Body Wisdom & Uncompromising Portraits

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “You totally derailed me with this. Why didn’t you mention to them that I was an artist, one of your students, not just your model. And the insinuations about our love affair were totally uncalled for. I’m still a married woman, and I’m too raw to have you advertising our liaison, as if our affair is just part of the package that your great grant money is paying for.” She could see he was about ready to chuckle. “And don’t tell me I look great when I’m pissed. I’ve already heard that from my almost ex-husband, and I don’t need you patronizing me.”

  “Would I?” he asked.

  “You’re a bastard, a fucking weasel.”

  Malcolm looked at her slightly shocked by the accusation. “Damn! I can’t remember when I’ve been called anything so horrible,” he exclaimed.

  Sydney took a deep breath. Suddenly everything seemed so silly to her. At least this evening put the relationship with Malcolm in its proper light. As tantalizing as it was, it was certainly not love, and she wasn’t even sure if it was respect. Just sex.

  “I haven’t called any one a weasel in years,” she conceded, trying to cool down.

  “So you think I set you up, dressing you the way I did?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I’m guilty, can I help it if I want a little free advertising for this work. Free press is hard to get, Sydney. You’ll realize that the more you market your art.”

  “You could have been honest about it, Malcolm.” She was still seething, but much less noticeably. I don’t like being used. If I consent to being used, fine. But I’m not some little vixen you can parade in front of your audiences as a provocative tease. I felt like some poster girl for a topless bar. I thought this work of yours was supposed to be more thoughtful than simple pornography.”

  “They’re nudes. Nudes are sexy, comes with the territory.”

  “Can’t we call them erotic? Sensual maybe? It sounds much better to me.”

  “I suppose that’s the way they’ll end up being billed; but the fact is, there’s no difference between sexy and erotic, and let’s not pretend there is. I don’t think there’s really any difference between what is passed off as pornography and what lofty artists call art.”

  “I don’t agree,” she protested, finally turning to him to press her point. “How can you say that?”

  “Easily. Because I believe it. A little radical maybe, but I really don’t see any difference. A cheap pin-up is as much art to me as these paintings I’m doing of you.”

  “Really?” Sydney was astonished.

  “It’s just a different form. I’m not saying that my painting isn’t something special, that it doesn’t capture a lot more than the glossy photograph, but I’m not going to diminish the glossy photograph. That judges. I don’t judge art worthy or unworthy. Good god!. When you can pass toilets and vacuum cleaners off as art these days, who’s to say what’s good and bad? Better just to forget the judgments completely.”

  “So you think of these paintings of me as pornographic?” she asked, testing the word out. It seemed so crude.

  “People are going to call it want they want, depending on their point of view. I intend for them to be arousing, erotic, sexual, sensuous. It’s the same, pornographic is as good a word as any. Besides, all those words are in the mind of the beholder. People who try to pass off nudes as some statement of beautiful form and nothing more, are denying the reality of what’s there. And what’s there are naked human bodies, and that’s erotic, a sexual turn on, whatever you want to call it. Let’s not disguise that. I want to arouse passion and lust and make cocks jolt and pussies dampen looking at your body. And they will, believe me.”

  Sydney was too stunned to say a word.

  “It’s my intent, Sydney. I don’t think I ever disguised that fact. For some people it may be subtle, for others rather bold, that’s for the viewer to see. But I’m not trying to paint some holy, elevated rendering of human flesh, and take the obvious passion away from it. The world is far too uptight about sex in the first place. They need sexual honesty, not sexual confusion. I’d rather give people some real enlightenment.”

  If nothing else, Malcolm was passionate about the topic, the way Sydney could see his eyes light with daggers and change in a second to wise, and then peer at her almost obsessed with the heat of anger coming through. His arms gesticulated as wildly as they could in the close confines of his sedan. The lecture was reminiscent of some of his classroom diatribes, though, this was much more personal.

  “Tell me, Sydney, when you see Rodin’s The Kiss, do you think it’s some kind of pure art, or are you aroused?”

  She thought for while about a piece she dearly loved. “When I study it, I mean really look at it, it becomes erotic.”

  “And why’s that?” Malcolm probed.

  “Because it’s there in the kiss, in the bodies, in their passion, even though it’s cast in bronze.”

  “There’s something totally open and intimate shared there, and communicated in that sculpture,” Malcolm went on. “It’s art and it’s sexual, and it’s the way it should be. I don’t have much grand purpose in my life. But if I can make people a little more honest with themselves about their sexuality, then perhaps I do have one.”

  Malcolm was an excellent teacher, a fine artist, a very accomplished lover, and now, a surprising philosopher. Sydney wasn’t sure it made her admire him more or not, but she certainly wasn’t vague about things now, especially about the modeling she was doing. Maybe it cast the whole endeavor in a better light, but she wasn’t completely convinced. Somehow art had always risen above life in her mind, as if there was something spiritual about it that one could only achieve by rendering abstract and even concrete ideas in this expanded visual form. Malcolm’s assessment of the their work, made it seem that the sexuality of the paintings was as spiritual as the paintings themselves, and that confounded her.

