Forbidden Muse

"Jessie, don't you think that you have to push this art-- thing-- a little further if you don't want to be a barista forever?" mom asked me.

It was a fair question, even if the bustle of the family Christmas party marked the timing as pretty terrible. I swirled a glass of pinot noir in my hand as I took stock of my dinky little life. I was 22 years old, painting for fun, and I found joy in those strokes, I did but I had no prospects. I hadn't gone to college, I wanted time to just paint. I didn't see college offering me much to that front, just debt. I just needed more practice. Being a barista equaled money, which equaled art supplies and rent.

But, I guess life has a way of replacing our dreams with worries and mundanity. I spent more time thinking about coffee and wine than I did canvases and oils.

That spark for art had dulled to a low ember, and the night grew cold. something about it just... didn't click so much anymore. My subjects varied, in a restless kind of way, meaning I did not know intimacy with any subject.

I tried the abstract, sanguine blacks and reds expressing something visceral. little hints of pink dotted the canvas, and I wondered what that had meant. It just felt right. But I never felt called to paint another abstract piece again, as of yet.

I liked hands a lot. Those were always fun and complex to make. references were easy to come by, and the gestures were fascinating. hands were easily the most expressive part of the human body after the face, but sometimes so much more subtle.

I returned from a daydream to find my parents offering their support to finally sending me to college.

"We talked about it, and with the breadth of your portfolio, we think you'd be a shoe-in." my mom said. "We can lend you some money so you don't have to go so much into debt, but not a lot. it's-- well, you know it's hard right now."

I nodded dreamily, worrying my lower lip between thumb and forefinger.

"I-" I started. I sighed. I hemmed. I hawed. "what, what does Aunt Tamara think?"

A tired smile grew across my face as I thought of my mom's sister. My parents were supportive, but she had really been there for me when they were working too hard to make ends meet. not that she didn't work hard herself, Aunt Tamara babysat me and did no small part of raising me, while working as a writer herself. She was my mom's younger sibling, after her middle brother.

Both of the elders of my mom's family had gone more 'realistic' routes, but Aunt Tamara remained committed to the written word. I'm sure she'd published a thing or two by now, at least. She'd been in college, studying creative writing, I think I remembered that much. I never remembered much. Except our time together.

"Why don't you go ask her?" my mom asked, giving me a nudge with her elbow. I looked across the living room, dotted with Christmas villages, stockings, and a tree that took up entirely too much room, to see my aunt about to be fed up chatting with her brother, my uncle, judging by the way she clawed her wine glass.

"A-ask her?" I wrung my hands like raw nerves. She was an accomplished writer! surely it would be a little passe to ask her for advice on art and 'what to do with my life'?

"Just ask her about college. maybe you don't remember through the paint fumes, but she babysat you while she was in college, you know."

"I know. I know. Fine. I'll ask her."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and approached her. She looked every part the mature writer. a black turtleneck hugged her body closely. a simple black and gold belt adorned dark blue denim, and her hair flowed, midnight blacks and blues, down her back. She stood back on one leg, hip cocked to the side. She pushed her rounded glasses up to her nose and threw her head back in mock laughter and, as she recovered, turned in my direction.

"Ah! Jessie darling, come here!" she called with a smile, "my brother was just leaving me alone!"

He gave her a playful shove, and the wine in her glass curled but did not spill. Maybe I will get a glass of wine? Hers was almost empty, too, I noticed. my cheeks burned just a touch. I never seemed to quite outgrow wanting to impress her.

"Auntie Tamara, would you like another glass?" I asked, rubbing my neck, "I was just about to get one myself."

"Marvelous idea, Jessie," she said, her hand grazing my shoulder as she went ahead of me. My gaze followed her touch down the length of my arm, and my heart thumped in my chest and my throat went dry. I didn't really understand why. Maybe that's just how it is with those ahead of you on the path you want to follow. Just nerves and envy.

She waited for me at the table.

"You've been serving some wine lately, haven't you?" she asked, and, gesturing to the three bottles of wine on the table, said, "which of this fine selection might you recommend? I'd love to hear about the one you choose."

My wine brain achieved a very still kind of focus. It was between a red, a rose, and a white. I pretty handily selected the red, given the food on offer and the wintery time of year.

