as I do, I can see the destruction of what appear to have been buildings. I sense anger.

  I keep walking. Blues, whites and turquoises draw me in. Puzzled, I stop and stare. Was this supposed to be the sky, the ocean or something so abstract I cannot work it out? Despite my inability to see a definite design, it has a serene feeling.

  I recall having read somewhere that blue is a calming color. I smile. So there was a calm and balanced side to Blake after all.

  Further along the back wall are some nudes. I’m relieved to find I don’t recognize any of his models. As I stare at them, a sense of insecurity creeps through me.

  These girls are gorgeous. There is not a flaw on them. Big boobs, slim waist, flat stomach, nice ass, and slender legs on each and every one of them.

  Some seem a little vacant in the facial expression, but as far as their bodies went, they were perfect.

  Aware of my own nakedness under the large t-shirt, I glance downward. Suddenly I get the distinct impression Blake had only told me he wanted to paint me so he could get me to have sex with him. Must have been a slow day for him.

  I notice another feature these girls have and I don’t. I don’t have long blonde curls to drape over my shoulder, half my face, or half way down my back.

  A half-finished sketch catches my attention. I hold my breath as I instantly recognize the face, the shoulders and the rest of the body.

  In the sketch I’m lying on my side. I’m asleep. Just by looking at it, I feel how peaceful I am.

  My hair, which I had only moments before wished to be long, looks just right. It accentuates my cheekbones. My lips are slightly drawn up, as if I’m smiling.

  The longer I stare at myself, the more I sense the eroticism oozing from me. I’m lying on my side, hiding some of my nakedness, and that somehow just makes it more erotic.

  Suddenly, my throat feels dry, and I’m a little dizzy.

  He must have painted this while I slept.

  Hands wrap around my waist. Warm, moist lips caress my neck, instantly setting off emotional shock waves all through my body.

  “Like it?”

  No sound escapes my lips. His touch threatens to drag me into the thralls of ecstasy once more. I nod.

  “What do you think…?” His hands are drawing little circles on my back. I can’t think properly.

  “About what?” I croak. I barely recognize my own voice. It sounds frog-like.

  “About the painting, Kat. Do you like it?”

  I open my mouth to speak, but I quickly realize that I don’t know what to say.

  Chapter 19

  Blake

  Standing in the doorway of the studio I see Katherine across the room staring at the painting, and she’s not smiling. I can’t quite read her expression, and I think surely, she’d have some sort of reaction by now. Silly me, I was actually expecting euphoria, or at least pleasant surprise.

  Anything but this seemingly blank look.

  “So…?” I nearly spit out the word as I amble over to where she’s standing, “What do you think?”

  Katherine is silent. She’s doing a slow pace in front of the canvas. Her arms folded in front of her chest in an almost protective stance. She’s wearing a pout, and it’s a far cry from the sexy one she gave when she was posing. I don't know what to think.

  "So…?” I repeat, this time with an edge to my voice, “Come on Katherine, even doctors don’t take this long to give an opinion.”

  She doesn’t look away from the canvas and her voice is a monotone when she finally utters, “I’m thinking.”

  There’s more silence, and after a few minutes she finally speaks.

  “Honestly, I’m not quite sure what to say.”

  “Seriously? You’re the writer, why not try by putting one word after the next? That might work.”

  Katherine gives me a sharp look and it’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm, and her response is just as biting.


  “Yes, I know what I am, but nowhere in my CV does it state that I’m an art critic.”

  “Phfft…critics. I’ve never given one solitary fuck about critics. They’re dilettantes, the lot of them. They have no skills of their own. They’re all cowards, just sitting on the sidelines watching and waiting to pounce on someone’s work. What's that old saying, 'Those who can, do, those who can't, teach, and those who can't do either become critics!”

  “I couldn’t have said it better. And that’s precisely why I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to make hasty judgments.”

  “Katherine, you’re not one of them. You never could be. I just want to know what you think. What you feel when you look at it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I’ve never painted anything like this.”

  “Oh, please. You’ve probably painted dozens and dozens of women. I’m no different.”

  “You think that? You can look at it and believe it’s like anything else I’ve ever done?”

  She doesn’t nod yes or no. She doesn’t move, she simply stares at the canvas.

  Rubbing my forehead with the palm of my hand, I turn away. At this moment, her opinion means everything. And everything I feel for her is on that canvas.

  “Katherine, you understand it isn’t finished,” I say. “There’s more work to be done, but the bones, the emotion, the essence of it is there.”

  I’m begging for a reaction, but she seems frozen, with no words or movement. And after what seems like an eternity, she nods her head. It’s almost imperceptible, but I’m noticing everything about her, including the dust motes against the sunlight that surround her frame.

  “Hmm…” she muses, and begins to turn away.

  I grab her wrist and pull her toward me. She doesn’t protest, but when she looks at me, her eyes are sad.

  “Listen, this is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  “But…it’s…raw…it’s so personal.”

  “Of course it is. This is personal,” I say pointing to her and me, and the painting. “You are personal”

  I stop and take a breath, but I don’t loosen my grip on her wrist, and I don’t move away. I’m waiting for her to look me in the eye.

  “This is personal,” I repeat it as a whisper, “and your opinion matters.”

  “I feel as if you’re hounding me,” she says, her words laced with anger,

  “I am not hounding. I just painted what I believe is my best work. You are the subject. You brought that out in me. You are my muse, for God’s sake! Is it too much to ask what you fucking think?”

  I am yelling, and I feel her pull away emotionally. That’s something I can’t afford to happen. I need her because she is my source of inspiration. So, I make one last ditch effort.

  “Katherine, I know…you feel something. Good, bad, or indifferent…just, please, tell me.”

  “You cannot show this painting to anyone,” she finally says.

