tagLetters & TranscriptsArt and Desire

Art and Desire

byPnkOcelot©

304 Victoria Street

13th May 2006

Dear Sean,

I hope you're well. I'm delighted that you finally got that painting finished, and it was lovely of you to send me the photograph of it. It seems like so long ago I modeled for you, but it was only just before Christmas. Looking at the picture reminds me of how cold it was. What's your new studio like? Is it any warmer?

The painting itself is very good, but it doesn't look much like me. I thought that once you'd moved you were just going to finish off the background, but you've altered my figure a bit too -- you've made me fatter than I am, you've made my boobs bigger, and you've shortened my legs a bit. I sort-of-feel that I might have wasted my time modeling for you, if you were just going to paint a picture of some other girl. Is it meant to be somebody else? Or is this your way of trying to tell me I should put a bit of weight on, and make my boobs bigger. I'm eating a little tub of chocolate icecream as I'm writing this, so I suppose that might help! Also (and I don't want to criticise) the nipples are all wrong too: mine are on the front of my boobs, facing forward, but you've painted them lower down, skewed off to the sides, and much darker. Would you be able to repaint them? Or would you need to see them again?

I think the problem might be that when I'm modeling you're not thinking about painting me. Instead, you're thinking about the moment afterwards, when you tell me to get dressed, and I refuse, and I sit and talk to you while you put the canvas away and clear away the paint, and then I ask why you're not naked too, and you take your shirt off and smile at me, and then our hands meet and our lips meet and out bodies meet, and you say

"I've been wanting to do this all day," and I say

"so have I," and you reach your finger to my lips to silence me.

And then I take that finger and slip it into my mouth, and suck it but it tastes of meths and oil-paint, and you pull me closer to you, so I feel your body pressing up against my boobs, and the linen of your trousers against my thighs, and your gently rampant manhood straining through the fabric against the curve of my pubis, and your strong hands on my naked back. We breathe together, with shallow and excited breaths:

"I want you to suck me off," you whisper

"Only if you don't come in my mouth," I reply

"Only if you let me titfuck you".

He licked his lips, enjoying the game,

"I'll only let you do that if you lick me out," I say

"Only if you let me take your ass," you say, slipping your hand between my buttocks

"Only if you'd let me spank yours,"

You wince, and smile: "only if you let me film us,"

"Only if you tell Izzy about me."

"We don't need to talk about her now," you say, and we kiss again, two tongue-monsters wrestling in the cavern of our mouths. I step backwards, so I'm up against the wall.

"I love you," you say, and you kiss me again, tasting, wanting, and then your mouth leaves mine and slips down my body, a smooth playground of curves and contours for your tongue to explore, to lick, to suck, to nibble. You know your way around, (you've been staring at it all day), so you don't go to the obvious places. You go for the dimples in my buttocks, the tiny freckle under my ribs, the hollows of my neck, and my shoulders, and my elbows and my belly and my thighs, slowly working higher and higher up my thighs until your lips meet mine, and deftly excite me in the way you know I love.

That's why you can't paint me very well. All day, you're thinking about that, so the precise details of what I actually look like gets forgotten.

I draw away that heaven for a second, and sit on the table to invite you closer in. I press my soft thighs against your cheeks, and hear you breathlessly gulping at my sweetness. Your artists' hands explore me, as if you were a blind man, as if they were the only way you can truly sense me. Maybe it would be easier for you to make a sculpture of me. That's why you can't paint me.

Then you're thinking of that gentle onslaught, when you pull away your greedy mouth, (worshipping me with one final kiss), then rising up, sliding your body against mine, and I wriggle, then pull away.

"I'm not sure," I say, but then you kiss me again, and I am sure, surer than about anything ever before, and I let you take me, in gentle, gasping, breathless, wordless ecstasy. Izzy is so lucky.

Then afterwards I'm cold, so I put on your shirt (just big enough to cover most of my ass), and you tidy up naked, wiping up the spilt paint, and half-heartedly cleaning your brushes and your palettes, unable to take your eye off my nipples, hard against the rough fabric of your shirt.

So that why I think you can't paint me. You're a wonderful artist, and your other paintings are wonderful. But when you're painting the other girls, you must be thinking about something else. You wanted me, you had me, and I could see the desire in every brushstroke.

I've got the photo of the painting in front of me now, wondering how many galleries it will hang in, how many exhibitions, and how many people will look at it and wonder who I am. Even whether somebody will buy it, and then hang it on the wall of their bedroom, so I can look down on them as they sleep. But I do wish you hadn't made me so chubby. You know I'm slim, and I go to a lot of effort to keep in shape, so I'm a bit annoyed about it. I'm standing in front of the mirror now, and I can see that my thighs are a lot slimmer, and my boobs are completely different. If you cover over my face, it barely looks like me at all.

But I shouldn't criticise. I know you're the artist, so you're allowed to paint me with my nose in the wrong place, or blue skin, or a body like a whale, or whatever the hell you want. I trust you, and if this is what you want to paint, do it like that. But I really wish you'd sort out the nipples. They really aren't like that.

Are you still with Izabella? I presume that you are, if you're still in the studio. I still think its terrible that true artists need to fuck the daughters of millionaires art-dealers if they want to make progress in the art industry, but I won't criticise you for it: it's what you have to do. I still understand exactly why you didn't want her to find out about us. But if it doesn't work out between you, or if her 'Daddykins' stops giving her cash, you can come back to me.

Even if you just wanted a mistress (oh god, that sounds so old-fashioned) I can be very, very, discreet, and horseface Izzy is too stupid to suspect anything. You've still got my number, and I'm only three hours away. I'd be quite willing to come and model for you again, if you wanted an excuse to see me. I'd try any poses, any position you'd want to put me in (!). Just let me know. And I wouldn't even complain if the paintings look nothing like me.

Well, maybe I'd complain a little bit. If you give me dumpy legs and ugly boobs again, I'd tie you to a chair, and make you repaint it, or if you can't manage that, I'll paint over it myself... I've looked at the picture again, and I think you've given me Izzy's body. Maybe you thought she'd be angry if she knew you'd painted a pretty girl with perky little nipples and a flat tummy, and gorgeous legs, so you painted over me. If that is her body, I feel quite sorry for her. I also feel sorry for you, for every time you have to rub to yourself against her, just so she will talk her stupid rich 'daddykins' into paying your rent.

You're going to have to se me again sometime. I've still got two of your shirt here. I wear them in bed sometimes, just so I can feel them against me, and smell the scent of you, and paint, and meths. I lie there at night, with your smell all around me, and I imagine you walking in, with palette and brushes in your hands. Maybe you'd ask for your shirt back, and I'd slip it off, and turn on the bedside light. And then you'd paint me -- not painting another picture of me, but actually painting my body, your brushes swirling and spiraling all over me, strands of wild roses climbing up and entangling my body, the exquisite touch of your tiny brush as you add the thorns, and the softness of the leaves, rambling all over me. And then the glory of the flower-heads, the gentle virgin rosebuds in some places, some blossoming, some half-blossomed, and then my glorious full-flowered rose, a masterpiece inscribed on my body for a second, then smudged and destroyed a moment later, when you succumb to the softness of the petals.

Give my love to Izzy, and I hope to see you sometime very very soon,

R

xxx

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