Scratching the Surface

“1640… 42…”

Is this the right one…?

Yeah, this is it. Shit, I didn’t get the building wrong, did I? All these warehouses look the same.

Guess I’ll just… let myself in…

I’ve seen photos of your studio online, but they pale in comparison to the real thing. The smell of turpentine and fresh linen is heavy in the air. Every surface is covered with piles of drawings, and stacks of psychology and philosophy books.

And some of your best paintings are just… there. Stuffed into the corner as if they aren’t some of the most challenging and influential works the art world’s seen in the last decade.

“Hello!”

“Oh. Hey there, sorry ’bout that.”

“Hi, no, no worries. I hope you don’t mind, I let myself in.”

“Not at all, come on in. Um, tea? I just brewed a new pot.”

“Oh, god, yeah. That’d be great.”

“Okay. One sec. Feel free to have a look around.”

You and I have exchanged emails back and forth over the years, run into each other at various gallery openings and talks, but this is somehow the first time I’ve been to your studio. And, I’ve got to say, I’m a little bit starstruck.

I’ve been appointed to curate a group exhibition for the Contemporary Art Institute and yours was the first name I thought of as I started to put together my research.

Your work has been everywhere the last five years. Ever since you won the Jerrod Foundation Fellowship, galleries and museums have just been clamoring after your work. And rightly so.

Your paintings are massive, like huge totems, and densely layered in huge swaths of thick, seductive colors. The way you depict the human body is simple, reducing everything to fundamental shapes and bold, insistent lines. There’s always been something so… tempting about your figures to me, the way they gaze out at the viewer…

I’ve always felt a little seduced by them.

Doesn’t really help that on top of all of your accomplishments and talent, you’re hot. I’m not afraid to say it and to be honest, I doubt you are either. You don’t have any of the obnoxious arrogance and self-importance that the art world tends to encourage, but there is a swagger in your walk… A loose carelessness that the rest of the world and I find so charming…

I’ve also heard you can be a little bit of a heartbreaker. There’s been some rumors about you and more than a few high-profile gallerists… Like you’ve got a ‘love-em-and-leave-em’ routine you like to pull…

But those are just rumors. And this meeting today is strictly business.

“I just finished that one. Paint’s still wet, actually. Here.”

“Mm, thank you. Yeah, it’s… really challenging. And reminds me quite a bit of your older work, what you were doing in graduate school.”

“Oh, all those cyanotypes? Yeah, you know, I guess you’re right. I could definitely draw connections between that work and what I’m doing now. That’s interesting, I hadn’t thought of that before.”

There’s such an ease about you that I admire, a confidence that you carry in your body. It’s like you hold no uncertainty about yourself. Like all doubt has been replaced with curiosity.

“So, you said in your email you wanted to talk about the upcoming C.A.I. show, right? Congrats by the way. That’s huge to be curating their biennial.”

My cheeks flush a little, maybe from the warmth of the tea, maybe from your compliment.

“That’s sweet, thanks. Yeah, I was… a little surprised they picked me, to be honest. But, thrilled, obviously. I’m just starting to put together a working list of artists and, naturally, you were at the top of that list.”

“Yeah, it’s about time we got to know each other a little better. I mean, I feel like I run into you all the time.”

You push your weight onto one foot, then the other, like you’re unable to stand still. Like your mind is spinning in a thousand directions, but despite that, you’re still focused on me. I push a few fallen strands of hair from my messy bun behind my ear, never breaking my gaze with you.

“A lot of my work is already scheduled to be shown next years—three solo shows next years and a couple of group exhibitions out of the country—so I can’t make any promises that I’ll be able to contribute, but why don’t you tell me a little bit about what you had in mind?”

There’s a smudge of pale blue paint just above the corner of your mouth. For a moment, I imagine what it would be like to reach out and wipe it away.

“Um, yeah, of course. Well, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the concept of friction, historical friction specifically. And I’ve been wanting to build the exhibition around this idea that warmth and energy are produced when one thing comes into contact with another, but there can also be a clashing, a kind of animosity from the collision of two objects. ”

“Mmm. Yeah, like the idea that the same thing can be invented by different people in different places.”

“Yes, exactly. That’s… yeah. And your work, especially the recent paintings—these over here—I’ve just been thinking a lot about them in relation to someone like Davis Eaves who makes these really small, intimate bronze sculptures. Almost like you two have invented the same thing, just in different forms.”

“Oh, yeah, I know Davis. That’s… wow, I’ve never considered what our work might do if it was in the same room, but… that’s an interesting proposal. Definitely.”

You meander towards one of your paintings hanging like a massive billboard on the studio wall. You look up at it almost as if you’re seeing it for the first time.

