Copyright © 2006 John Enex
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
By reading this excerpt, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are younger than 18 years old, you must exit this site at once.
"I think of myself as an artist too," the Doc said, pacing the perimeter of my cluttered studio, studying all the unsold work hung on the walls. He altogether ignored his wife Melanie, who followed like a trim, beautiful sailboat towed by a rusty old tug. "I'm a sculptor, you see."
Eying two or three unfinished works still balanced on easels, the Doc added, "My raw material, though, is human flesh and bone." His face, spoiled by too much rich food and too many high octane drinks, smiled, or tried to.
Doctor Carl Bishop was --and is-- an enormously successful plastic surgeon. His work is seen at every country club and over-priced restaurant within a hundred miles. The tight grimace faces and ridiculously high tits on his matronly patients strike me as bizarre and decadent, but the day we met, I only considered what he could pay for a simple portrait, what it meant that he approached me to do it.
Doing Melanie's portrait turned my career in art --which to that point had been basic starvation-- around. Doctor Bishop has considerable influence in our town. Melanie's image, installed above the ornate mantle in his big house made having one of my works something of a status symbol.
While the Doc prated on about having the soul of an artist, Melanie quietly occupied the background. "I've seen your portraits in two or three galleries downtown," she said at last, her voice low and whispery. "They're wonderful, all of them. Simply wonderful."
"Thank you," I acknowledged, and looked at her closely for the first time. She was tall, her eyes only a couple of inches below mine, and her tight jeans might have been shrink-wrapped around a pair of long, perfect legs.
Her hips were lush as an August cornfield, and Melanie's heavy breasts, barely hidden by a silk blouse, made curves an angel would envy. But the best part was her hair, the color someone had in mind when they first thought of red. I couldn't help wondering why a woman like Melanie was with Carl Bishop, a bloated braggart, charming as the trollish frog he resembled.
The obvious answer lay in diamonds flashing on Melanie's fingers, in a delicate, handcrafted gold brooch above her lovely chest, in the label on the butt of her designer jeans that showed when she turned to look at my paintings.
"My husband would like my portrait done," Melanie explained. "I get to pick the artist." She used one hand to push that marvelous russet mane out of the way of sea green eyes. "I want you to do it."
The Doc stepped into my vision, and I turned back to the business at hand. I couldn't afford to let libido get in the way of finances. If the Doctor didn't want me to look at his wife, I was more than happy to keep my eyes off her gorgeous form.
Bishop didn't blink when I told him I'd paint Melanie's picture for twenty five hundred. "Do you have a photograph I can work from?" I asked, wishing I'd said five grand, after he gave up so easily.
"I thought I'd model for it," Melanie broke in.
"I don't think that's necessary," Doctor Bishop snapped, not bothering to look at his lovely wife. "The man asked for a photograph, dear. See that he gets one."
"But you know how awful I look in pictures." Melanie turned her disappointment on me, a mournful look that didn't detract one iota from her beauty. "Couldn't I come here and pose?"
I shrugged. It would be easier, working from a photo. Very few people have the patience to sit motionless for the hours it takes to do a painting. I was about to argue with her when Carl Bishop made the decision for me.
"Is it really so important to you?" he asked, still not bothering to look at Melanie. She nodded, and the ugly little man shrugged agreement. "My wife and I are quite busy most evenings," he said. "These. . . Sittings? Is that the word? They'll have to take place during the day."
"Oh good!" Melanie chirped. "What should I wear?"
"Whatever you like," I told her. "I'll be working on your face first. Wear something comfortable. The clothes won't matter."
We agreed to start the next afternoon.
She showed up at two thirty, half an hour early, and alone. Turning from the easel, where I was clamping into place a large empty canvas to be filled with her image, I wished I'd been more specific about what clothes would be appropriate.
A white mini skirt showed even more of her legs than the tight jeans of the previous day, and the natural chill of my under-heated studio caused nipples --unhindered by a bra-- to swell like tiny balloons, showing clearly through another almost sheer silk blouse.
I fought to keep my eyes focused above her neck as I seated Melanie on a high stool directly under the skylight. The work proceeded steadily for half an hour, preliminary sketches filling the canvas as I pondered what mix of oils would catch the precise tint of her hair. I'll say this for the lady, once I put her in the necessary pose, Melanie held it like a pro, without any complaining.