The Artist

Author's note: This is part one of potentially many. Curious to know what people think and if anyone wants more.

---

The Thwaites glacier broke off the Antarctic four days ago, paving the way for an unprecedented amount of ice--a so-called river of ice--to begin flowing to the ocean. The largest glacier in the world is thought to have irreversible ramifications, with sea level rise expected between six and twenty feet in the next decade. We now turn to Dr. Aysha Bektar, a scientist leading a research team on the continent--

Alyssa closed the window playing the six o'clock news on Youtube before snapping her laptop shut. Standing in her floor-length hallway mirror, peering past the dust--she really ought to clean it--she examined her outfit. Jeans, expensive hoodie, puffer vest, Docs. Semi casual vibes as per usual. Whatever. She rolled her eyes at herself. Glancing at her phone before tossing it in her bag, she knew she would be about an hour late to the party. Perfect.

It was raining outside. When hadn't it been raining lately? Dreary and gloomy all summer long. Soon it would be fall, too cold to do anything besides run from work to gym to restaurant to bar, on repeat. Drops spattered her hair, making it even straighter and flatter than it ordinarily was, ruining her attempts at a self-administered blow out.

But her rideshare was waiting outside, right on time. "Heyhowyadoin," she muttered, sliding onto the leather seats. One of those artificial air fresheners, or his last passenger's overzealous perfume application, hung thickly in the air.

"Going somewhere fun?" the driver asked.

"Is anyone anymore?"

He gave a knowing nod, not taking his eyes off the road.

She watched the rain-slicked world slip by. 8:30pm. The sun was setting somewhere up there. Above the clouds, where it was always sunny, before the endless void.

"Here we are," he said, catching her eye in the rearview. "Have a good night."

"You too," she said, thumbing through the app to give him his hoped-for 5 star review. She was feeling generous tonight.

The place looked nondescript, one of those brownstone-yet-not-exactly-brownstone affairs. Some corrugated tin was tacked onto one side--an attempt at modernity?--set beside giant square windows that gaped onto the street. She could make out the party from here.

A friend of a friend new this guy. Some rich crypto dude. New money. Not that she could judge; she wasn't new or old money. Middle-aged money, she mused, her job at a marketing firm paying well. Maybe not well enough for all the soul-sucking it did of her. But at least she got to live in an apartment with a private terrace and left enough over for her to blow on her significant entertainment expenses. What's the point of saving, this late in the game?

She knocked on the door. After a few moments of standing, hearing the music thump through the walls, she tried the doorknob. Open.

Inside, the place was pretty much what you'd expect from someone who was trying to show off. Ultra modern furniture. A hired bartender in a poncy embroidered vest. Art hanging from all the walls. Oh god... was that a Beeple? She couldn't decide what was more repellent--something so repellant hanging on the wall, or the fact that she knew what it even was.

Getting a drink from the bar, she faced a selection of crowded rooms to choose from. None of them would contain anyone she knew. It's not that she wasn't invited--not exactly. She was her friend's plus one, but her friend got sick, or was hungover, or was going on a date or something...

There just wasn't any way Alyssa was going to stay home on a Saturday night. She was a firm believer in yolo, especially these days. She also had a nasty case of the fomos.

She inserted herself into a conversation with a group of attractive enough people who were, as she found out too late, unfortunately talking about politics. Instead of dipping out, she sipped her spicy margarita to tired old words like fascist, and gerrymandering, content with staring at these people, nodding, pretending to listen while she silently invented stories about who they were and why they were at such a weird party.

When the conversation moved onto art, she perked up. Last summer she and some girlfriends went to Art Basel for no particular reason. They didn't give a fuck about art, but why not check it out, they figured. They were all young, hot. They could mingle with artsy douchebag narcissists and then get drinks on the beach.

In spite of herself, she ended up absorbing some knowledge. Carla Accardi, Maya Stovall, David Hammons. Weird stuff. Kind of pointless. But... rich? She ended up leaving the trip understanding, for the first time, what art really was: a big old capitalist money-laundering scheme for the mega-wealthy. Did she think about changing careers? She hadn't not thought about it.

