The Virgin Artist Ch. 02

"Great," says Luna unenthusiastically. "Because I'm never coming out of it."

Andrea and Winston share a look before he guides Luna back to her room. Once inside, he gently shuts the door behind her and locks it. She climbs up into her bed.

"Do you want me to get into bed with you?" asks Winston.

"No," she says and throws her blankets over her head.

He sits down in her chair and waits her for her to say something. She doesn't.

The rest of the evening passes that way. Winston catches spare bits of sleep, waking up when he hears a voice, hoping it's Luna but it's always just the voice of someone passing outside the door. He tries to think of something to say, some combination of words that will make everything okay. But there is no such combination. Luna isn't like Ivy. She's personal and private. No words can wash away the deep shame she must be feeling. Brooding over such thoughts, he falls into an uneasy sleep.

#

He snaps awake in the morning light, his cock throbbing hard. He ignores it, angry. The bastard. It had gotten him into this trouble in the first place. The clock on the wall reads 9:32, and Luna is still just a lump in her bed.

"Luna?" asks Winston, "Are you awake?"

She mumbles something from under the covers.

"What?"

She mumbles again.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're saying."

She tosses the blankets off her head. "I said, get the fuck out!"

"What?" says Winston. "Look—"

"LEAVE!"

What choice did he have?

"Okay," he says. "But call me or text me, okay Luna? I love you, alright? I love you."

He waits for her to return the words, but she doesn't. He leaves. When he makes it back to his dorm, he sinks to the floor and cries.

#

He tries sketching, but only ends up throwing his sketchbook at the opposite wall. There's a deep black hole in his chest, draining away every bit of color and light. He can feel it dragging him down down down low to the earth. He's worried about Luna. What if she does something crazy? What if she hurts herself? He tells himself she just needs time or space.

About two seconds later, he decides that's a terrible, stupid idea. He sends her a quick text: Everything okay?

He cracks open his art history book, but his eyes have become opaque. Nothing can get through to his brain. His artistic vision is broken. After an hour of pretending to study but actually sneaking looks at his phone, waiting for a response that never comes, Winston decides he needs to get out. He goes for a walk.

It's a beautiful day, full of soft rustlings. A gauzy veil of golden bright sun is draped over the world, dividing it between sharp light and hard shadows. It's the type of contrast every artist loves, but Winston can't seem to work up the enthusiasm. At one point, he even spots Ivy outside, wearing a green summer dress, busy painting some landscape. Looking at her back, he tries to muster up some anger. But he can't. He doesn't care about Ivy. He's too worried about Luna.

He makes his way to their secret meeting spot, the little concrete pier above Beebe Falls. It's only worse there. When they had made plans during orientation, they certainly hadn't expected anything like this. Nor had their little sex plan worked out the way they had wanted it to. Once again, the reality failed to live up to the fantasy.

Winston looks up toward her dorm, toward her window, and gives her a call. It rings six times and then goes to voicemail. He leaves one, asking for her to call him, reminding her that he loves her. He wishes he were better at words. But he isn't. He is an artist, not a talker, not a writer. Or maybe even being a scientist would do it. What, he wonders, are the equations that relate love, shame, and loneliness?

He goes to the dining hall and eats by himself. All around him flow energy and happiness. Laughter. Girls and boys holding hands. Kissing. He can't stand it. He wolfs down his food and leaves. Luna still hasn't responded.

#

He hears nothing from her for the rest of his miserable weekend, which he spends sleeping and watching old cartoons on his laptop. When Monday morning rolls around, he resolves to confront her, one way or another, and is waiting outside her Mechanics class when it gets out at 9:30. A steady stream of Engineering students moves past. Luna is not among them.

Pushing down his worry, Winston makes his way inside the small amphitheater of a classroom, down to where the professor, a tall Russian fellow with short-cropped hair and a prosthetic arm, is putting his laptop into a bag stitched with the NASA logo.

"Excuse me," says Winston.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"I was looking for my girlfriend Luna—"

"Ah Luna! Did she send you to get her homework assignment?"

"Um, no, not exactly. I guess, um, that she wasn't here today then?"

The professor pauses in packing up and looks at Winston quizzically. "Is everything alright?"

"Uh, yeah, sorta. Didn't you, um, didn't you see—"

"Did I see what?"

