Mendocino Coast

I didn't want to replicate my hurried climax in the cab, so I was taking my time with only an occasional tease of her clit. When she reached down with her fingers to rush things by playing with her clit, I slapped them away. "Don't be in a hurry," I said between tender strokes of my tongue from one end of her sex to the other. "Just lay back and enjoy this. . . . We're in no rush. . . . If you must do something . . . play with your tits."

I kept up the stroking of my tongue for, I don't know, at least ten minutes. During all this time, Claudine was just slouched in the chair, her head back, eyes closed, her arms hanging loosely over the sides of the chair. When I flicked her clit with my tongue from time to time she gasped. She spoke only once, "Oh fuck this is good. So fucking good."

Eventually my tongue began to tire, so I gave it a break and inserted two fingers of one hand into her dripping cunt. My finger fucking was like my tonguing, slow and steady. I didn't just leave them in her, nor did I ram them in and out, not yet. I twisted my fingers and stroked the walls of her cunt with my fingertips. I quickly found her G-spot. I could tell immediately when I hit it, by the gasp it elicited from her.

When my tongue recovered, I began to very softly stroke her clit with the tip of my tongue and the broad flat of it. I didn't want to push her into an orgasm immediately, but I wanted to get her closer. Meanwhile I continued my stroking of her cunt with my fingers, pausing my massage from time to time to pull my fingers out and then push them forcefully back in in a classic finger fuck.

I had her panting hard now, her head still lying back and her eyes closed, but she was swinging it from side to side, muttering obscenities in French. Her hands had come to life. She had the flat of a hand on each breast rubbing it rapidly so that she was massaging the full breast and teasing the nipple simultaneously. I could tell she was getting close.

"Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm getting close. That's it. Don't stop, don't stop, just don't stop."

But I did. I pulled my head back and my fingers out of her cunt and I sat back on my haunches smiling at her. "Is this what you wanted? It is, isn't it, you leggy slut?"

"Oh fuck. You stopped you bitch. Don't stop. You can't stop now. I was so fucking close."

"I know you were. You were right on the edge. But I told you, we were going to take this slow. Now lay back and enjoy what I'm going to do to you. We're not in a cab closing in on its destination, so take your time and enjoy this." I started over with long slow licks from one end of her sex to the other. Instead of putting my fingers back in her cunt again, I used both hands to play with her little tits. I massaged them, squeezed them, pulled them out from her chest in a way that I knew had to hurt. Then I pinched the nipples inflicting pain. She groaned in response. When she tried to reach for her clit I grabbed the wrist and twisted it away from her clit, inflicting more pain.

I worked her up slowly until she was panting and twisting her head back and forth. She was calling me every obscenity she knew in several languages because I wouldn't let her reach the climax she so wanted. "You bitch. You fucking bitch."

I pulled my head back and said, "Do you want me to stop again, Claudine?"

"Oh god no. No, no, no. I'm sorry. Just keep torturing me."

So I did. I took a full half an hour more before I finally let her climax. When I let her cum, I had a pair of fingers in her cunt pressing hard on her G-spot, while I sucked on her clit. She was pulling both of her engorged nipples away from her chest and her head was lain back on the chair swinging back and forth as she yelled obscenities. "Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Finish me. For god's sake, finish me. I can't take this any longer. Whatever you do, you bitch, don't back off again."

I opened my mouth and lightly nipped her clit with my teeth. That did it. She screamed and her whole body stiffened as her cramping cunt gushed juices on my throat and chest. It lasted for what seemed like a long time, likely only a minute or two, and then she collapsed like a rag doll, her head back and laying to the side, eyes closed, her arms fallen to the sides of the chair and her legs splayed limply open, as juices continued to dribble from her open cunt.

Our love making did not stop there. It merely paused, while Claudine recovered from the fucking I had given her. We sat naked in her living room, drinking wine and comparing notes on each other's sexual experiences. I of course, had more tales to tell than her simply because I was ten years older, but it was obvious she was catching up fast. One lover we had in common was Andre. It was also clear that neither of us desired a permanent exclusive relationship at this point in our lives. I spent the night at Claudine's flat, getting back to my hotel with barely enough time to shower and put on clean clothes, before I had to meet Gerard and Claudine for breakfast at a café on Place des Vosges near his gallery.