You wave me over to the canvas you’re standing in front of. I don’t really know why, but a rush of adrenaline surges through me, a giddiness that forces me to stifle oncoming laughter.

It’s no secret how charming you can be, even when you aren’t trying, but having that attention directed at me is… kind of thrilling.

“This one is a good contender, I think. For what you’re trying to do with the show. I have a couple of others I’ll be finishing in the next few weeks that I can show you, too. But I’d love to hear your thoughts on how this one might work.”

I join you in front of the huge canvas and my shoulder brushes against yours. It’s an accident on my part, but you lean into me a little as you slip your hand into the pocket of your paint-splattered coveralls.

“Sorry, I’m not putting you on the spot, am I?”

“No, no, um…”

I’m suddenly aware of how close together we’re standing. The heat of your body just beside me. Your curious eyes trailing down my face, settling on my lips.

There’s… something happening right now. A kind of electric exchange. My heart is… beating really fast all of the sudden. I feel like I’m being drawn into you.

“Is this okay…?”

“Yeah.”

You walk me back a few paces, but your lips never leave mine. I grasp onto your hip as you guide me gently up against the vintage dining table you’re using as a surface to stack books and various paint supplies on.

I lift myself up onto the surface and you press your body between my legs.

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you since the moment you walked in the door…”

Your fingers press into my hair at the side of my head and bury themselves deep. Your cheek rubs against mine as your lips drift down to my jaw.

Desire floods me and I tip my head back to just bask in this moment of pleasure.

“Oh, fuck…”

I squeeze tighter around your hip and widen my legs to bring you closer. The rough cotton of your denim is warm and scratchy against my bare thighs.

God, I need to feel more of you… You slide your hand up the length of my thigh, but it’s not enough..

I put my hand on yours and guide it between my legs. I slip my panties to the side, giving you full permission to go in.

Your fingers stroke softly through my folds… circling around my clit…

“This was not how I imagined this meeting going…”

“Honestly? I kind of imagined it going exactly like this…”

“I have to taste you…”

“Be my guest.”

I bunch my dress up and hold it at my waist as you drop down to your knees. Your hands push my legs apart and drag my panties down my ankles.

Your tongue moves slowly at first, just parting my folds with soft little licks of your tongue.

Your strokes become longer… fuller… and your tongue probes from my entrance all the way up to my clit… so slow… so fucking expertly…

I look down and watch your head bob between my legs, your eyes gazing up at me with intense hunger.

You focus the tip of your tongue on my clit, your strokes getting faster and harder.

“Ohhh, fuck… fuck, yeah, right there…”

“Don’t make me cum… don’t make me cum, not yet…”

You wipe your lips, glistening wet, with the back of your hand before kissing me again.

“Turn around.”

The low, desperate tone in your voice sends a bolt of desire straight to my pussy. I turn around, bend forward, and lay my palms flat against the surface of the table. I push my ass into your crotch and grind up against you a little, just to let you know how badly I want you.

“Go inside me. I want to feel you fuck me…”

Your whole body presses against mine as you lean forward and slowly draw the straps of my dress down my shoulders. My breasts tumble out and your hands quickly take hold of them.

“You have gorgeous fucking tits. God, I want to taste those, too…”

“Hey, stay focused. Pussy. Fingers. Now.”

Your fingers twist and turn around my nipples and your lips suck along the curve of my shoulder. I feel your teeth scrape across my skin as one hand drifts down to my pussy.

Your hand slips beneath my dress again and two fingers apply pressure to my clit.

“Ohh, yeah…”

You pet my clit with such an expert touch, like you somehow already know exactly where and how to touch me. I grasp onto the edge of the table to brace myself.

“F-fuck… fuck, I want you in me…”

“Yeah? You want my fingers inside you?”

“Yeah, put your fingers in…”

“Yeah, that’s it… that’s it… right there. Fuck, right there…”

“You want it harder?”

“Oh my god, fuck—yeah, harder. Fuck me harder. ”

“I’m close. Ohhh my god, I’m fucking close…”

“Yeah, yeah, cum for me…”

My forehead is sticky with sweat and my legs are wobbling beneath me. I bend down and gather my dress, quickly sliding the straps back on against my shoulders.

Your arms wrap around my waist and you meet my heavy breaths with a kiss.

“You… that wasn’t fair. You seduced me—”

“I seduced you? Please, you’re the one who asked me for a studio visit. And then you come here looking so incredibly hot talking about friction—”

“Okay, okay, it was an equal opportunity seducing. So… I can have your work for the show?”

“I’ll talk to my gallery and see what we can do.”

“Great. Well, this has been… a very enlightening visit. I feel much more intimate with your work than before. You’ve got my email, but I’m going to give you my number…”

“Just in case you want to… maybe get drinks and talk some more about your work…”