Winston shrugs. He can't imagine how the professor hadn't heard of his nude sketches getting posted around campus but then science types could be pretty myopic. "Nothing. She's not feeling too well."

"Ah. Give her my best wishes. Tell her not to worry about the quiz today -- she can make it up any time she wants."

Winston's heart sinks. She skipped class on a quiz day? "Sure," he says. "Will do. Thank you."

"Hope she gets well soon. She's my favorite student."

"Yeah," says Winston. "She's my favorite too."

After he leaves the classroom, he pulls out his phone and gives her another call. He doesn't actually expect her to answer, but, even so, he can't quite banish his hope.

She doesn't pick up. He leaves a voicemail, reminding her once again that he loves her and begging her to call him back. He considers calling Luna's mom, but knows that he'll have to tell the whole story. The mere thought of that causes such panic to rise up in him that he has to sit down at the nearest bench and take a moment's breather.

With nowhere else to go, he heads toward his studio class.

#

Winston's Intro to Painting class is held in a tiny cramped classroom which reeks of turpentine but does, at the least, have many windows, little circular ones that remind him of portholes on a ship. When he walks in, ten minutes early, he's the only student there. He drops his bag at the easel opposite of the one Ivy usually takes.

Professor Silvarez peeks around the edge of his easel. He wipes the paint from his brush, surprise stamped on his swarthy Brazilian features.

"Ola Winstonius," he says. "You're here early. You needed this time with your girlfriend, no?"

"Yeah, she's not feeling well."

"Ahhhhh," says Silvarez. "A shame. But that is the nature of health. It comes, it goes, then it just goes. Today, we're doing a nude model, a friend of mine named Ricardio. A beautiful man. Cheer you up, no?"

"Erm, yeah," says Winston. "I guess so."

"It's too bad you missed out on the bonus points too."

"Eh?" says Winston as he goes to the paint cupboard and grabs a thin slice of wood to serve as his palette. "What bonus points?"

"You not hear? I cancelled class on Friday and sent the students to round up all the nudes. It was, what do you call it, an art easter egg hunt."

Winston pauses in the act of mixing flesh-colored tones. "Nudes?"

"You didn't see them?! Fabulous fabulous nudes up all over the residence area. Such earnestness, such spirit, such rawness." He nabs a few papers from a huge stack on his desk and brings them toward Winston.

Winston knows what they are of course. "Um," he says. "Those are mine."

"WHAT?!" says the professor, leaping up and kicking his leg out as if a bee had stung him in the foot. "They are?! Who is this divine Luna?! Is this the girlfriend you make love to before my class?! You must paint her. Now, now, now, now."

"Uh?"

"NOW WINSTON NOW."

"I can't! She's hiding in her dorm."

"Hiding? From what?" He brandishes the sketches. "Cause of these?! Why would she be ashamed of this? Her beauty?" The professor's face takes on a disapproving glare. "You have not explained this to her? When you are making love to her, are you not making her feel beautiful?"

"I've tried."

"No. No excuses. You must paint her now. You must show her beauty through your painting. This is the point of art. You must do this now. This very instant."

"I can't paint her this instant," says Winston. "I'm standing right here. And she's—"

"I don't mean THIS VERY SECOND, Winston! I mean NOW as in the ARTISTIC NOW. While the feeling is still hot." He begins pacing back and forth. "For this, you need a shrine. A place free of distractions, free of the pressure of other eyes. I'd let you use my studio, but I have a showing over in NYC this weekend and through the fall break." He pauses and snaps his fingers. "But I have a showing! So what do I need it for?!"

He reaches into his pocket and snaps off a key. "Use my shrine! Paint your woman."

"Um. She's not answering—"

The professor slaps Winston.

"What the hell?!"

"Are you an artist or aren't you?!"

"Yeah I am but— "

Another slap.

"Do you love her or don't you!?"

"I—"

The professor raises his hand and Winston steps back. "Jesus man."

Silvarez slowly lowers his hand. "Well?"

"I do."

Again the professor slaps him.

This time Winston slaps him back. The professor whips his head around, tossing his long hair. He beats his chest like some sort of Brazilian King Kong Art Creature and roars, "Then get it done!"

"I WILL!"

Winston storms out, heart thudding.

A moment later, he comes back. "Um, what's your address?"