  “You’re one of the most sexual women I’ve ever known,” Malcolm said. “If I can capture half of what you exude in lust, in these paintings, I’ll be happy.”

  “I thought that was something you put there.”

  “You know better than that. I can’t put on the canvas what’s not there. It either has to be in the subject or in my mind. I suppose usually it’s a blend of both, but I know with you, it’s in you first. That’s what inspires me!” He put his hand on her thigh and squeezed it. Taking a deep breath, he’d said all he was going to say. “Let’s go,” he said, turning to start the car.

  Closing in on himself, Sydney was left with a nagging silence where Malcolm’s passion had been.

  Pulling away from the front of the gallery, they ended up driving in a direction Sydney didn’t expect. Ten minutes later they were sitting in a night club ordering something to take the edge off the rough night.

  It took two drinks to relax her, but once the potent brew was working through her veins, Sydney loosed up. She was happy not to think about Malcolm’s philosophical explanations. It might take some days to digest his ideas, and now was hardly the time.

  The dancing was pretty provocative at midnight; and Malcolm continued to show her off, not in the he same way this time; but as an older man showing off a younger women. He loved her as his date, fondling her overtly as they moved their way through the crowd of people.

  She was looking at bodies as they moved, all of a sudden fixated on them. She was looking for that substance Malcolm was painting into the pictures, finding everywhere around her, rampant eroticism. Her own exhibitionism surprised her, letting herself be boldly explicit, when she moved groin to groin against Malcolm. To her surprise another body appeared out of nowhere behind her, moving against her tight well defined rear end.

  A frenzy of music and movement surrounding her, Sydney couldn’t care less how many people would see her screwing, if Malcolm or anyone else were to take her to the floor to fuck. Being that out of her mind was the best part of the night; there had been no abandon in her life like this in a very long time. If she could just re
main like this, in this kind of drunken stupor, she could handle everything with grace, including Gabriel and Malcolm.

  At two in the morning she and Malcolm were in her apartment, in her bed, Malcolm pulling up the lycra dress for access to her cunt. She welcomed the quick assault, his cock driving deep in her with no more foreplay than a few quick squeezes of her still clothed breasts. Of course, there had been constant foreplay all night long, in the car, at the night club, on the way home. Deep to the hilt, way inside her, Malcolm’s style of lovemaking was no different this time than usual. And no different at the end, there was the same lingering feeling that something was missing, a feeling that she’d hardly recognized before, it was painful to her this time.

  For all the philosophical dissertations, all the potent eroticism and seeming intimacy of the work they did together, Sydney missed it being personal. And that was it, making love to Malcolm was impersonal. It was perfectly explainable if she really thought about it; the satisfaction was compromised without the element of love.

  ***

  An hour after they’d both orgasmed, and then fell asleep, Sydney woke to find Malcolm pawing at her. She awakened with a surefired lust mounting in her again. She should have welcomed it, the way Malcolm’s hands were demanding, centering on her crotch not her whole body.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, roused from her sleep.

  “Are you fighting me?” he asked.

  “I didn’t think so, but I kind of thought that we’d just sleep.”

  “Is that what you really want?” he asked.

  “I think so,” she said. He hadn’t stopped playing with her, his hands toying with her cunt, fingers finding places that were responding in spite of herself. “Except that’s feeling pretty good,” she acknowledged, when she couldn’t ignore what was happening.

  “I knew it would,” he said.

  One hand slipped farther back, under her ass, to her anus. Just having him finger her there was shocking, but nonetheless giving her more sensations to bring to some end. It was confusing, the bizarre blend of feelings that began in her the more he probed the tight place.

  “You like that?” Malcolm asked, as his mouth descended to suck her clit.

  “Yeah, I do. Just be careful.”

  “You relax, it won’t hurt. Have you done this before?

  “No,” she admitted, while she was reminding herself that Gabriel had tried her there once; and she hadn’t been relaxed, and they hadn’t tried it since. Gabriel teased her about it, and Sydney always thought that eventually he’d have his way. But neither of them had been rushed, and it was one of the few things that Sydney didn’t aggressively pursue in their lovemaking.

  Malcolm worked both places with an expert’s skill. The feelings in her mounted, rash, strong, compelling feelings that wanted him to go on. Though Malcolm had never been in her bedroom before, he suspected there was a dildo in the bedside chest. When he found it, he began toying with it on her behind.

  “Oh no!” she sputtered, but her body was releasing anyway, the gentle in and out of her anal hole, combined with the careful manipulation of her clit, the climax was just a few seconds away. This was one time she wouldn’t prolong the pleasure; she was too tired from the liquor and the long night, and too unsure about this variety of sex to make it a long build up. With both places of her body raw and clamoring, she let out a soft whimpering sound, as the pleasure moved through her in a gentle wave, and she bucked against both of Malcolm’s fingers and the plastic prick in her behind.

  It felt unbelievably good, even though the whole scene baffled her. Why in the middle of sleeping? Why now, in her bed? Why, without warning?

  With her orgasm over, she saw that Malcolm didn’t intend to stay. He was already pulling himself out of the bed.

  “Why did you do that?” Sydney asked him.