Chapter 5. Selling Art; Brigette

Looking out over the sparkling Pacific and the ominous fog bank beyond, I spread out a Yoga mat I had carried with me and began to do Yoga poses on it, stretching muscles stiffened from our lovemaking and from my climb. As always, I had stripped all of my clothes off. I always liked my Yoga in the nude which pretty much eliminated most organized Yoga classes for me, even in California. As I stretched my mind continued to play back my first trip to Paris. Paris had been an eye opener for me. Before Paris I had been blissfully unaware of the economics and mechanics of the art industry. Just as law school doesn't teach the business of practicing law, art schools don't teach the business of creating and selling art. Paris was a crash course in the business of art for me.

The meeting was all business. Gerard explained his carefully thought out marketing plan for my paintings. He planned to have a well-advertised opening during which the 18 paintings (including number 8 which Andre was loaning to Gerard for the exhibit, but not for resale) would occupy virtually all of the space in his gallery. It was to be a wine and cheese affair during which I was to mingle with the invited collectors. I would be accompanied throughout the evening by Gerard or one of his sales people to insure the planned sales pitch was maintained.

"And what will the sales pitch be?" I asked. I was worried about having to explain synesthesia to prospective buyers.

"The pitch will be simple, as it should always be," he said. "In addition to your paintings we will have some dramatic photos of the Mendocino coast on display. Waves crashing against cliffs, fog drifting in, your cottage, the redwoods on the mountains behind the coast. Most of them will be stock photos, but I sent a photographer up to your cottage yesterday. It will all be very dramatic. The pitch will simply be that your paintings represent your experience of the dynamic and spectacular ecosystem of the Mendocino coast."

"Andre has told me about your synesthesia, but we don't want to try to explain that. I am impressed and fascinated by it, but it is too complicated to explain to collectors. The power and dynamism of your paintings will sell themselves, especially if we couple it with the natural power of your subject."

I nodded, relieved. "When collectors ask how I was inspired to create the paintings, what do I tell them?"

"Simple. Point at the grand photographs we will have on the walls and tell them you were inspired by the beauty and dynamic power of the environment. It's true, no? They don't have to know the route from the dramatic scenery to your palate knife and brush. No artist tries to explain that because, for the most part, they haven't a clue. It just happens."

"Okay, I think I can do that." I sounded doubtful. I hadn't expected this.

"Believe me you can. It's just like what you used to do as a lawyer. You have a theory of the case and you sell it to the jury without bothering them with the details you don't want them to get confused about. This is even easier because there will be no opposing counsel with his own conflicting theory of the case to confuse the jury."

Internally I bridled at the thought that anything relating to my art had anything to do with my former skills as a lawyer, but I understood what he was saying. He was telling me not to confuse the creative process with the grubby mechanics of selling the finished product. It was disappointing, but I understood it.

"Trust me," he said. "It will work. Your paintings are stunning. We just need a hook to sell them on and we have one."

Then he moved to money. I think I can sell all of your paintings for low six figures. I want to hold two or three back to display at FIAC this fall. I will seek to get mid-six figures for your paintings there."

"FIAC?" I asked.

"Foire Internationale d'Art Contemporain. It's the major annual contemporary art fair in Paris," Claudine said. "It's held at the Grand Palais. Contemporary art galleries from throughout the world are represented as are the world's top collectors."

"Why not put up all of my paintings there?"

"We need a successful sale of some of your paintings before-hand to create some noise around you. I want people who see the paintings to know you have been successful on the French market before the fair. I want you to be the 'new thing,' but not a total unknown."

"I see." This was no time to get greedy. If he could get low six figures for most of my paintings, he was a miracle worker, and I certainly wasn't going to challenge his marketing plan.

By the time we showed up at the gallery, his whole staff was crowded into the back room, munching on the pastries that had been provided for the meeting Gerard had called at this totally uncivilized hour and sipping the free coffee. They were milling about looking at the paintings and chatting amongst themselves in French about what they were seeing.

