Artist in the Park

Sophia silently paged through the whole fucking portfolio, not saying a word. Then she looked up at her portrait.

She picked up her wine and slugged down the last half of the glass in a gulp.

I winced. Puligny-Montrachet is way too good wine to shoot.

"I want one," Sophia said firmly.

"Um, most of those in there were private commissions," I said, startled. "I, uh, if you really want one of them, the only one still for sale is one of those San Francisco gallery pieces I told you about." I leaned forward and reached toward the portfolio. "I think it is on the fifth page..." She probably went to San Francisco with some regularity, and it would be nice to get one of the remaining pieces sold.

"I meant of me," she said mildly.

Oh.

"Oh," I said, intelligently.

"You still do commissions like this?" she asked almost worriedly.

"Of course," I said quickly. "It will take much longer... I mean the sitting..."

"I'd like it life-sized," she said, sounding more sober than she ought to after two big glasses of wine. More sober than made any sense to me. "I suppose that the fee will be considerably higher, but I'm sure we can work that out."

My first truly coherent thought since she had said she 'wanted one', popped into my mind. That thought was that I wanted to offer to pay her for the privilege. But my banker mentally appeared from nowhere and wrestled my libido to the ground with great difficulty. I had no idea my banker knew how to suplex.

I felt myself blink embarrassingly. I tilted my head until my neck cracked quietly, and said, "Of course, and I agree that we can certainly work out a fee. I can be reasonable, especially for a second work for the same customer!"

She laughed as well.

"Will you send this one to your parents, too?" I asked, half actually curious about what she would do with a little nude of herself.

"Oh god! No!" Sophia shrieked, scandalized. "I'd die if they saw it! They would literally die!" She stared at my closed portfolio, then at the portrait of herself. "No, this is for over my own bed," she went on, suddenly taping her perfect teeth with a fingertip. "I want to look up and take power from what I think you will produce--from what I just saw that you can do."

I would make her a masterpiece, I thought, looking at her and imagining.

"I will want the canvas to be about four feet high by eight wide," she said. "Un-framed."

"Four by eight? You really meant life-sized?" I asked, incredulous. I had dismissed the words when she had said them. Suddenly, we were talking about a Major Work...

"No bigger than four by eight," she said again, her practical side suddenly in her voice. "And low profile. I've had a five by ten, black and white photograph of the London skyline over my bed since I bought the condo in Manhattan. I want your piece to be able to just fit underneath that. I can leave your portrait uncovered when it is just me at home. Or when I want to shock someone. Or when I..." She paused. "But when I cover it for ordinary guests, I will still feel powerful, knowing it is behind the photo... waiting."

"Um..." I said, not fully tracking reality at the moment.

"A thirty-two square foot portrait will be expensive, won't it?" Sophia asked me drily.

"Yes. But we'll work it out," I choked out through a dry throat.

*

A full hour later, she left. Her portrait remained behind. I would pack it for shipping and have it sent to her firm's Miami offices. She would deliver it herself from there to her parents.

The hour had been spent negotiating logistics. The price had been settled in about two minutes. I wished all my commission negotiations went so easily and so profitably. The rest of the time had been spent figuring out the details of her 'sitting'. She was in a hurry to arrange it. I sensed this woman was always in a hurry. Time is money after all. She clearly knew extremely well how to turn the former into the latter.

I was about to do the same. This would be one of the highest dollar commissions in my life. The highest ever for a single canvas. I was somewhat nervous, however, that my mind was not obsessed with that fee, but rather with the upcoming process and my impending model.

Since Sophia was in a hurry, she had asked to do the sitting, which would take many hours, that very weekend. We would need both Saturday afternoon after her golf, and most of Sunday as well. Reclining for a portrait can be more tiring than you might expect, and I wanted her to be as comfortable as possible, so I insisted on two days, rather than just a Sunday marathon.

The fact was, I didn't want to do twelve hours straight either. I could have done it. I mean, I often work twelve hours in a day when I feel the work flowing. I don't tire easily, especially when I know I can reset later for a few days. But I never like to binge if I don't have to. And I really did not want to binge this piece.

