Sunday, January 15, 2006

Artistically Inclined (Excerpt)

Here's an excerpt from a new collaboration entitled Artistically Inclined -- coming soon to a publisher near you:

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Cyndi threw herself back into her work, determined to make some significant progress before calling it a day. She really wanted to take a break to relieve some of the sexual tension but knew that keeping the edge would help her infuse the piece with even more sensuality—and that was what her customer had ordered. The mysterious, and obviously well-to-do, man piqued her curiosity. He’d contacted her just over two weeks ago via her gallery website to inquire about a custom painting. He said he wanted something so erotic that it would make his girlfriend horny just to think about looking at it. “But,” he cautioned, “it must be innocuous enough to hang anywhere—school, church—anywhere.”

A tall order, Cyndi mused. She’d questioned him via e-mail about his girlfriend—her tastes, likes and dislikes—but he’d been maddeningly vague. Two days later, she received a generous down payment in the form of a money order with a note saying he’d pay the other half when he picked up the finished painting on Valentine’s Day. She really wanted to be a fly on the wall when he presented the piece to his girlfriend, but settled for his assurances that he’d let her know how it was received. As she worked, Cyndi envisioned the lucky woman’s eyes widening with surprise and then narrowing as the painting worked it’s magic. She’d raise her hand to her mouth to cover the gasped “oh” then slowly lower it, palm flattened to her chest, as she exhaled with exhilaration. Cyndi hoped the woman would be so appreciative that she’d jump him on the spot, wherever the spot happened to be.

Wicked thoughts of the couple coupling beneath her work danced through Cyndi’s mind. Perhaps she’d jump Kevin if he stopped by on his way home from work—take him right there in the studio before he knew what hit him. Not that he’d object. She knew he liked watching her work, although it made her uncomfortable at first. Exposed. The incredible intimacy—artist to canvas—often felt sexual. He might as well be watching her masturbate.

Cyndi studied the smooth, rich ground color flowing across the canvas like melted milk chocolate and imagined Kevin stroking his cock as he watched her paint herself. The first fantasy on her list began to take shape.

She circled the canvas, viewing it from every angle, before scooping up a fistful of the wet, crimson gel and applying it in the southwest quadrant. The mound gradually spread across the surface but remained somewhat raised, almost like a welt. Bemused, Cyndi took a smaller scoop of the paint and dropped it onto her bare thigh, watching the “welts” appear. Did she dare? The thought of Kevin’s hand tenderly caressing her ass on the heels of a sharp slap—his tongue tracing the raised red marks as if to blend them into her skin—removed any lingering doubts. Two down; three to go.

Just how intricate should these fantasies be? she wondered. Too much detail would result in a script-like performance. Not good. Better leave Kevin some room to be creative.

Cyndi pulled herself from her daydreams and returned to the work in progress. Another application of gel—a deeper cherry shade and slightly thicker—gave the work more depth. It wouldn’t go under glass. No, this piece begged to be touched. She fought the urge to strip off her paint-spattered clothes and just roll on it; to feel the silky colors sink into her skin and her psyche.

Since the reds would have to set and at least partially dry before she could continue, Cyndi peeled off her work clothes and padded into the bathroom she’d added to the east end of the studio last year. The fiberglass shower stall was streaked with a cacophony of watered-down acrylics. She’d long since given up on keeping it free of paint splashes, and it became a work of pop art in and of itself. When WQED interviewed her for its artists’ showcase last July, the cameraman even insisted on shooting the shower—resulting in several offers to purchase it.

Cyndi chuckled to herself as she towel dried her hair. Everything in her home studio, once merely a dusty attic, was splattered with paint—including the commode, which no one had yet offered to buy. She glanced out the bathroom’s tiny octagonal window just in time to see Kevin pull into the driveway. Pulling on a sweater and jeans, she rushed downstairs to meet him at the door, wondering if he’d worked on his list at all.

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