How could I have entertained the fact that I wouldn’t be attracted to him?
The bus jostled to a stop and I stared out the window, gathering my bearings. Lights glowed from houses and lampposts as evening spread over London earlier than expected because of the rainstorm. I was getting nearer to home, moving further from him. Another ten minutes and I would be back in the safety of my apartment, away from the dismally orchestrated meeting with the man I wanted to fuck me more than I wanted to take my next breath.
* * *
My pillar-box red sweater was made of the finest cashmere, an indulgence born from a lucrative story in January, and as I pulled it down over my bare breasts the fluffed material tickled my nipples and smoothed over my flat belly like a soft cloud. I scraped back my hair and snapped it into a bobble, hitched up the base of my favourite sweats and sank my shower-hot toes into woolen socks. I had long since mastered the art of booting up my computer and checking for my emails as I went about mundane tasks such as dressing and drinking.
Sipping a glass of Merlot, I checked for a message from Liuz.
Nothing.
I set down the wine and reached for my pale-blue artist’s coat. It was thin cotton and dotted with every shade of acrylic paint imaginable. After shrugging into it, I squeezed out several generous blobs of paint onto my board. I had to commit the images swimming around my head to canvas. The compulsion to do so gnawed at me. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to eat, rest or work.
I stared at my blank canvas collection and nibbled on my bottom lip. Nothing seemed big enough. My desire was to have Liuz as large and as real in the room as possible.
I glanced around.
With a flourish of decisiveness, I tugged off a poster I’d bought recently in New York of the Empire State Building. Ripped at a signed picture I’d had for many years of Paul Weller playing his guitar.
A tall, thin unit, bursting with books, stood to the left, by the door. I heaved, tugged and shifted it to the centre of the room, finally freeing up a large, plain cream wall.
The perfect canvas.
I reached for a dense brush and daubed it in dark-brown paint. Lifted up high and splodged an outline of Liuz’s head. Just the barest shape, no detail – that would be added later.
I carefully angled the brush to create the sharp line of his jaw and the dent in his chin, leaving a space where I would come back to his ears. My heart raced and sweat popped between my breasts. For the second time that day, anticipation reeled within me. Soon I would have him before me, in my room.
His neck was next; not too thick, not too thin. I loaded up more paint and with steely determination squared out his shoulders, my breaths rapid. I was hot, the jumper no longer comfortable with all my twitching, stretching movements.
Frustrated by the necessary interruption, I dropped my brush and pulled shut my curtains. Peeled off my artist’s coat and dragged my expensive sweater over my head. Tossed it into a corner. Next came my pants and underwear, and finally my socks. Not bothering to put on my paint-speckled coat again, I lunged for my brush.
Naked and free, I set about painting a chest that rose outwards from the sternum, showing off broad pecs. A neatly tapered waist, lean and stretched. When I reached my favourite place of all on a man’s body I paused, rubbed a paint-stained hand across my hipbone and sucked in a breath. Even from a distance and through rain I could tell Liuz had adorable oblique muscles.
As I slowly committed the perfect shape to the wall, I stroked my tongue over my upper lip. The delectable angle between bricked abs and the start of his groin had to be just right to make my picture the masterpiece I wanted it to be.
What would that part of his flesh taste like on the tip of my tongue?
My brush was an extension of my mind, my memory and my lust. High on creativity and spurred on by the image unravelling, I added a low-slung waistband. I’d seen him wearing worn jeans – he’d looked dishevelled but at the same time comfortable in his own skin. An intoxicating mix of self-assured sexuality.
Again I paused.
Stepped back.
I shook my head, tutted, and tried to ignore the dampness between my legs as my plan formed.
Bypassing the first part of clothing I’d begun to draw, I continued downwards, flared the outline slightly at his hips and sketched out muscular thighs. The jeans were no longer part of my image. I wanted him as naked as me.
When I reached the knees I concentrated higher again, adding in the smooth balls of his shoulders and powerful arms hanging at his sides. I was completely lost in my task. My mobile rang and I ignored it. A siren screamed on the road below and I took no notice. My limbs felt free, and my skin buzzed as my swift movements caused air to breeze over it. All that existed was myself and the image of Liuz I was creating. An image that surpassed the photo I had hanging in the room, because it included his face – because soon it would include his cock.
His face was my next stage. With a smaller brush I created a proud nose and eyes that held a lazy, devil-may-care look, the visible lids a fraction big, the brows craggy. His mouth was a severe slash, a bit like when he had shouted at me. It was how I wanted it. I didn’t want Liuz smiling. I wanted him stern, commanding. A force to be reckoned with.
I squelched out more paint, not caring about the amount I was using. It was worth it. My stomach growled with hunger and I set about sketching his flopping tendrils of hair. My strokes were thick and heavy, the black paint shiny and textured. Carefully, holding my breath, I swirled a strand over his right eye so that it hung in front as I’d seen it do in his room.
Stepping backwards, I surveyed the effect.
Perfect.
I added the hint of an ear. My laptop tinkled to tell me mail had arrived.
Instantly, I was distracted from my fake Liuz to what could possibly be the real thing. Balancing my brush by the paints, I wiped a caked blob of black from my index finger onto my stomach and brought my screen to life.
I was not disappointed.
‘Are you there, Aniolku?’
I whipped my messy fingers over the keyboard. ‘Sure, been in all day. Waiting for you to say hi.’
That should cover my tail.
There was a several-minute pause. I sipped nervously on my wine and shoved Simply Red into the CD player. Mick’s dulcet tones filled my study.
‘You said you were going out to cover a premiere in Leicester Square.’
‘I was, but I got involved in a project about Uganda’s fair trade imports and lost track of time.’
‘Do you do that often?’
‘What?’
‘Lose track of time?’
‘Yes, when I’m working.’
And when I’m painting full-size naked men on my wall.
‘And you