The lurking problem for me was, I somehow already knew that I was going to find myself... well... hard for a lot of the time I worked with a naked Sophia. Hell, I'd gotten hard for a bit while we had just been talking about what, if any, parts she wanted to strategically drape for the portrait. (Answer: none.)

I frankly found myself worrying about erections with durations that should have me calling my doctor.

Again, I had that portfolio of nudes that had started this whole process. I am used to working with gorgeous naked women. You would be shocked at how many rich guys want a nude of their trophy wife to hang prominently in their home. It's a fairly douchey move, honestly, but the work makes for a nice occasional bump in my income, so I don't judge. And doing a nude is usually quite pleasant.

Trophy wives tend to be fairly vavoom, right? It's in the job description. Many had been models, or actresses, or occasionally even sex workers, before marrying the money. It was not displayed in my black leather portfolio, but I once produced a portrait of a wife who was once a model you definitely know of. Marriage had caused her to seem to drop off the face of the Earth only a few years earlier. She never did any professional nude work, so while I know how she looks in her birthday suit, you don't.

Sucks to be you.

Even that woman had not had me hard the entire time, however. Sophia, for some indefinable reason, just might...

She had two and a half days of meetings to go through before she returned. I had that time to rearrange my entire condo for the sitting. I don't normally do portraits of any kind at my place. Most clients prefer their own homes, or another specific location. Sophia had no interest in being portrayed in her hotel room, no matter how nice it was.

My studio space was just my second bedroom, a ten by twelve space repurposed for utility work, and was not remotely big enough to accommodate the sitting. Especially since I envisioned a fairly lush environment. This was to be a huge portrait, and I needed the setting to have enough depth and detail for that hold up. Scale in painting, drawing, pastels, etc is a funny but incredibly important thing.

I was absolutely not going to tell my client to go into my actual bedroom and get naked, so I had to re-stage my fortunately modular couch as a daybed. A huge piece of crimson velvet fabric as a drape, and a bunch of cushions from the home decor superstore uptown gave me the color and geometry I needed, as well as critical support for my model's body. I would reassure Sophia that I could ignore the Little Mermaid and Transformers graphics on a few of the pillows. I just needed their specific sizes, shapes, and general colors. This wasn't going to be a photograph, so I was not worried about Bumble Bee.

I scoured my memories of our conversation about wine, and purchased two different bottles of red, one for Saturday and another for Sunday, along with more blue cheeses and other accompaniments. It pays to keep your subject feeling slightly satisfied at all times.

I reflected that artists in an earlier day might have spent hours trying to anticipate musical needs and assembling tapes and albums to sooth the savage model. Da Vinci probably had to hire a string quartet to keep the Mona Lisa taping her toes while she sported that half smile. With my Bluetooth sound system and The Cloud, I had to hand whatever accompaniment Sophia desired.

My only real problem was getting enough sleep. Sophia was not going to be the most beautiful woman I had done a portrait of. And she was possibly not even in the top three hottest bodies. But she was starting to haunt me a bit like my work apparently haunted her.

A man my age should not have wet dreams anymore, but I managed one Friday night...

Saturday morning was a mess for me... beyond the sticky sheets. Doing the unscheduled laundry helped me keep it together, actually. I had made the mistake of finishing setting everything up to the last detail by Friday, and had nothing with which to occupy my mind while waiting for Sophia to play her round of golf and eat lunch with the client.

I settled for taking a run while the dryer ran its course. I circled the park three times, instead of my usual two, and found myself pushing the pace much harder than usual. Even in the crisp autumnal air, I was a sweaty mess as I dashed through the front door of my building.

The shower felt good, and though I seriously considered rubbing one out as a preventative measure, the hard run and the prior night's emissions seemed like they were protection enough.

I was fresh, groomed, and relaxed, and my bed was remade before I got her text that she was on her way.

She would arrive a good forty-five minutes early. She was eager too.

The bell rang, and I met her at the door. I smiled involuntarily.

She wore a simple wrap-around dress in a most complimentary shade. She looked great in it of course, but it hardly seemed like it fit her personna. I guessed it was a knock around the house garment for her. I briefly wondered why on Earth she had chosen to change into this after her round of golf, but then I twigged to her reason: This dress would be very easy to take off. I smiled involuntarily again.