"Bon Jour. Bon Jour, everyone." Gerard said as he charged into the room, a bundle of energy. "So good of all of you to come at this hour." They all backed away from the paintings leaving Gerard and I standing before them. All of the chit-chat ceased as soon as he walked into the room. He had their immediate undivided attention. Gerard didn't look like a rock star, but I realized he could command attention like one.

Shifting to English for my benefit, He said, "I want to introduce to you the lovely lady whose paintings surround us. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Danielle," mercifully omitting my last name. He apparently had noticed that I did not include Pilch in the signature on the paintings and perhaps Claudine had briefed him on my discomfort with my last name or perhaps he had just sensed it at the airport the day before. In any case, I was simply 'the artist, Danielle.' I liked it.

He gave them a brief rundown on my educational background, including my not so brief detour through the law, skipping the usual part of the background which would list the prestigious awards and contests I had won—because I hadn't won any. Then without warning, he turned to me and said, "Danielle, tell us about the paintings you have brought us."

For the first time since I had abandoned the law I felt grateful for the training and experience I had received in three years of law school and seven years of practice. Unlike most artists, I was not one to panic or be left speechless by the kind of abrupt introduction just given me. If you don't learn anything else in law school, you learn how to respond on your feet to a challenge.

I stepped forward and looked briefly around the room assuring myself I had everyone's attention. "Bonjour, mademoiselles and monsieurs." That was as far as I was going in French. Switching to English without apology, I continued, "I am so pleased to be here in your beautiful city and to have an opportunity to show you my paintings." I gestured towards them behind me. "To understand these paintings you have to understand a little of my background, beyond the formal education Gerard just described." The trick here was to give them the basics of the pitch but to keep it short and simple. They could figure out how to say it in their own style, but they needed to hear it from me. And Gerard needed to hear it from me. This was his test to see if I could do it.

"So," I paused briefly turning to quickly sweep my eyes across the art. "These paintings represent a piece of the wild and beautiful north coast of California, a place where I grew up." Okay, a little bit of a stretch. I actually grew up in suburban Sacramento, but my family took me to Mendocino often, usually to stay at my Uncle's cottage that I now owned.

"The winds and the waves of the cold North Pacific roll unimpeded from Northern Japan across 5,000 thousand miles of the globe until they pile into the rugged coast of Northern California. They bring fierce winds and driving rain before them. Even on a good day with bright sun, the air is cold and the waves break with great force into the cliffs below the little cottage of my youth." I was rolling now. Have to remember not to go on long, I reminded myself.

"The steep, rugged cliffs rise a hundred feet or more to a sloping grass covered headland. Immediately behind the grassy headland, the mountains of the coast range, covered with old growth pine, fir, and massive redwoods, rise towards the sky to reinforce the barrier to the weather sent us from Japan. It is stunning country, defined by the wind, the waves, the rock of the cliffs, and the timbered ridges that are the leading edge of California. And then there is the fog. It is here that the cold waters of the North Pacific meet the warm air of Mediterranean California. There is always fog, drifting in and out, for mere minutes, or days on end." Enough of that I thought. "This stunning country is my home today and the country of my youth."

With a pause I turned from my description of Mendocino to the art, letting my eyes sweep briefly across the assembled sales staff and then, more slowly, across the paintings behind me. That was where I wanted their attention fixed as they heard my pitch. "Now the paintings. They are abstract, because that is the style I paint in. My paintings are my effort to recreate for the viewer the emotional impact of the dynamic, forceful, almost explosive scenery and ecosystem of the Mendocino Coast that is my home." Got to get the word ecosystem in there someplace. "All I can say is, I painted these because I wanted to share with the viewer the force of the scenery I had grown up with." I paused looking about the room, making sure I had everyone's attention. "Questions?" I asked.

I looked over at Gerard. He was beaming with approval. This was the pitch he wanted.

The first question, and the only one really directed to me, was from a woman near the back of the group. "You call this series the Sounds of Mendocino. Tell us about the Sounds?"

