Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

He was practically strutting as he marched into the bathroom, this time running the shower, his cock still rigid, huge and stiff, going down only very slowly.

And Steve offered Jessica a hand off the bed and led her into the large, glassed-in, tiled shower enclosure, joining Armand.

So that they showered together, the thrill of wet, soap-slickened skin rubbing against its like prevalent as they scrubbed themselves thoroughly.

Afterward, they dried off together and Steve put on a terrycloth robe as Armand and Jessica dressed in silence.

Armand and Jessica went into the subway, still not speaking, out on the street, taking separate subway trains, Armand’s only gallantry being to see her safely onto hers before catching his own.

So it went.

And Jessica understood, understands, none of it.

She cannot fathom the meaning of Armand’s scene, in the larger sense.

So brilliant here, so academically charming and witty, his talent beyond dispute, his reputation in the art world secure, secure as it must be now days as an isolated, individual phenomenon of genius.

Because he’s right about there being no major movements with which artists can identify in today’s world.

Which makes it all the more important, if she is to succeed in that world, that she attach herself to his star, which is in the perpetual ascendant.

Because she will not use him as a springboard to a modeling career, la Irene.

Nor will she become a soap opera villainess, in the manner of Darlene.

Rather, she will stake her claim in Armand’s own back yard, in the world of art.

So that a linkage with him will be a statement concerning her own abilities, will cause the critics, as critics are in the habit’ of doing when properly inspired, to see that which is not there.

Things like talent, insight, empathy-whatever.

Whatever, she tells herself, so long as she becomes famous, so long as her canvasses command ridiculous prices, perhaps even those which accrue to Armand Fortuna’s works.

Accrued, she corrects herself.

Because Armand has no paintings, owns not one of his own works, has retained none of them.

A few have been given to museums, most notable being the huge ‘Irene I’, but to view Armand Fortuna’s works, one must buy the coffee table books of his three exhibitions.

Because his works are, for the most part, privately owned.

And this private ownership is unlikely to change much, at least in Armand’s-and Jessica’s-lifetime.

Which means that the market in Armand for-tunas has been effectively wiped clean. The bazaar stands empty.

But then, she reminds herself, so does his studio. “… which is, in essence, bad information. “Having neither function nor aesthetic appeal, we see a whole body of art-art so-called, we should say, since that which lacks aesthetic appeal and yet is not functional is hardly art, except in the mind of the one who created it.

“But perhaps I am preaching snobbery here.

“After all, who is the arbiter of taste, empowered to say that this is aesthetic, but that is not? “And can it be that good intentions, besides being that with which the road to hell is paved, are sufficient to constitute art? “Can we not, by adding qualifiers to our original definition of art, in essence qualify whatever we please? “Can we not go from bad imagination to bad but real elements to terrible composition to create art which is to most of us unacceptable? “I appeal to your sense of democracy and fair play, ladies and gentlemen! “Rebel, ye student masses! Reject the C, the D, the E! What do they know, your teachers, right? “Relax, folks! Just kidding. Really.

“Because, if all there was to aesthetics, if all there was to art were the what of it and the where of it, then that argument would have validity; but, as we shall see next week, that is far from the whole story.

“Hint. Why? Why art? What causes man to create, to imagine, to compose, to inform? “Think about it. Those of you with the time or the inclination, research it and see how my findings compare with your sources.

“Why art? “Does that question excite you as much as it does me? “Until next week, then, same time, same auditorium, goodnight.”

The applause mingles with the shuffling of feet and Jessica surprises herself by simply sitting where she is, making no move to approach the podium, where Armand is stuffing his briefcase with his notes.

After last week, does he expect her to come to him as though nothing happened? she wonders.

And what of Steve, sitting where he is, like herself?

And Jessica decides that she will leave it up to Steve.

If. If Steve goes down to the podium and lingers there, if he moves off with Armand, then she will have to abandon the field,’ will have to contact him some other time.

She will have to call him up- And she realizes that she doesn’t even have his telephone.

There’s one in his apartment in the loft, she knows; she has seen it, beside the noisy little refrigerator; but he is too famous, too famous and too rich to have a listed number.

So that, if she is to get at him at all, it must be now-or next week.

And she is unwilling to have his last memory of her be that of her stepping glumly, silently onto a train in the subway after some crazy fuck session with Steve and himself, a kind of ball game with naked bodies in which she was the ball.

You owe me, you bastard she beams at him with powerful thought waves.

To her relief, Steve merely waves at Armand and leaves, following the last of the crowd out of the upper doors.

So that she has no competition for Armand’s attention.

And he apparently is expecting her company, because he stands there, watching her progress as she makes her way down the stairs to him.

“Shook ‘em up a little tonight, didn’t I?” he chuckles.

“Yes, Armand, you’re very good at that.”

Arid her tone of voice tells him that that was not a compliment.

“So. With all that talk about means and media, Armand, have you gone out and bought yourself some brushes or anything?”

“Did I ever tell you the story about that?”

“No, you didn’t,”

“When I was finishing the Darlene series, I had used up most of my paint, had worn out all my brushes.

“So I let the pallette and the technique of the last three paintings be dictated by the materials on hand. The results were, to say the least, spectacular, a surprise and a revelation to me.

“The gallery got the canvasses, the garbage man the empty paint tubes and frazzled brushes, the soap opera got Darlene after the exhibition and I got a clean slate out of the deal.

“My seventh lecture will cover the whole experience, beginning to end. The creative process and the role of accident.”

Not what she wanted to hear at all, so she says nothing as they approach his building.

“What’s the question?” Armand asks, doing his best imitation of Hulk Hogan rah-rahing his fans, leaning forward, one hand cupped to his ear.

“Why art?” the audience shouts back, in sufficient numbers to cause reverberation.

“Why art?” Armand repeats. “What is there within man which drives him to produce, for sheer aesthetics, that which he and the rest of us could very well do without? “Or is the drive to create within the artist-after-the-fact the same as that which compels a Thomas Edison or a Henry Ford? “For answer, we have a figure who bridges both considerations-Leonardo da Vinci.

“With Leonardo, we see the common denominator-the artist and scientist, combined into one.

“So that the answer would appear to be-and I contend that in fact it is-yes.