She stepped into my apartment with just a trace of understandable trepidation.

"You gave me no direction on how to do my makeup..." she started, then paused.

I let myself appreciate her face. "Flawless and understated," I observed. "I knew I did not need to tell you what was needed," I added reassuringly.

"Thanks," she said, already visibly relaxing. "How about my hair?"

She had clearly spent all sorts of time on it, and its wavy corona about her face was beautiful, but more importantly, completely in keeping with her persona. "It is awesome," I said with another reassuring smile. Then I snorted. "Though to be honest, I'd bet your hair looks okay in a morning rat's nest."

Truth be told, Sophia with bedhead sounded like an excruciatingly hot image...

She settled down further, and looked around the living room. "Wow! That looks comfortable," she said, gazing at the couch, with my seat and easel positioned opposite. "And it will be a beautiful setting..." she trailed off, and turned slowly to me. "Really? Optimus Prime?"

I found myself blushing. "I needed to buy some more cushions," I protested. "Those were the shape and color I wanted. Don't worry, I have already filtered him and Girly Smurf from my consciousness. They won't be in the portrait."

"Smurfette," she corrected me absently.

She walked into the room, still staring at the couch. "So, do we just... start?"

"How about I first offer you a glass of that Chateau Monbousquet you clued me in about?" I countered, indicating the table off to the side with the bottle and snacks.

"Oh, please!" Sophia said instantly, then stopped herself. "No, wait. How about in an hour or so for the wine? I had a double Old-Fashioned at the nineteenth hole, and that should be enough fortification for me for now. Let us enjoy the wine in a bit, if I may be allowed?"

"We can take breaks whenever you like," I said firmly. "So that sounds good. Um..." Suddenly, I was the one feeling awkward. "Uh, then if we are to begin, you can get ready in the restroom. I left a large drape for you in there. You can... er... get ready and come back. We'll get you situated and begin."

She smiled, and started eagerly for the bathroom, but froze, facing away from me. She stood there, and without looking back at me said, "I've been totally nervous about this ever since we last parted. Oddly," she went on, almost introspectively, "I think I've done my real job better than ever over the last few days because of that energy, though I shot an 80 today. That sucked. I... I can't wait to lie down and have you work whatever magic you somehow do, but actually getting naked is going to be hard."

I waited patiently.

She took a deep breath. "But now that I'm to that point, I am sure that getting undressed in private, 'to preserve my modesty,' will only make it worse."

Still not looking back at me, she suddenly undid the front of the dress and let it slide from her shoulders. She had not bothered with underwear. The fabric cascaded free of her lovely shoulders, revealing an ever so lightly muscled back, then an ass that took my breath away, then sleek thighs and calves.

I saw her hands twitch involuntarily toward her chest to cover her breasts, but she visibly restrained herself and lowered them back her sides, before she turned around with an outer calm that clearly was only a veneer.

I was also sporting a veneer of calm.

Holy shit.

Fuck every comment I made about her ranking versus other subjects I had done nudes of. In that moment, to my eye, she was unparalleled. Sure there were flaws. She had an odd port wine stain birthmark on her left hip. There had been an overly large mole in the small of her back. There were other little blemishes. None of them mattered.

My only complaint was that that ass would not appear in the portrait...

She looked nervous. I felt nervous as hell. To cover for us both, I simply said, "Good call on not wearing underwear. I won't have to wait for the marks to fade before I can work on those areas."

She recovered instantly, and smirked. "Oh, you are eager to work on 'those areas', are you?"

I blushed. She blushed too, and looked away, apologizing with her body language. "Sorry, Robert," she sort of mumbled, then stood there uncertainly.

Now, her standing there, facing me and naked, was not the worst of circumstances. But an uncertain, unhappy model was a no-no. I chuckled. "Dirty jokes are a-okay, under the circumstances," I said with a smile. "But let's get you situated and me started before you go through the rest of your set, Ms. Comedienne."