"Good call," she hummed. I handed her a glass, wondering if she could note the hopefully imperceptible tremble in my arm. "What can you tell me about it?"

"Well," I said, sniffing. "You'll notice some citrus intermingled with the grapes in the after taste. The front tastes a bit more nutty, but I think there's an interesting transition there, which I honestly don't know how to describe."

She took a sip and looked at the label a little more closely. After a moment's thought, she laughed.

"Oh Jessie! Do you recognize this bottle?" she asked, leaning in, looking up, recalling a memory, "this is the wine you'd hand me when I would babysit you. You were so cute, the way you wanted to pour it for me."

A memory came into focus. she'd ask for a glass of wine, and then watch as I put down my brushes and tripped over myself to provide it for her. She watched because she knew there was always a chance I'd try and drink some. I never did, until a single night where she knew she wouldn't be able to keep babysitting me, as she graduated college and transitioned through life.

That night, she let me try a sip, patting my head as I made disgusted choking noises. It helped cover the tears. I was going to miss seeing her as often as I did. I looked up to her, extravagant and witty and... and I never felt that she looked down at me in return. She always treated me like a person.

"You asked, 'what did you do to these grapes?!'" Aunt Tamara laughed. "and you learned a little about fermentation, and here we are now!"

She leaned in and her voice dropped to a whisper, "I didn't tell your mom about that," she giggled, "that's our little secret."

Something about that warmed me to her, and I felt my shoulders releasing tensions I didn't know they were holding. there was still something that went unspoken, something that happened after I turned eighteen.

I knew she was a writer, but I never knew what it was she wrote when I was younger. When I asked her, she would say adult romance, but mostly that maybe she'd tell me when I'm older. That barely described the truth, as she had written next to me. I became pretty good at internet sleuthing, and found old AO3 accounts and pseudonyms.

"I need to get some fresh air," I said, sitting atop the pressure of a memory barely contained.

"May I join you? I wanted to ask you about something."

I froze for a second, then nodded and smiled, and she followed me onto the little porch at the front of the house.

We sat there for a moment, under the sharp, bright moon, as a winter wind passed through our hair. I neglected to bundle, not expecting to be out there for long.

"I suppose my mom talked to you about college?" I asked.

"That she did, Jessie," she said. "What do you think about that?"

"I- I don't know. It's a lot of money and I am not sure it's worth it. I just want to be left alone to paint. But between working and taking care of my apartment, and trying to have a life, I don't really have time to paint."

She smiled.

"I always did enjoy our little art sessions. You inspired me, you know."

"I- I did?" I stuttered, taking a step back.

She respected that space.

"I wrote some of my most joyous work, and all my college admissions essays while you sat on your parents' living room floor and painted with me. You have an infectious curiosity and a child-like energy about you can really rub off on someone, Jessie, I think college could help you cultivate that."

I liked it when she said my name. It felt like a warm hug on her lips.

"I see. I guess I didn't think of it like that," I said. I searched my feelings.

"Honestly, auntie, I'm pretty scared. I don't know what to do with my life, and it seems like at my age you had everything together."

"Oh, far from it," she said. "I may have seemed a diligent student to you, but I barely managed a 3.0. I had a lot going on in my college life. A lot of stress and hurt. Good things, too, but more of the former."

I hummed. "D-do you wanna talk about it?"

"Not here, darling, it'd be quite the, ah, bummer. It's Christmas, afterall. I appreciate you asking, though."

"What made you want to be a writer?"

"A good question. I just always had a fondness for making up stories that made people feel better. Admittedly, some would say writing conflict is not my strongest suit, and that I'm better fit to..." and she rolled her wrist, trying to select the right words, "more cooperative writing subjects."

"What does that even mean?" I asked. I knew what it meant, but I couldn't let on that I knew so.

"It means whatever you want it to mean," she said, wiggling her fingers as if stardust would fall from them. "I know I'm not providing satisfactory answers, but you are proving my point."

I hummed, recognizing this part of me that she saw, and appreciating her for it all the more.

