wetness which makes me twitch when I see him smoking and humming to himself, waiting for me. I can’t back out now. I exhale deeply. This is it. My destiny on canvas. I’m hot, sweaty and perspiring.
I strike a pose.
Who knew standing still for twenty minutes would be so difficult, especially since I was trying hard not to concentrate my energy on my throbbing pubic area? Okay, my pussy. Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I got turned on posing nude. No, the old artist didn’t come on to me. He’s very professional.
It’s me.
I’m sexually frustrated, and not even a stiff neck—oh, for the delights of a stiff dick instead!—and achy back can stop me from daydreaming about moving my body in a brisk rhythm, my lover licking my clitoris, then the lips of my pussy, digging his tongue into me, and then back on my clit. Back and forth until I’m buzzing down there with an undulating energy that never stops…never stops…
Mmm…keep dreaming.
I take a break behind the screen to soothe my sore muscles and wipe off the sweat between my legs. That’s what it is, isn’t it? I smile, then sniff. Maybe not. Letting go of a sigh and a little gas—I couldn’t help it—I grab a faded smock off a coat hook. Gray-tinged and splattered with dried paint, it looks like it’s been hanging there since Paris was liberated but it’s dry. My clothes are still wet. Drip, drip. I tiptoe through puddles of water on the wooden floor. Or is there a leak in the roof?
I look up. Unlike the rest of the studio, the ceiling is a square skylight. High over my head rain beats down against square glass panes framed with lead, blocking out what little gray daylight can slide through the pelting drops. I shiver. It’s creepy back here. I wonder what the old artist is hiding under the black velvet drape covering the wall? Dorian Gray in his jockeys?
Before I can pull back the curtain to find out, I see an object that intrigues me. It’s about a foot high, battered bronze, and grimy looking: a statue wearing a feathered crown, carrying a flail, and with his erection protruding straight out in front of him.
Did I say erection? As in penis? A dick? Oh, yes, I did.
This is way better than any hotel souvenir. Oozing with curiosity, I reach down and wrap my fingers around the statue’s penis and continue to hold on to it. I have no idea why, I just can’t let it go. I smile. It’s been a while since I’ve held such a hard penis in my hand.
I peek over the screen and ask the old artist about the statue.
“You’re holding la gaule, the erection, of the Egyptian god Min,” he says, tapping his cigarette pack. It’s empty.
“He should be the poster boy for Viagra,” I say, trying to make light of my awkwardness. The statue’s kinda cute, if you dig a walking Egyptian with spiked hair.
“Min is the god of fertility, mademoiselle. His symbol is the thunderbolt.”
Thunder cracks. How apropos.
The old artist never misses a beat, as if he’s told this story a hundred times. “He has the power to grant youth and sexuality—” he pauses, then lowers his voice “—if you’re willing to pay the price.”
“Price, monsieur?”
“You must sell your soul, mademoiselle.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Sell my soul?”
“Yes. You’ll be young and beautiful—”
“Get out!” He’s kidding, isn’t he?
“—but you can never fall in love.”
No chance of that happening. Not after David.
I ask, “What happens if I do fall in love?”
“You change back to the way you were.”
In other words, middle-aged and overweight. Thinking, I run my fingers over the statue’s, um, dick. The statue is for sale, according to the old artist. It’s tempting. No more vanity sizing? A flat stomach? Perky breasts? What a fascinating idea, a tantalizing, sexual black magic. FX to the max. But is it worth braving an airport security search? I shake my head. I still have not-so-fond memories of smirks and pat-downs when my ex-assistant—yes, she and David are now a twosome—sneaked a lipstick vibrator into my carry-on bag when I flew up to San Francisco last month. I don’t want to go through that again.
Smiling, I tell the old artist I’ll think about it. He shrugs, then disappears to get another pack of cigarettes. I look around to see what other goodies I can find. Nothing here. Cracked vases, old books, a Tiffany lamp and a charcoal-tinged red pot emitting a weird odor. Not unpleasant, just weird. I take a sniff. Coriander, wine…and is that ginger I smell?
Within seconds dizziness muddles my mind as if the wine gremlins have invaded my head and are using my brain for a grape mosh pit. Is it the bottle of Pinot Noir I washed down those fries with? Or the smelly stuff in the pot? The bile in my stomach crosses paths with frying grease and adds fruity alcohol to the mix, flipping out my equilibrium. Whatever, my knees go weak, as if I’m moving in slo-mo. I try to focus, but everything looks blurry. What if I pass out? Go into a coma? Without a prince to wake me up with a French kiss? No frickin’ way! I sink to my knees, but I refuse to succumb to the sleepytime trolls dancing in my head. I grab on to the black velvet drape to steady myself when—
Swwooosh!
My hands fly up as a heavy thump of velvet comes down on top of my head, suffocating me. Gasping, I struggle to wipe the soft darkness from my eyes, free myself from the giant bat cape covering me from head to toe. Loud breaths, husky, panicky, invade my ears, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I hold my breath and listen. Who is it?
I let out my breath. Damn, it’s me. Panting like a porn star having a fake orgasm in cyberspace.
Okay, so now I can relax. I’m not trapped in here with some spine-tingling apparition chatting me up with nocturnal moans, but I can’t get this velvet drape off my head. Every time I pull one way, the drape goes the other, making me queasy. I gotta shake this nausea. Breathe in then out. Two, three times. I’ll never dip greasy French fries into red wine again. What was I thinking? Then…
…over my rapid breathing comes another sound. Laughter. Laughter? Is the old artist back? I have the odd feeling he’s choking on his ciggie sans filtre, enjoying this. I’ll give him something to laugh about when I unravel this velvet mess and—
—ooohhh, wait. That’s not him. The laughter is low and sexy and so close to my ear a chill slithers up and down my vertebrae knocking together like Lego pieces that don’t fit. Something creepy is going on here. Drops of perspiration form between my breasts, wiggle down my ribcage, then drip down my thighs as I pull and tug on the black velvet drape. I can’t thrash loose. My breath becomes sharper. The back of my neck is damp. Finally, I rip the heavy fabric off my face and—
—I see him. Staring at me with his eyes. Dark blue eyes that intrigue me.
A life-size painting of a man over six feet tall.
I grin, relaxing the tenseness in my face. So that’s what the drape was hiding. A superstud. Arms crossed, feet spread apart, and wearing tighter-than-tight pants that outline his impressive cock and he’s—
Laughing?