#

Winston knocks on Luna's door. She doesn't answer. So he bangs on it. "Luna! Open up!" She doesn't answer. So he keeps banging on it. Finally, after five minutes straight of bashing on the door, he hears the door unlock.

He enters.

Except for a few shafts of dust-filled light peeking through the drawn shades, the room is dark. As his eyes adjust, he sees Luna standing there before him, arms crossed. She appears more frumpled and undone than he has ever seen her before. She's wearing sweat pants and a sweat shirt and her hair is all frazzled, less a river of black silk and more a black cottony bush. She's wearing no make-up and her face is drawn and haggard.

"I don't want you here," she says.

"I don't care," says Winston. "Sit down. I have things to tell you."

She stands there, staring at him.

"I'm not leaving until you listen."

"Fine," she says. She sits down and stares at him.

He grabs the chair from the now empty desk that used to be Ivy's. He places it a foot in front of Luna and sits down.

"Well?" asks Luna.

"Before I met you," begins Winston. "I was pretty lonely. When I did my art, I did it mostly for myself, to fulfill some sort of inner aesthetic need. But then I met you. I didn't know it then, but that was the greatest day of my life. Do you even grasp how amazing you are? Cause you are. Like for so many reasons. You are the smartest person I have ever met. You are genuinely warm and kind. You're so beautiful and smart, you don't have to be. But you are. And you're so passionate. Not toward sex I mean. Well, yes that too. But, um, I mean toward life. Toward new ideas and things. And of course you're gorgeous. I know beauty. You're sublime. Since I've met you, my whole world has changed. I don't do art just for myself anymore. I see now it's my job as an artist not to have my art be loved, but to provide beauty and wonder and whatever else I can manage to those who look at it. You taught me that. And you know what, I'm not ashamed that others got to see my sketches of you. You may think those sketches were about sex, but they weren't. They were about love. I'm not ashamed others got to see the love between us. Neither should you."

Luna is silent.

"And anyway," continues Winston. "My professor gave bonus points to the class to collect them, so they weren't even up all that long anyway."

"They weren't?"

"Nope. Your Mechanics professor didn't even know about them. He just said he missed you and wanted you to get well and get back to class."

"He did?"

"Of course. He misses you. We all do. All your friends and classmates and professors and me. I miss you a lot."

Luna doesn't say anything, but he can see the thoughts churning in her eyes.

"Look," says Winston. "At least try to get out and get to your classes. I know you're going to regret it otherwise. And..." he pauses. "And fall break is coming up. My professor lent me the keys to his house, which I'm sure will be pretty awesome. He wants me to paint you and I want to paint you too. Not these quick sketches but a full on portrait. I really really want to, Luna. I want to show everyone, especially you, just how much I love you. I can't do it with words. I have to do it with paint. What do you think? Will you get out of this darkness?"

"I don't want to. I'm... I'm scared, Winston."

"Scared? Of what?"

"I'm scared everyone's going to look at me and think I'm a slut."

"Why? Because you enjoy sex? That doesn't make you a slut. That's just being human."

"Still," says Luna. "Not every person had nude sketches posted all around."

"Okay," says Winston. "That's fair, but I'll be by your side as much as I can. Please please please just come out. Please return to the Luna that I love so much. Please."

"Stop saying please."

"Then stop hiding here in the darkness."

She folds her arms. "Fine. But only because I'm hungry."

"Sure," says Winston. "We'll go get some lunch. But first, and don't take this the wrong way, you need to take a shower. You kinda smell."

"Hmph," says Luna.

#

All it really took to begin the healing process was to bring her out into the light. A few people looked at her with recognition but most simply went on, too preoccupied with their own worries to care about hers. She did, however, continue to dress conservatively, showing as little skin as possible.

The first -- and last -- incident related to Winston's sketches occurs on Wednesday, as the two of them wait in line at the cafeteria.

"Hey it's the nudie girl," says a huge white fellow with long dreads, maybe one of the football team's defensive linemen. "Why don't you ditch pencil dick there and have a go with a real man?"

Winston steps forward to defend his girlfriend's honor. Or, at least, get pulverized for it. This proves unnecessary. After Luna pulls some jujutsu hijinks and has the massive football player crying like a baby, they grab some spaghetti and sit down at one corner of the dining hall.

"That was scary," says Winston.

"Felt good," says Luna.

As they're sitting there chowing down their spaghetti, a boy with long blonde hair approaches and Winston stands up, ready to ward off still more bullshit.