That's why this guy's apartment intrigued her. She'd heard he hired plainclothes security guards to protect his stash, and she could see why. Her little group stood in front of a Damien Hirst statue, a dead pigeon preserved in formaldehyde. Probably worth at least a couple hundred grand. A woman who'd been standing just to her right stepped away to look at another piece, revealing a small work hanging on the wall she'd not noticed yet. She cocked her head to the side, unsure what she was seeing at first.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" said a woman beside her, admiring it also.

"Is it a..."

"Vulva? Yep." The woman smiled, her arms crossed, a wine glass dangling out of one hand. "Quite a close study."

That it was. It was a clay model, fired and carefully painted. It seemed to glisten, parts of it coated with a transparent paint that made it seem... wet. She scoffed, turned away to face the room again. Amateur. Obvious. She strolled amongst the crowd.

But her disinterest was feigned. It was as though she could feel the thing's presence over there, hanging on that wall. Like it was living, throbbing. Beckoning.

And why shouldn't I go over for another look, she thought, checking herself. Its hung up on the wall for that exact purpose, isn't it? It's probably the most interesting thing here, all people included. She did a few turns of the room, pretending to examine other paintings, other obscene sculptures, other useless swaths of paint. It wasn't like she'd never seen explicit art before. Hell, there were at least three pairs of naked breasts she could see from where she stood.

So what was it about that piece that held her interest?

She casually meandered over to it again, waiting patiently for a group of women to move aside. They pointed, put their hands to their mouths. "You know the artist is here?" she overheard one of them say.

Coming before it again, she tried to understand what made it different than other works of art. What was so evocative about this small assemblage of painted material. Something about the shape of it, the rounded contours, the transparent sheen that coated it.

It's aroused, she realized. Very aroused.

She went to the bar, feeling as though she could no longer justify standing before the thing and not look like some kind of pervert.

She faced the room, leaning her back onto the long bar. The owner of the house walked by. She'd never seen him, even a photo. But she knew because this man was short, a distinctly unappealing, self-satisfied air to him, and he was flanked by two gorgeous women and trailed by even more sycophant leeches.

Laughing to herself, she wished her friend had come, since there was no one here with whom she could point and laugh with. She scanned the crowd again. There were some hot guys here for sure. Suits and ties, the kind she liked. The ones who had their shit together. Or at least who had daddy's credit card and someone to pay to tell them what good taste is.

She noticed a man ordering a drink beside her. He was one of those artsy types. Wearing all black, a bunch of weird necklaces and big silver rings. Had that roughened, I've been in the studio all day don't mind the mess look to his hands. They were nice hands, though. Strong looking.

"What do you think?"

He must have sensed her attention. Maybe she wanted him to. "That this place is filled with insufferable douchebags, including you." She cocked an eyebrow at him.

He chuckled, unphased. "I mean about the sculpture."

She made a sweeping gesture. "Which one? There are so many priceless pieces of shit to consider."

He only smiled at her, taking a sip from his drink. Waiting, like he'd told her a riddle she needed to figure out.

Those overheard words passed through her mind. The artist is here, you know. Her head rocked back ever so slightly in surprise. "Oh," she murmured, suddenly embarrassed. "That sculpture."

So he'd seen her contemplating it. Was that it? Did he know she revisited it? Was he watching her the whole time?

"Let me guess -- you're the artist?" she said, rolling her eyes.

"Cyrus," he said, nodding as he extended a hand. "Pleasure."

"Is all mine," she finished, but immediately regretting her clumsy attempt at being clever -- she wasn't going for a double entendre. She shook his hand with a strong grip. It was one of her policies to never let a man crush her hand bones.

"Don't you need an NC-17 warning on that or something?" she asked.

"Well, no galleries have bitten on them yet," he said wryly. "Private showings only."

"Them? So you've made more than one? What are you, the vagina guy?"

He smiled, looking down at his drink for a moment, before meeting her eyes again. "I didn't start out as the vagina guy. I used to do watercolors mostly. I still do. But I'm an artist, and sex sells, and watercolors don't, as it turns out."

"Did you need an arts degree to do that math?"

He held up his drink, pointing in the sculptures' direction. "That one went for thirty grand."

She nodded coolly, deftly hiding her surprise. "You might be a better salesman than an artist."