"Anyway, a lot of classes you'll take are bunk, I'll admit. Not 'wrong', just not all that useful. But, the breadth of opportunities and, not to mention, the monetary value of a degree, make it pretty worth it. That isn't to leave out the social element, especially if you aren't a commuter."

She took a slow step towards me, reading my body language to see how I reacted. When I nodded, her other heel clicked into place.

"I know you'll do what's best for you," she said. "I would be happy to be a reference for you for schools, help you fill out the paperwork. I know your mom and dad are a... little older than me, they didn't go to school, so they don't always know what the process is like."

I took a deep breath.

"Thank you, Auntie."

"Stop me if I'm being too sales-person-y, but my old school isn't too far. They have good painting programs, at least when I went there. I took a couple so I could make my own covers, but that didn't exactly work," she laughed. her head tilted, hair bouncing, kind arms folded over her chest, hip cocked to the same side as before, "I should show you sometime. And, if there is anything I can do to make the process easier, you let me know, okay? if you like my school, I could put in a good word for you."

"Okay, I appreciate that. very, very much."

I started shivering, and she led me back inside with an arm around my cold shoulders. I had a lot of thinking to do, but all I could really feel in that moment was her hand on my arm. The party went on until it didn't, and one Christmas day hangover later, I started thinking about school for the fall semester.

Investigating the school programs that Aunt Tamara mentioned, it seemed like the best option was the program that focused on painting the human body. I always liked hands, but I liked the rest of humans pretty well too. They were squishy and strange and light played on them in interesting ways.

The problem was that they wanted a full portfolio of painted bodies, to place me properly. which I did not have.

Maybe, maybe I could--

Oh god, she would never go for it. Would she? I don't know if I could ask that of her. Aunt Tamara's work was indeed of the adult romance genre, but it was also so much more than that. I paced around my little apartment, my black cat Weird Dog stared at me expectantly.

She explored a lot of taboo subjects in her writing. not least of all age gaps, though still of the legal variety. She didn't seem interested in writing Lolita 2, but she had written about risky outdoor adventures, dalliances across genders, non-consensual acts, things like that.

And incest.

She liked writing about incest.

If I was honest with myself, I liked reading her works. The last of these were my favorite. I didn't have any siblings, and I wasn't interested in pursuing that, it was too outlandish, too risky, too dangerous, too isolating. I had never thought of myself as a pervert. I felt guilty rubbing out breathy orgasms to stories about siblings and parents crossing familial bounds into things altogether sexier.

She always told me she'd tell me when I was older. And maybe, if we paint together, just one more time--

I shuddered. I went to bed early and I remained there for a long time, with only my hands to keep me company.

With my hands still sticky, and my heart pounding, I texted my aunt.

[J]// aunt tamara?

a few minutes went by. i felt disgusted with myself but i wanted to go to school. it seems like she'd be proud of me if i did. each passing second felt painful.

[T]// jessie! to what do i owe the pleasure?

To what do I owe... Focus!

[J]// well, i thought of something that could help me get into art school.

[T]// oh, wonderful! i'm glad to hear that's a route you're considering. no bias, lol. what did you have in mind?

[J]// i noticed they want a more specific portfolio.

[J]// could i paint you?

[J]// portraits of you. not like, body paint.

[T]// lol

[T]// sorry, meant to lol at the body paint part. that sounds so fun! i'd be happy to assist. what are you aiming for?

[J]// im not sure. maybe you could come to my apartment and bring some different outfits? id like to practice painting clothing folds as well.

[J]// i could see fashion design being one possible route for me.

[T]// oh splendid! this is so exciting! i havent modeled since college. this weekend? i can bring us a red or two, don't tell your mom ;)

Jesus Christ. If my heart pounded any harder it might cease beating altogether. There passed Jessie, age 22, dead after lusting for her buxom aunt so hard she had a heart attack.

But, Jessie isn't dead yet, I thought.

The plan was settled and only a few days away. The seconds that passed until she would be in my apartment were agonizing, as if I was frozen in time until I could count to ten million, and I was bad at focusing on counting.

The night had arrived. I deep cleaned every part of my barista-funded, 22-year old menace-dwelt apartment. My couch was more like a futon, but I had a lot of art on the walls I thought she might appreciate.

