Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

No longer, Yes, I remember this, but rather, Yes, I have always known this, this is not personal but absolute truth.

To speak to human nature rather than individual experience-this will be his triumph, this will be the first paintings in today’s world to go the other way, to break through the present obsessive preoccupation with the individual, to reach back and capture once more the archetypes, the shared imagery which lurks within us all.

And Jessica?

Armand smiles at the thought of her, of her petty, obvious ambition.

Too late, Jessica, he tells her; she is, was at best a more mature, more intelligent Darlene.

But that’s been done.

Blatant ambition, unabashed selfishness, raw greed has been captured on canvas, the canvasses sold off, the model catapulted to fame and fortune.

Time to move on, which Jessica understood far too slowly to avoid being hurt-if she was in fact hurt, if she was not actually too cool, too calculating to be hurt by having taken a shot that didn’t work out.

He wishes her well, actually, Armand reflects, lying back on the bed, ignoring rather than avoiding the wet spot. On balance, she would have been a much better model than Darlene, a much purer, more mature example of what Darlene represented-what she still represents on the soaps.

And yes, he could even have turned out better paintings with her for inspiration, he supposes-except that the paintings themselves are unimportant.

So no, he has lost nothing there, has gained, has realized his insights, has achieved his transformation, or rather those particular transformations which accrued to that inspiration.

The bemuscled couple emerges from the bathroom and Armand is struck once again by their completeness.

Living works of art they are, the exception to the rule of end product as the discard, the negative of the artist’s transformation.

Because when the artist himself is the medium; when he is both subject and object of the process, there is no discard, no residue-unless it is a picture of himself, some BEFORE version-before, and therefore inferior to now, given that there can never truly be an AFTER, not so long as development continues.

“You uh, you need us for anything else tonight, Armand?” Steve asks.

“No, no, Steve. Oh, and I won’t be at the gym tomorrow. I’ll be here instead.”

“I figured. Come on, Doreen, let’s blow this dump.

“Geez, Armand, not for nothing, but have ya given any thought, any consideration at all to that unit that’s open in my building?”

“Steve, as you might have gathered, at the moment, I have other concerns to address.”

Steve shrugs and turns away, by way of reply.

Quickly, Steve and Doreen dress.

Armand, still naked, pauses beside his desk, picking up two checks, handing them to Steve and Doreen.

“For this kinda loot, I’m available anytime,” Doreen says, adding quickly, “as a model, that is.”

Making it clear that she is a bodybuilder and model and nothing else, notwithstanding the scene here tonight, a thing which Armand did not misunderstand to begin with.

“Of course,” he replies, “and thank you for coming.

“And Steve, thanks for everything.”

“My pleasure,” Steve responds. “I learned a lot.”

“Oh yeah?” Doreen says. “When was that?” They all laugh and Armand sees them to the elevator.

And now, he stands there in the vastness of the darkened loft, the blank canvasses stacked here and there against the pillars.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow, he will begin. It will begin. TomorrowHe hits the light switch and the empty aisles of the loft gleam, the polished wood of the floor reflecting the lights.

The large canvasses, he will begin with, he tells himself.

But first, a pitcher of iced tea, super-strong, he must have.

Never mind tomorrow, never mind time of day, day of week. It is time to begin, is what time it is.

And he needs no sleep, he needs no sex, he needs no reflection, no contemplation, no composition, not even the photographs.

What he needs, he tells himself, is to work, to create-to create and create and create and thereby transform himself.

Jessica stands before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, looking at herself, turning her body this way and that.

How could Armand have thrown her out?

How could he have resisted her in any way?

Check the ass, check the face the boobs, the bod, the legs. Perfect!

And then, like a bolt from the blue, the bullshit.

Going in another direction, and like that, she was, she was-and reality sets in.

What she was, was obvious, transparent.

What she was, was a smart-ass, pseudo-intellectual graduate student who actually thought she could make an impression on, could have influence over, could play with the mind of probably the greatest artist in the world today.

What she was, was side meat, a piece of ass, a way of passing the time until his next inspiration.

She wanted to inspire him? What a laugh, when all the while, inspiration meant only that he would want her out of the way, ASAP.

She was lower than low priority; she was no priority.

Still, she tells herself, she need not come away from the experience empty-handed.

Because Steve, being a strictly physical kind of guy, would be bound to be attracted to her.

True, he probably had more offers than he could handle-but from how many people who have done what they did?

So yes, hell yes, she has a claim there, she figures. And, since he is a friend of Armand’s-real ass hole buddies would be her guess-who knows?

Perhaps she could still see Armand, from time to time. After all, it couldn’t hurt her own career any to be known as a friend of the great man, friend. and former-never mind.

That would be pushing it.

Plus, if her relationship with Steve should take off, then she herself would want to minimize her recent adventures with other than Steve, right?

But now, she tells herself, Wait. Fall back, kiddo. Regroup.

Because the situation isn’t all that cut and dried with Steve, any more than it was with Armand. And there is no reason for her to make the same mistake twice.

She should go after Steve-if she goes after Steve-more casually, that is, as something to do sometime when neither of them has anything better to do, or maybe anything at all to do.

She’ll join the gym, seeing them both there, no doubt.

And Steve will ask her out, remembering, knowing what she has to offer, knowing and appreciating much more than did, than does Armand.

And that is the way she will end up with Steve, end up having her picture taken with Steve, end up becoming known as his girlfriend AND acquaintance of Armand Fortuna, as well as being “an artist in her own right”.

Because she knows that she has what it takes, knows that she can turn herself on practically at will.

And now, if proof of that were required, she pulls her vibrator out of the drawer of one of the nightstands flanking her bed.

An element of reality, she tells herself, mimicking Armand’s lecturing voice, in her mind.

By means of masturbation, she tells herself, using the vibrator as the medium, she shall proceed to create a happening here.

She lies down on her bed, raising and spreading her legs, bent at the knees, as though this were the moment of insertion for Armand, or Steve, or whoever.

She turns on the vibrator, its simulated cock head and shaft buzzing, the sound reverberating off the waits of her bedroom.

Lightly, she touches the tip of her tongue to the shimmering head, then plunges it into her cunt, guiding it in, in, into herself, the buzzing becoming all but inaudible.

And now she fucks herself with the vibrator, rubbing her breasts with her other hand, feeling the warmth of her arousal begin to permeate her whole body.