He smiled again, giving her what she wanted. "I am definitely a salesman," he said thoughtfully.

He seemed nice. Or was it intense? He had strong features, those thick dark eyebrows that were en vogue. Good cheekbones. Sort of feminine, with an edge. She liked the way he smiled with his lips closed, one corner tugging up. Like he wanted to say something but was holding back. She also liked how his teeth would show when he laughed at things she said. Take off those weird chains and lose the mysterious attitude, and he might even be the kind of guy she would be into.

They chatted, eventually moving to one of the deep, plush couches that must have cost a fortune. She told him about her life, moving to the city five years ago, making a go at being a career woman. He told her about his fancy arts college, how he grew up in the city. He didn't mention a trust fund, but she decided it was implied.

They both silently wondered at each other's age, surmising she to be a little older, maybe a few years.

The conversation was natural, flowing. She was clever. Snarky, even. He liked that. He also liked her body, which he snuck glances at whenever she wasn't looking, and sometimes when she was. Measuring, assessing. He could tell she was aroused by him by the dilation of her hazel eyes, the way she licked her lips frequently. The way she'd lingered at his sculpture; gone back for a second look. The telltale sign.

She was hungry.

Soon they were three drinks deep. He wasn't much bigger than her, lean but muscular, so unless he was some raging alcoholic, she surmised he must be feeling the buzz just like she was. At least they were on equal footing. The part of her--admittedly a quiet part--that would tell her to slow down, be alert, stranger danger and all that, was effectively silenced. She was having fun. She might leave the party with him, if he asked. Why not? She wondered what those talented hands would feel like on her.

Wherever their bodies met, there was electricity. Thighs touching, his hand over her shoulders on the couch, standard fare. But when he placed a hand ever so lightly on her knee, she knew it was over.

And he knew he had her where he wanted.

"Have you ever thought about modelling?" he asked.

"Please," she said dismissively, with a giggle. "That's like the worst pickup line ever."

"I'm serious," he said lightly. "I'm looking for models."

"Oh, so you want me for one of your watercolor studies?" she said, pointing at herself as she giggled.

He didn't reply, allowing his meaning, and his sincerity, to sink in. He moved his hand on her knee ever so slightly, reminding her of its presence as he let his gaze fall between her legs. When he looked back up, he had to suppress a laugh at her sudden, furious blush.

"No way," she breathed, the mood of their conversation, and, he hoped, their relationship, forever altered. The party ceased to exist around them both--hadn't it ceased long ago, really?--as they gazed at one another, a world of possibilities unraveling before them like a plush carpet.

In a smooth motion, he pulled a wallet from his pocket, producing a white card, holding it out to her with two fingers. "I pay five hundred for three hours," he said. "There's a contract to sign, and an NDA, which stipulates that I never reveal your identity to anyone. It would just be our little secret."

She accepted the card, looking at it without seeing it. "No way," she said again, shaking her head. But she was smiling. Grinning, even. "How many of these cards you give out a night?"

He pulled open his wallet, showing it to her, revealing no other cards. "Usually none."

She tapped the card against her fingers. No way, she said again to herself. Absolutely not, never in a million years.

"Get in touch, if you like," he said as he stood, straightening out his shirt. With a wink, he walked away, high on booze and a sense of victory.

He had a good feeling about this one.

------

She couldn't really focus on work. Okay, she couldn't focus at all on work.

Normally she didn't mind the open-concept floor plan of her office, which seemed to her to be designed for the wasting of time with her work wife Chloe and work husband Antonio. But now it felt like the panopticon, and all she wanted to do was creep.

His card was sparse: his name and a phone number. But he was easy to find online. His Instagram had eleven thousand followers. More than enough to be pretty intimidating. She thought about deleting her own account before he found her, with its measly four hundred followers. But he didn't know her last name, and besides, how repugnant was it that she was already rehearsing an explanation of herself, as though she should be judged by fucking app metrics? I don't put much effort into it. It's only for friends and family. Bla bla bla I hate social media kill me now.

His insta was mostly photos of himself going to events, hanging at the coast with friends, doing cool-boy shit. His art was conspicuously absent, including the alleged watercolors. How did he manage so many followers with such a basic bitch account?