This is where I don't explain about synesthesia, I thought. "Oh excellent question," I said. "With scenery of this power there is always an aural component—the sound of the waves pounding on the rocks, the soft rustle of the headland grasses in the wind, the louder sound of the Pacific winds moving the limbs of the trees, the sounds the gusts themselves make, the screech of the gulls turning in the wind above my cottage, the gurgle of a small creek draining to the ocean from the mountains behind the coast, the crackle of the wood stove in the cabin. The sounds are such an important component of the place, and I have tried my best to present my impressions of them as a part of the pictures." Actually they were the heart and soul of the pictures, but I didn't want to get that deeply in the creative process.

The rest of the questions were mostly aimed at Gerard: Were they going to have some big pictures of the Mendocino coast (Yes); When would the show begin (In two weeks); Had invitations gone out yet (yes, with a follow-up teaser, as soon as photos could be arranged); and posters—posters on every kiosk in central Paris by the end of the week.

Then Gerard stepped up and took over. Just in case anyone missed it, he restated the hook of the sales effort. "The paintings are abstract, but they represent the power and beauty of a bold and natural part of the world." That was it, short, sweet, and simple, in a single brief sentence. Just remember that sentence and sell it. The role of the aural qualities of the landscape went unmentioned.

"Thank you all for coming in early. Now let's get to work. We still have other art to sell. The next one in the door will be a buyer, I'm sure of it. It's up to you to make sure he buys from us. Danielle, and Claudine, I would like to meet with you in my office. Bon jour, everyone. Bon jour."

I grabbed a coffee, from a Starbucks Traveler I noted with amusement, as Claudine and I followed Gerard into his tiny office, each taking one of the small seats before his desk. He brushed a few pastry crumbs off his bulging chest, took a sip of his coffee and then smiled at us. "Danielle that was perfect. Just perfect. Magnifique!" Then he leaned forward and said, "For that audience, it couldn't have been better. But of course they are not collectors. We will have to teach you some different techniques for talking to collectors. Those conversations will be different. You have to let them draw the hook out of you. You can't make the kind of long winded speech you made to my staff over wine and cheese in an evening gallery show. It's way too long for their attention span."

"You mean cocktail party 101," I said.

Claudine laughed, and Gerard leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Oui. I guess you could put it that way."

'Claudine, I want you to take her to Pierre. You have an appointment at 2:30 this afternoon."

"Pierre?" I asked.

"He's a drama coach. He teaches artists how to talk," Claudine said.

"Am I going on stage at the Comédie-Française?"

That got a dry laugh from Gerard. "Hardly my dear. But you will have a much better crowd with me. Trust Pierre. He will teach you how to take that marvelous sales pitch we just heard and sprinkle it across five minutes of cocktail conversation so that the collector doesn't even realize he is being sold. Done right, they never feel the hook."

"Okay," I shrugged. "Is that it for the next two weeks before the show?" I was still thinking about what I wanted to see in Paris while I was there.

Claudine laughed and Gerard smiled. So naïve, they were thinking, I'm sure.

"Tomorrow morning Danielle will take you shopping, before your second session with Pierre. We can't have you looking like a California hippie." He dragged out the word 'hippie' to give it a distasteful tone.

I bridled a bit. I still thought of myself as exactly that. Oh well, I thought. I guess this means I don't tell anyone about the acid I dropped while creating these paintings. "If you must, but I'm not cutting my hair," I said.

"Oh no, no, no. I don't want your hair cut. Combed out a bit, but not cut. We aren't trying to turn you into an upper crust, bourgeoise, Parisian matron. We just want you well groomed."

This was a turn of events I wasn't sure I liked. I came to Paris to sell my paintings, not my soul.

"Then she will take you to Mr. Charles," he continued.

"Mr. Charles?"

"He's our photographer," Claudine said. "We need some head shots for our marketing materials. Your face will soon be all over Paris."

Gerard added, "I would love to get one of you in front of your cottage with the wind blowing your hair, some paint stains on your blouse, and so on, but we don't have time to fly you back to California for that. I will want that done before FIAC though. It isn't just your paintings we are selling dear. We are selling you also."