That got the small laugh I wanted. Sophia turned to the couch and we went through the always awkward, even when it is not a nude, process of posing a model for a figure study. I know some photographers, and they all seem just fine with reaching out and physically guiding their models in attaining the pose the shooter wants, especially for the final tiny adjustments. I am never able to manage it. Even on the rare occasions where I am the one paying the model, it seems unprofessional and a little harass-y. When I'm working with a high-status client, one who is paying me, it also feels massively presumptuous.

So I talked her through settling into a position that was sexy, yet demure--revealing, but not blatant. Then we both realized that the pose we had settled upon was not going to be comfortable for her, and we had to do it all again.

Never have I found myself wanting more to reach out with my hands and adjust my model's position.

What was it about Sophia? It was definitely a chemistry thing. I could not help but be turned on by her when she was full clothed, much less now. And she could not help but be turned on by the way I portrayed her.

I told myself that it was all cool, and to remember the payday. Let my banker get hard for me...

Yeah, my body was never going to delegate that task, thank you, whether I wished it to or not. Thank God I had worn my golf shirt with the tails untucked.

"I love this color," Sophia said, as I at last turned to go to my seat and easel.

"The velvet?" I asked, turning back around. "I am not surprised, it suits you very well." That was why I picked it out, after much deliberation. I know color, people. I had not been able to believe it when I found that piece of velvet. There was not a color on Earth that suited this particular woman better, not for a sensual piece like this was meant to be.

I started with my same trusty two-by-three pad, and began with the usual preliminary sketches. I mostly ignored her face, I had a great deal of familiarity with portraying it already. Instead I concentrated on her body. What a hardship.

Her legs were utterly easy. Their sleek lines leapt from my fingertips onto the page, her top knee bending slightly over the bottom, toes pointed but comfortably so. The feet needed separate work, so I just dashed them off on this round. I ended the study at her hips. They were deliciously rounded, and I was gratified to see that with the yoga pants not there to keep things in place, her flesh remained just as taut and sleek.

The only thing that bothered me was... she was completely shaven down there.

Don't get me wrong. I love, love, love a bald pussy as a playground. Love. It. But I was not going to be playing down there, and when I'm doing a painting, I much prefer some bush. Without some pubes where the subject's legs meet, a portrait always seems a little... unfinished. I would have to soldier through, suffering with the view of her shaven perfection.

The sketch told me I was still dissatisfied by the situation, and I rose to adjust the dimmed LED spotlight that I had arranged to the left of the couch. I shifted it almost three feet forward and further over, then stood back. Excellent. Now it cast the slightest of shadows right where I needed darkness. I stood back and undertook the arduous task of staring at her entire body to make sure no other part had become poorly lit, but it all looked fabulous.

I returned to the sketch and found that the tiny shadow indeed gave me what I wanted.

"Picky," she observed.

"Everything must be just right, Sophia. That's what these preliminary sketches are for," I said, flipping the page and starting a second study of her torso. I had to bite my lip, hopefully discretely, to keep from groaning at the view I was concentrating on.

Her breasts were wonderful. They were a bit smaller than is my general idea of perfection, but they were rich and full, draping naturally on her chest as she lay on her side, without a trace of anything that could be called, 'sag'. The aureoles were dark, round, and not larger across than a champagne cork. Their dusky brownish skin was crinkled with arousal and spotted with goosebumps. In their center, the nipples were smallish, but looked hard as spring steel.

"Your skin color is incredible," I said aloud, as I searched for just the right array of hues to use to illustrate it perfectly when I got to the main piece. It was rich and warm in color, and I noted a complete lack of tan lines. "Do you get it from your Mediterranean ancestry, tanning beds, or beaches in the south of France?" I asked before I could chicken out.

She laughed, and I locked in on the expression while it lasted. "Would you believe, all three?" she said merrily.

"Really?" I asked, actually taken aback.

She chuckled again, knowing she had found another way to tease me. "Not really. It wasn't France, but Australia. And how much of this tan is left from my time there two months ago, I don't know." My mind reeled, trying to imagine this self-assured, powerful woman lying around, naked on an Australian beach. "I had a deal in Melbourne, and took four days R&R after," she explained. "You must think I'm an awful exhibitionist, with that and having this portrait done," she added, suddenly uncertain.