Chloe saw her screen before she could close the tab. "Oooh," she teased. "Who's the mystery man?" Her eagle eyes already caught his name, and in a flash his profile was up on her screen.

"I dunno," she said, looking at his profile on Chloe's screen now.

"He cute!" she exclaimed. "Where'd you meet him where's he from what's going on have you fucked?"

"Did someone say fuck?" said Antonio, popping his head in between computers from where he sat on the other side of the desk.

"New boo alert," said Chloe. "I'm slacking you his name."

"Let's not get too excited," she said, with a shock realizing that she, herself, was getting too excited.

"Is he from that party on Saturday?" Antonio asked.

"Yeah. We ended up talking for a long time. He's chill."

"And he's an artiste," said Antonio, gleaning as much from his bio. "I didn't think you'd go for the avant garde type."

"It's the necklaces, isn't it?" said Alyssa, chuckling to herself.

"Wait, I love this: marketing babe getting it on with hot emerging artist," said Chloe, her eyes starry, her hands spread wide. "This is it couple territory."

"When are you gonna see him again?" asked Antonio, twirling a pen between his fingers.

"I don't know. Like, what if he's a serial killer? Serial killers can't have good socials like this, though, right?"

"Ted Bundy was pretty popular," mused Antonio.

"Can you stop summoning dear Ted every time one of us gets a new flame?" Chloe scolded him. She turned to Alyssa. "You should go for it. Get as much dick as you can before EOW."

Alyssa chuckled. EOW: end of world, a play on EOD they'd come up with. "Did you hear about those two hurricanes in the Philippines? Cat sevens. They're saying next summer is going to be even worse!"

"That's not even the craziest thing," said Antonio, leaning forward, his expression darkening. "Our Milan office is still closed because of that heat wave. Apparently people are still out of power and are like dying in their sleep, its so hot."

"Don't be a boner kill!" cried Chloe, waving her hands towards Antonio to shoo him and his grumpy thoughts.

"So what you're saying is that I need to get as much dick as I can right now," mused Alyssa, feeling strangely settled on the matter. After all, if she was being honest with herself, there was no way she wasn't going to call, EOW or not. "More dick, not less."

The only question remaining was how she was going to lie to her friends about what the date consisted of.

-----

His phone rang with an unknown number. Without hesitation, he picked it up. "Hello?"

"Hi. I don't know if you'll remember me, but this is Alyssa. From the party?"

He leaned back into his couch, making himself comfortable. He wanted to savor this. He let her hang in the silence for a long moment, her discomfort palpable. "I'm so glad you called."

He loved hearing her little sigh of relief. "Well, you gave me your card, so I'm calling you. Here we are."

He loved her nervousness. "Here we are," he agreed.

He knew she was waiting--probably praying--for him to say something next. To take charge. He let the silence draw out, longer and longer.

"Anyway I was just calling to say hello but maybe I should get going because--"

"You're calling about the modelling gig, right?" he interrupted. "I'd love to have you over if so. Like this weekend, maybe? Are you free Saturday? Around 6?"

Another pause. "I am. Yeah, that works."

"Great. Is this your number? I can text you the address."

"Yes. Okay. But um, I'm just wondering... what's involved, exactly? Like, do I need to be naked?"

He smiled into the phone. "Only a part of you."

He let another silence lapse, during which he hoped she was contemplating which part. "I just have one small request. Please shave yourself completely, right before you come over. Can you do that?"

"No problem," she said, sounding slightly strangled.

"I'll send you the address," he said again. "No pressure though. I get that this is all a bit unconventional."

"Yeah," she said, laughing weakly. "It sure is."

"Maybe see you on Saturday, then," he said, and hung up the phone.

He knew this was going to be a good one.

-----

Six o'clock, the appointed hour. She and her freshly shaved pussy stood in the hallway outside of his apartment, the building's main entrance already unlocked. It was all more ramshackle than she imagined. Unfinished floors, halls painted puke green, scuff marks abounding. She didn't love the neighborhood either, still very much pre up-and-coming, industrial. Tres dystopian.

These details pacified her mind, distracting her from the bigger issue at hand. She almost couldn't believe she was really here. But then again, it did make a lot of sense.