The Naked Muse

5

5

The gallery was most often patronized, by well, those who weren’t really interested in art. The paintings were merely a façade for an illegal trade; the colors and the brushstrokes merely a smokescreen for a fat grayish man who sold all kinds of drugs. His name was Bernard, he was probably fifty-three or fifty-seven, he couldn’t remember, and when he was too stoned, oftentimes he really believed he was twenty again.

And how exactly did the “trade place” ever became a gallery? Bernard had always been fascinated with art. Not that he understood what formalism or expressionism is; he wouldn’t give the slightest fuck. All he cared was that he hung the pretty pictures, sold drugs, and occasionally sell a painting or two to some stoned and oftentimes confused patrons. In this way, he wouldn’t have to be guilty of being a junkie crook.

Bernard and Dean had known each other for a very long time. In fact, it was Bernard who gave Dean his very first taste of chemical heaven. But he didn’t push him, he merely “opened” the horizons for Dean and that he should be grateful for doing so. And then everything became history. Dean buys cocaine and heroin regularly, so long as Bernard exhibits Dean’s pieces every now and then. For the most part recently, it was the buying that dominated his visits and less and less of the exhibiting.

Dean appeared suddenly in Bernard’s office which alerted him from his endeavors the night before. “Geez, Ambers, can’t you knock?” Dean smiled and was hiding a canvass behind his back. He did it on purpose, Bernard was pleased. “It’s about time, Dean.”

“It’s the best I’ve made so far.”

The painting was a medium-sized painting. And from the moment Bernard saw it, he knew it had to be hung. It was a painting of a very angelic man, naked upward his torso, the strokes light and emotional. But what captivated him most were the eyes, they were big and searing, like he was looking deep into your soul. And he had to admit, he gasped.

“This is good, Ambers. Where did you find him?”

And he smiled, a curve of his lips with a hint of sadness. “I don’t know, Bernard. Fate brought him to me. And I can’t stop painting him. He’s too… perfect. I think I’ve found the one. He’ll make me famous, I just know it.”

“I bet he will.” And they hung the painting indeed, its majesty engulfing the dark ‘gallery’, it’s captivating nakedness suddenly brought light. And not long after that, fate brought another man into Dean Ambers life. His name was Dalton Wilde, and he was an art commissioner who worked for a European art tycoon who bought and sold paintings.

He was neat and dressed sharply. He wore silk suits in the tones of black to brown to grey. His shoes were shiny, his hair slick and blonde. The first time he went to see Dean Ambers in his apartment, he was half-stoned, half-naked and furiously sketching his naked muse on newspapers, toilet papers and even on his counter top.

“Mister Ambers?”

No answer. Just the sound of charcoal doodling on paper.

It was hours later when Dean finally brought his senses back to life. He was groggy, his head terribly heavy and aching. When he opened his eyes, a well-dressed man was beside him. Immediately, he thought he was dead.

“Hello, Mister Ambers.”

He tried to speak but his throat was very dry and to try to talk hurt, it was like interwoven barbed wires were stuck down his mouth down to his voice box.

“Don’t speak, it will only make things much slower. My name is Dalton Wilde, I’m an art commissioner, and I’m here to make you famous.” He produced a card from his suit pocket and put it on top a pile of books. “I’ve seen your paintings while you were, uhh, unconscious, if you won’t mind. And I must say, you have talent. I’ve never seen so much emotion and dedication to one muse. I am very much interested to represent your works. We will be having an art exhibit three weeks from now, my boss can pay you handsomely and I’m very sure your paintings will sell.” He beamed like a very well-practiced salesman. “I’m looking forward to working with you, mister Ambers.”

~~

Robb was sprawled on his bed, his sweat dripping from his forehead. It was a dry, humid day. And the setting sun did not ease the spell at all, it seemed the weather was going to be tough. He had to lock himself in his room after Sally walked across the living room wearing nothing but a silk chemise. Instantly, he felt  he had been thinking what he ought not to.

That was the one pain in living with Sally, his very own cousin. She was too beautiful it was a sin not to look at her and think about all the dirty stuff he could do. She was young, her skin was flawless, her hair in perfect waves.

Oh he thought of a lot of things. He thought of her naked, her back onto him, begging him to ease her pain, once or twice he even fantasized of spanking her. But all thoughts aside, he had to scold himself. But the fact that Sally was ever and deeply in love with him did not make things easier. All he felt for her was lust, while all she could think about him was love and marriage. And he could never give her that.

~~

Her efforts were once again, futile. How stupid could she get? Of course walking across the living room would only frighten Robb. He despised her, she was sure of that. And she hated herself for trying everyday. She wanted him badly. Eversince she was a child, he loved him. She thought of no one but him. And only Robb could save her, only Robb could make her happy.

But Robb only saw her as his cousin, nothing more. And that pained her. She cried a hundred nights, but the tears weren’t the hardest part, it was the silent weeping, the smiles behind the searing pain of being with him and not being entirely his. She was living with the man who could never grant her what she truly wanted.

She knew Robb truly cared for her, but only because… because… she was victim. And that was the end of it – pity.

Sally fell in love when she was six years old. Robb was ten. They had been playmates for as long as she could remember. Sally always visited Robb during the summer breaks. They’d play with the dogs, swim naked in the nearby lake and pretend they were hunters out slaying the great forest bear. Robb had always been the protective type, he’d hush her when her knees would start to bleed or when she would clumsily ruin his toy bricks. Robb never got angry or anything, he was the sweetest, most handsomest boy she had ever met.

But the year Robb turned ten, he started to loathe the lake. “We can’t swim out there anymore.” “But why not?” “Just trust me.” And she did. And when he turned twelve, he ultimately stopped wiping her bleeding knees, he stopped helping her tie her shoes. She was confused, had she done something? Was something wrong with her? But Robb said no. But she couldn’t help but feel sad, Robb hated her, she was sure of it.

And she stopped visiting during the summer breaks. And the year she turned seventeen, she came to visit again. Robb was twenty-one. And she was still angry at him. And this time around, it was Robb who sought after her attention. “I hate you, Robb.” She stuck out her tongue at him. “You haven’t changed one bit, Sally.”

“Yes I did. I’m a woman now.” She replied.

“Then you should know why I started avoiding you. I’ve become a man too, you know.” Sally could not help but melt, Robb always had a way with his boyish smiles. And just like that, they were playing around the dog kennels again, swimming (in swimsuits) by the nearby lake and for old time’s sake, she slipped on purpose, scratching her knee.

Robb went to her, wiped the blood off her knees and said: “Don’t do it ever again, Sally. You have to be careful. I want to help you, but I can’t.” There was pain in his eyes. And Sally knew what he meant. For when they were inches apart, a fire was instilled. A fire so taboo, a fire so strong, it had to be love.