Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

And even if it once did, that is no longer true.

He is a millionaire many times over, she knows.

And, living as he does, he doesn’t need but a fraction of what he already has.

So that he is free, is absolutely free to open himself up to his own creativity which, after listening to his first three lectures, she is firmly convinced is utterly unlimited.

On the other hand, she has noticed that the great barn of a loft is absolutely empty, except for the now famous couch of Irene.

There is not a canvas, not a tube of paint, not a brush to be seen.

Only the high polish of the wooden floors and the easels standing empty, somehow eerie and threatening, like gallows awaiting the condemned, distinguish his loft from any abandoned warehouse.

It has always been night when she has come here, which, she tells herself, is just as well, lest she see the north light reflecting on bare-floored, bare walled, bare-pillared nothingness and become discouraged by the reality of the emptiness, lest she see in the loft itself a statement, a confirmation of Armand’s barrenness.

As it is, they cross from the old freight elevator to the apartment through the maze of thick, whitewashed pillars across the plain of the empty floor, gleaming dully from the low-wattage bulbs which dot the high ceiling in their metal reflectors, not a studio at all, but some interior-exterior surreal stage, mere transitional space between elevator and apartment which must be traversed as quickly as possible and not thought about at all.

He is fucking her and she realizes with a start that she is not responding, her mind wandering.

And she wonders if this is not how a prostitute distances herself from her clients-present in body, absent in mind.

Which is not really fair to Armand, she tells herself, as well as being not too smart.

He is quite a virile stud, in remarkable shape for a man of his age and profession, admirably well hung and with a genuine skill and enthusiasm for what Ovid referred to as the art of love.

Meaning sex.

Because Jessica is not deceived on that score.

Love, in the romantic sense, plays no part in Armand’s life.

Because it would be an absurdity, would run counter to the very philosophy he espouses, would serve only to trivialize it, to have the tail wag the dog, saying, in essence, Yes, I say these things, I preach the marriage of man to his own creativity, but in my own personal life, I do not practice what I preach.

Which is not, cannot be true in his case, she knows; otherwise, Irene would have been his forever and ever, world without end, no question.

Because one person cannot get that close to another without, in essence, merging with that other, without making that other a part of himself.

Which did not happen.

Which is quite opposite of what happened, Armand endowing, infusing Irene with her own creativity, awakening the spark within her.

So that Irene may well have come to him innocent and ignorant, but she certainly didn’t leave that way.

And leave him she did, becoming friends for the record, but strangers in the world.

Because people do not become that close only to drift that far apart without there growing between them a chasm of colossal proportions.

It is as though both of them are surrounded by the envelope, the armor.of their own creativity, as unable to get close to one another as, say, jet pilots, each flying his own aircraft.

And yes, she tells herself, she wants it to be that way between herself and Armand as well, wants to be in that position, that is, having satellited off of him, she wishes to shine in her own right.

She wants nothing of Armand save his reknown, his reputation, that temporary linkage required to launch her into the heavens, there to glow as brightly as does he himself.

Too much to ask?

Certainly not for Irene, certainly not for Darlene, and very, very certainly, in all logic and reason, not for Jessica, she tells herself, as Armand humps and pumps ~way on her.

Except He has to begin, has to get started, has to get it in gear!

Three weeks now, and a good long time before these last weeks, she knows, and he has done nothing, has created nothing.

This lecture series?

Well, yes, that is creativity of sorts, but not of the variety she requires.

Because that is nothing but looking into the mirror of his own mind, broadcasting the reflections of his thoughts.

And of course, students, faculty, press and public hang upon his every word, relishing-as well they should-the secrets of the created process from one of the very few living masters thereof, sucking up the words from his lips.

She has seen them, the tape recorders of the faithful, grasping for posterity his every syllable.

She knows that they need not bother, that already the university press will publish, revised, expanded and in hard cover his lecture series under some appropriately unifying title.

And this too makes her uneasy, apprehensive, as much so as his present lack of creativity in the artistic sense.

Because that will require time, energy and effort.

But then, she cannot believe that he can plunge himself into the mechanics of his own creativity and not actually produce at least some new examples of the works implicit therein.

So that perhaps it could work out for the best after all.

Maybe, just maybe he would be willing to use her as a model while he is putting the book together-and yes, why not?-dedicate the book to her!

She can see it now, can see the book’s pages opening. The jacket, non-representational, simply well arranged script-title, author.

The inside flap of the jacket, critical raves in brief, then a blank page, then a page with the words, centered in caps, FOR JESSICA.

Yes, that will definitely do it.

And her pussy is sucking his cock now, is milking it, is servicing it with all the articulate talent of a working mouth.

Which causes him to go faster and faster, responding to what he takes to be her response to him which, in a manner of speaking, is correct.

Because Jessica has translated this particular vision of the future into a fantasy, has reassembled the elements of reality in her mind in such a manner that she is indeed aroused, aroused in the physical, the sexual, the emotional sense.

And one arousal is as good as another, whatever turns you on, and like that, right?

So that, seeing her role as his muse, his inspiration as the key to what it is she is trying to accomplish, the first step on her path to fame and fortune, yes, hell yes, she is excited, as who wouldn’t be?

And she responds to him, her body, her pussy.

So that she joins him on his trip up, up, up the rainbow of his sexual arousal, latching onto it, getting with the program, making it her trip as well, in perfect allegory to that which she intends should happen in the real world.

Because now she truly sees, truly believes in what Armand preaches, which is that, ultimately, fantasy and reality are actually reality and reality, once the creative process is well and truly underway.

And is she not in essence creating here?

Is she not moving, acting, living in accordance with her vision, her imagination?

Is she not, actually, doing that which Armand himself preaches?

And therefore-oh blessed enlightenment!-has he not himself given her the key to her success?

Has he not virtually shown her the way, given her a lock on her project?

A cold, a manipulative way to look at her relationship with him, perhaps, but then, she feels that he would somehow approve, that in retrospect, he will approve of what she has done.

Yes, it’s all coming together for her now.

All. that is required is that she get closer to him, that she stick closer to him.