  But there’s a catch in her voice, tears in her eyes.

  “Are you crying? What’s happening?”

  She shakes my hand off her wrist and wipes at the tears. “I don’t know how you did it. I knew you were talented, but that doesn’t describe what you’ve created here.”

  She is speaking so slowly, I want to reach in and grab the words from her throat, but I know if I rush her, I’ll lose her. So I stand, fists clenched, in anticipation for her next words.

  “Blake, you don’t need me to tell you that this is beautiful, because it is. But it is so much more than that. It’s alive. It’s real. It’s many, many things. But I’m embarrassed when I look at it. And before you say anything, it’s not because I’m naked. No, that’s not it. It’s because you’ve captured something inside me that no one else has ever seen, and you've managed to paint that. My vulnerability. My fears. My...innocence.”

  Now I’m the one with tears in my eyes, because she’s put into words what I could not express.

  “I can’t let you show this to anyone,” she says.

  I almost don’t believe what I’m hearing. “What? Why? You’ve just told me in so many words this is my masterpiece. Why would I not want others to see it?”

  “Blake, please, I’m begging you. I can’t be on display like this. It’s too personal and I do not want anyone but you to see me this way.”

  Chapter 20

  Katherine

  “You’ve gotta be kidding,” Blake tells me, his words filled with frustration.

  I cannot deny it, the painting, even unfinished is amazing.

  The detail sends shivers down my spine. My nipples, I’ve never really studied my nipples as closely as Blake obviously has.

  I’m not sure if it is just me but the longer I look at myself, images of our sexual escapades flash through my mind. Will other people see the sex we’ve had?

  I can almost see Blake caressing gently between my legs, his tongue on my clit and hands on my breasts.

  Sexual desire oozes from the canvass.

  “It’s just too personal,” I turn to Blake who is casually leaning on his workbench, his piercing gaze set on me.

  He tilts his head to the left.

  “Nudes are personal.” Blake says. I see the glint in his eyes and I feel naked even though I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ I roll my eyes.

  I walk to the canvass and point to my neck.

  “See the way you’ve darkened my skin there ever so slightly?”

  Blake pretends to squint and study the spot I’m pointing to.

  “And?” He looks so innocent, like he truly has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “Well,” I try and work out how to explain this so he understands where I’m coming from. “It’s really personal. A private thing. Only someone who gets really close to me would notice the subtle change in my skin.”

  I fold my arms.

  “What can I say, Kat: you inspire me. You bring out the artist in me. This is you. I’m just the painter.”

  I sigh.

  “No.” I shake my head. “It’s so much more than this.”

  Should I go out on a limb and tell him all? The painting reveals so much about me, about who I really am, but at the same time…

  “It looks like we have had sex. It looks like the artist, you, wants to jump my bones.”

  Blake laughs.

  “So what? I’m not ashamed to admit we are sleeping together.”

  Unable to stand still, I start to pace the length of the studio. I need to move. I need to walk to be able to clearly express my emotions.

  I walk up and down, back and forth. Blake simply watches. He seems confused. He cannot understand where I’m coming from.

  “It’s too personal.” I blurt out again. “I think it’s way too personal to be out on exhibition for the world to see me. I…” I trail off for a moment, and I sigh before continuing. “I know the whole world won’t be looking at me, but you know what I mean.”

  Blake still says nothing. He is looking at me and then back at the painting.

  Eventually he shrugs.

  “I don’t get it. It’s you. All of you. You come through the painting just the way you are.”

  “Exactly.” I’ve stopped pacing. Hands on hips I look at him.

  “Exactly what?”

  The little smile around his lips leaves me confused. Is he trying not to understand or does he really not understand?

  “Anyone that looks at me will see all this sex aura around me.” I try again.

  “What’s wrong with that? You’re perfect.”

  He comes toward me. Next minute I’m in his arms. He kisses my face, neck and arms.

  “You’re delicious. You’re sexy.”

  I push away from him. It’s not that I don’t want him, it’s just my brain shuts down the minute there’s close personal contact between us.

  If I want him to understand how important this is to me I must keep a clear head.

  “But it�
��s just that the world will see me that way. Complete strangers will drool over me, maybe.”

  Again Blake shrugs.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Obviously I’m not getting my point across.

  “I’ve told you before. You inspire me. You inspire this painting. It’s you.”

  “Yeah. But it’s too intimate.”

  I can see Blake study the artwork again, as if being a critique.

  “You write?” His gaze returns to me.

  Since I’m not sure if this is a rhetorical question or not I nod.

  “And isn’t your writing inspired by personal matters, by intimate occasions and maybe even people you meet and fuck?”

  His crudeness surprises me.

  “It does.” I hesitate. “But it’s only words. Words on paper, words people read and re-interpret. Sometimes my experiences and what inspires me is left out so the reader can imagine it using their own experiences and put their own interpretation on it.”

  As Blake seems to ponder my words I try and remember what one of my lecturers said during my studies.

  “Writing is not really original. Everything has been written before.” I pause. There was something about writing being the clashing of words, but I’m not sure if this will add anything. “Every writer is shaped by what has been written by someone else. Writers are readers. When I write, I reinterpret what has been written by someone else.”

  I can see in Blake’s facial expression that he is trying to understand what I’m saying. He isn’t simply dismissing me. Dale used to dismiss me, and what I had to say all the time.

  Suddenly, it seems a lifetime ago that Dale had been my partner. And I cannot recall what I ever saw in the man to make me even want to be with him.

  “And so when people read, they interpret what I’ve written in their own way. It doesn’t have anything to do with what my inspiration and experiences are during the time I am writing it.”

  Blake seems to chew over my words.

  “I still don’t see what’s your problem with the painting. Don’t people also interpret what they see?”