  He said nothing for a minute, then turned to her as he sat down on the edge of her blue floral comforter and eyed her.

  “I’ve been staring at that lovely ass of yours for days now. I just wanted you to have the pleasure of knowing what a lively erogenous zone it is.”

  Sydney hadn’t quite expected that answer, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. She might pursue it another time, but not now, she was too tired. “Why don’t you just sleep here?” she asked.

  “I would, but I have to get up early, and drive up to see my son. He’s got some big deal he’s into, I just have to hear about.” He sounded annoyed.

  “You don’t like your son?”

  “Sure I do, but we’ve never been in the same ballpark.” Malcolm finished dressing, even laid her rumpled clothes on a chair, while Sydney remained in bed watching his every move with the same kind of dispassionate study he often used on her. Theirs was a curious affair, but maybe not so strange as many. So much about both of their lives went unexplained. There was so much neither one wanted to explain. And that was a clear clue to Sydney that the arrangement between them was temporary.

  After Malcolm left, Sydney got up and wandered about the spacious emptiness of the apartment she’d carefully redecorated when Gabriel left. It was lonelier than ever now. She’d tried filling in the gaps, moving furniture around so she wasn’t reminded of Gabriel’s things that were no longer there. Still, it felt as if there were great enormous holes in the whole fabric of things, her apartment just the symbol of her life. She knew for certain that good sex, even great sex wasn’t enough. Certainly being violated rudely as she had that night wasn’t what it needed to be. It only pointed out the great wide hole in her relationship with Malcolm, that would always remain. She’d have to remember that, the next time Malcolm caught her off guard.

  The phone rang, the sound jarring her, it was so out of context with the middle of the night. Who the hell would be calling her then? She couldn’t help the instantaneous assumption of tragedy that the wee hours of the night suggested.

  “Sydney.” She heard Gabriel’s voice when she answered.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “I tried all evening.”

  “Not all evening, I’ve been home a while.” She couldn’t quite remember the time.

  “I thought we could talk, but maybe you’re busy,” Gabriel said.

  I should be busy sleeping, Gabe, it’s nearly what? Three o’clock.” She saw the lighted digital dial on the kitchen stove.

  “But you’re not asleep.”

  “But I should be.” She wasn’t sounding vice nice. “Hon, I’m tired why don’t you call tomorrow?” She was aware that she’d let the affectionate “hon” slip out. It felt good.

  “I just wanted to let you know I was going skiing with Jack.”

  “Oh. Where?”

  “The cottage at Aspen.”

  Sydney remembered in a flash of a second how great Gabe looked on the slopes. They’d met at a ski resort years before, had their first weekend together at a small mountain cabin, and planned their wedding so they could ski in Aspen in January for their honeymoon.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “Two weeks.”

  “That’s all your vacation,” she mused aloud, knowing that meant he had no plans to include her in any of his time off.

  “I need the time away. I’m losing it here.”

  “Why’s that?” she asked. Always so together, she couldn’t imagine Gabriel “losing it.”

  “Why do you think?” he said flatly.

  “I was thinking that you didn’t care, as much as I’ve heard from you.”

  “I told you it would be a while, besides, I thought you’d be happy screwing your artist lover.”

  “How would you know that?” Sydney said. Out of her mouth, she realized what the statement might suggest to him about her relationship with Malcolm.

  “A good guess,” Gabriel replied. She heard the exasperated sarcasm in his voice. “See, you called it all innocent.”

  “It would have been if you hadn’t left, you might as well have pushed me into bed with him.”
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br />   “Only you can take responsibility for breaking your marriage vows. Don’t lay it on me.”

  “I’m sorry, that was unfair,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to talk now. I’m too tired.”

  “Hey, I think I picked a really good time, getting the truth here; instead of a lot of double speak.”

  “So what are you going to do with my revelation?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he replied.

  “I haven’t changed my mind about us,” Sydney told him. “I wish you’d come home.”

  “Changed your mind about modeling?” Gabriel asked.

  “No,” she conceded.

  “Then, you haven’t changed.”

  The conversation was obviously going nowhere. “Can we talk when you get back,” she asked.

  “We’ll have to talk sometime, I suppose.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be at Jack’s place in Aspen.”

  “Have a good time.”

  “Sure . . .” his voice trailed off.

  They said goodbye, and the phone clicked in Sydney’s ear.

  They’d been in Aspen in November together, racing each other through fresh powder, Gabriel always winning because he was faster and stronger, and Sydney had never been as daring as her husband. She was content to be less daring in physical tests, and let Gabriel be the hero, and the expert. Too bad that didn’t work in other areas, where Sydney still felt she had the upper hand in wisdom and understanding.

  Chapter Seven

  Sydney pulled off the lounge where they’d just screwed. Both of them were sweating; the studio was stifling in a warmer than usual spring heat.

  “The session was good today,” Malcolm said. “The heat made you look like a languid jungle cat.”

  “That savage?” Sydney smirked at the thought.

  “Yes, I liked that.”

  Sydney wasn’t surprised by his evaluation of her. She was feeling something savage inside her, not something that she was used to, but it had been building for some days.