Okay, everything was in order. All that remained was the woman of the hour.

I got a call from her, and her honey and husky voice came over in a light crackling.

"I'm here, darling!" and her voice rang like church bells.

"I'll be down in a second!"

I didn't notice entirely that I was wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, and pajama shorts.

Well, at least one of us will be well dressed.

I answered the door and nearly fell over. The first outfit she had selected to grace my dinky apartment with was black, with a gold neck clasp. I allowed myself to notice her generous curves. The dress had no back, and most of her breasts were covered, but not all. The valleyed neckline gathered tastefully in a bunch near her cleavage. As I looked further down, I noticed matte black heels, stockings, and a doubly-split dress that revealed just a hint of her hips and more of her bountiful thighs. She had clearly done her hair, which hung in loose curls around her soft face. Midnight blue graced her lips, to mirror her hair, and with her heels, I had to look up at her. I would have had to look up at her anyway.

"Jessie! "I'm so glad you texted," she said, hugging me dangerously close to her exposed breast. I hugged her back after a second's hesitation, if only to avoid letting her know I felt like a creep.

"What's wrong darling? Are you-- unnerved?" she asked. "It's okay to ask your aunt for help, and, besides, we're both artists, we know that modeling is strictly business."

It would have reassured me if her eyelid didn't dance downward, offering a wink to sever any thoughts I had of business.

I wrung my hands as I welcomed her into my apartment. I didn't have wine glasses, just old, cleaned out jelly jars. She giggled, remembering when she saved money that way, and accepted a glass, brushing her fingers against mine as she pulled a wine bottle out of her large purse. After she poured us both a jelly glass, she asked for a tour.

"There isn't much to see, but..." I pointed at various pieces, telling her of a convenient Craiglist find, or an artsy gift from a friend.

"This is Weird Dog," I said, pointing to my cat. "He's a sweetheart."

"Like cat, like human," Auntie said, squatting down to offer Weird Dog her finger to sniff. He accepted, rubbing his gums against her finger, then head-butting her knee.

"Good boy," she said, scratching him behind the ears. I enjoyed this interaction, and turned back to my various brick-a-brack.

"I like gifts from my friends the most when they're handmade. I usually ask people to make me something if they really want to get a gift for me that badly."

"I'm just the same," she laughed. "If it's not a handwritten letter or a crocheted blanket, what's the point?"

"Oh! I have one of those!" I exclaimed. "My friend Lizzie made it for me, it's on the futon. You might like it, it's kind of made to emulate moss."

She walked over, heels clicking across the floor, and bent down to inspect the blanket with her manicured hands. Her voluptuous ass pushed my gaze away with a force all its own. Not that I thought it was voluptuous, it just might be described as such. I shook my head clear and joined her. Better to avoid temptation than to resist it.

"This is well made! Your friend did a splendid job."

She looked around, squinting.

"This might be a weird question, but," she said, "can I see your bedroom?"

"Y-yeah, sure," I stammered. "Are you s-sure, it's kind of a mess?"

"Don't you worry," she said, "I was 22 and directionless once too, you know."

She adjusted her glasses as she rose to her full height. Even here, she stood so elegantly, her back arched so perfectly. How did she do that? She swayed across the doorway to my room, which currently held all the things that I didn't want her to see. She looked around, with a kind of sad look on her face, until she found a small painting I had done of her a long, long time ago. More or less, it was the two of us.

"I'm glad I never told your parents about this one."

Oh fuck.

Oh god, please not that one.

It was an 11 year old's best attempt at a picnic scene. We both wore flowery dresses, back when I still thought I liked those, for me at least, and we were holding hands. She towered over me and we smiled crookedly into the camera.

"Oh jeez, can we not look at that one?" I asked.

"Then why'd you put it on your wall?" she asked, with a wry smile on her face.

"It just, just, I don't know, auntie," I confessed. "I guess it just reminded me of a simpler time, that, honestly, I wish I could return to sometimes. I... liked when you babysat me. You were always so nice, in a way that my parents weren't. I liked making art with you."

She looked at me, a bit of concern tugging at her lips and eyes.

"No, no, they weren't mean, they just didn't treat me like a whole person like you did."