ROUGH (18+) (RM TOP) (7401 words)

ROUGH *SIX*

As soon as we entered the floor painted entirely crimson, I suddenly understood why Namjoon had been so keen to come and see the exhibition.

All the walls were filled with nude paintings. Men's, women's.

Some had bodies contorted into weird positions, in some their limbs were missing to really draw the attention to their torsos... many of them had very provocative and erotic positions.

But what really drew my eye and made Schiele's work so unusual in my eyes was the fact that the faces often directly contrasted the lewd content of the painting: sometimes they looked seductive, but more of than not, they looked disconcerting, angry, blank, surprised or damn right dark.

The paintings had a deep impact on me, intellectually, physically and mentally. The combination of all these emotions had one, very unexpected, result: I was seriously turned on. I don't think classic art had ever had that effect on me before.

I left Namjoon in peace to enjoy the paintings and walked around the room. In between paintings, I caught his eye across the room.

Piercing my eyes, he rubbed his fingers -yes, the very fingers that had been knuckle-deep in my soaking wet pussy- under his nose and inhaled deeply. I felt a distinct clenching down below. As if that wasn't bad enough, quickly scanning the room for spectators, and finding none, he sucked a finger in, closing his eyes in pleasure, tasting the flavour still clinging onto them.

I groaned. SHIT! What is this man doing to me!? I wanted more and I wanted it now.

Sharply, I turned away from him to hide the heat rising to my cheeks. How could I still feel so shy after what we just did on the corridor, in PUBLIC!? What a lewd thing to do... I had never even dared to THINK about doing something like that, let alone actually doing it. The fact that we did do it, however, gave me a sexual thrill like no other.

Finally, I caught up with Namjoon, hoping I had calmed down enough to be in his presence without any sexual assault incidents happening from my part.

Toward the very end of the exhibition, there were two groups of paintings of women.

On one side there were beautiful, sensual drawings, in a more classical style, of women's beautiful sinuous backs, some undressing, some embracing. I could really see the technical skill of the artist and his unusual way of looking at people, at a time when art like this didn't exist yet.

But on the other side, there were women who looked directly at you, slutty, with their legs wide open for you to see, as if daring you to see, their bristly bushes of pubic hair on display. I was shocked.

I felt Namjoon's stare on me, observing my reaction.

"Well...what do you think?" he whispered, suddenly too close to me, his breath on my cheek.

So, this is what he really wanted to see -wanted me to see.

"It's so....so... unusual." I said for the lack of a better word, my breath coming out in little puffs.

Even though some of the angles and positions seemed bizarre on the first viewing, -pulling your attention directly to the crude sexuality of the image-, gazing at the paintings for a moment longer revealed new depths. Motionless, I gazed in silence and realised that it wasn't only anatomy and technical knowledge one needed to paint something like this... but, perhaps even more so, the understanding of human nature.

"He...really understood people, I think?" I fidgeted, feeling self-conscious of my feelings, my body's reaction to the art, to Namjoon.

"It feels like you could touch them, and they would react." I whispered, blown away.

"I don't think these people were just models to him", there was emotion, good or bad, behind every painting.

Namjoon nodded in agreement, grabbed my hand, and pulled me away gently. I suddenly realised that the art had very little to do with the nudity itself, that was just the medium, and what was more relevant were the feelings -of the person in the painting, of the person painting it, and finally, the person looking at it.

I looked at Namjoon and felt, for the first time, that I understood him and why he liked art so much.

"Come." His voice matched the gentleness of his grip, as if he were fully aware of my deep realisations.

Slowly, still mulling over our feelings stirred by the art (and things in between perhaps?) we walked to the stairs to head back home.