Instead, the stranger hands Luna a thick piece of folded paper. "Huh?" she asks.

"Some wild-haired Mexican dude told me to give it to you," says the student before leaving them.

"Mexican?" says Winston. "Maybe Professor Silvarez?" He looks over to the paper. "What is it?"

Luna unfolds it. It is covered in the same line over and over, written in different handwriting: I think you're beautiful with a signature underneath.

"Whoa," says Winston.

She continues to unfold the paper. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of different signatures. She reveals one phrase, slightly different than the rest, and stops unfolding.

I think you're beautiful this one begins, with an added I'm sorry just below. It is signed Ivy.

Well damn. Winston looks over at Luna to see how she's taking it, but he can't read her expression. "Can I borrow your emergency pen?" he asks.

"Okay," she says. She pulls it out of her necklace-cap and hands it to Winston.

Crammed between all the writing, he adds in his own small print, I think you're beautiful and signs it Winston Thomas.

"Now," he says, "it's complete."

Luna leans over and gives him a hug. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you so much for being there."

He hugs her back. "Honestly, there's nowhere I'd rather be."

#

By tacit agreement there is no sex talk between them for the rest of the week. Luna sends no pictures and instead concentrates on making up her missed work. Winston draws no sketches. At least, no sketches with his pen. His unsatiated lust continues to fill the canvas of mind with sexual imagery. He can't help himself. By the time their fall break begins on Saturday morning, he has set a personal record for the longest time, since puberty, he has gone without an orgasm. Nearly two weeks. His last was with Ivy, as she rode him in Luna's bed. He is eager to replace that memory with a different one, one involving Luna.

She picks him up in her old Toyota corolla. He tosses his bag stuffed full of jeans and tee-shirts into the backseat, next to Luna's mammoth-sized suitcase.

"Got everything?" she asks.

"Yep."

"Toothbrush, underwear, deod—?"

"Yes! We're not going on some African Safari. It's only like three minutes away."

"So?" says Luna. "No reason not to pack properly." With a peevish hmph, she puts her car into drive and off they go.

In fact, they spend roughly a quarter of an hour on the road before they arrive at the large cast iron fence protecting the driveway. Winston inputs the gate code and it swings open. Tall trees arch over the drive to form a sort of arboreal tunnel and when they finally come out of it, roughly 2 minutes later, Luna accurately summarizes the view with a "Holy crap!"

The professor's "studio" is more properly called a mansion or a chateau or whatever the Brazilian term for it might be. It's a vast elegant affair that reminds Winston of the Roman architecture he studied two summers ago. Its white stucco walls glow in the morning light. In front, an enormous Apollo statue gurgles water in a circular fountain. The mansion's most impressive feature is, however, a large glass cupola situated on the top of the mansion. The sun glints off its black glass, hiding what's inside.

Luna pulls to a stop in front, her beat-up old car incongruous next to the gleaming mansion.

"Jeez Winston," she says. "Professor Silvarez is really okay with this? Us just staying here for a week?"

"He was impressed by my sketches of you. Seemed really keen on this." He shrugs. "Honestly, he's super weird."

"Well," she says. "Let's check it out."

The key works, and after they drop their luggage just within the front door, the two begin their explorations. The mansion is mostly just one huge open space, with very high ceilings and lots of windows. There is no door to the master bedroom, even, just a slight step and then a gargantuan bed. While Luna's exploring the other rooms, Winston returns to the kitchen, which is also not separated from by any walls. Any delicious cooking smells would permeate through the house. On the kitchen counter -- a massive slab of black granite -- he finds a note from the professor, leaning up against a bottle of wine: What's mine is yours. The studio's upstairs. At the bottom he added a postscript: PS I had the maid clean and replace the sheets.

Winston quickly nabs the note and puts it in his pocket. No need for Luna to know his professor assumed sex. He turns around to seek her out, and finds her standing right there. He jumps back, startled.

"Jesus Luna," says Winston. "Don't scare me like that!"

Luna raises one eyebrow at his response. "Sorry. Ninja's in my blood. What'd the note say?"

"That the studio's upstairs. Shall we?"

The only way up to the studio is apparently a tiny spiral stairwell that goes all the way from the first floor to the roof. When they finally get to the top, it's Winston's turn to say, "Holy shit!"