But it’s in the studio that true magic happens, because when he stands in front of me, so beautiful in his nakedness, it’s as if a part of the sun has descended into my atelier, and I get free rein over how to mold its light.
“That beautiful royal blue robe you asked about yesterday? I want you to wear it.”
“I hope it doesn’t mean you’re getting bored with me naked?”
He’s joking, but there’s a needy undertone to the question, which I quite like. He wants my approval. And I don’t skimp on the compliments when we’re not playing the dangerous game of tenderness and humiliation. I’ve been with enough people to know the signs, and Victor is not a masochist by heart. He doesn’t want pain nor condemnation, only a bit of discomfort and the sense that his lover is in some way superior. Stronger. Brighter. Someone who could have anyone yet makes do with him. And at the same time, his eyes glow like polished gems when I compliment him, so it’s likely he doesn’t know himself where his boundaries lie.
I have eyes, I’m more than aware that many people would consider Victor far from perfect, but all those little quirks of his are what draws me to him. He’s stunningbecauseof his perceived imperfections, not despite them. He’s so alive it’s as if he awakens my drawings.
A computer can produce hundreds of images per minute but all of them will be smooth, well-proportioned, carefully curated to suit the broadest possible taste. But perfection is just a facade, a shiny surface hiding an emptiness that sometimes leaves me on the edge of the abyss. Victor is warm. Real. With an asymmetrical face and the softest, gentlest eyes.
“The robe will be just a frame for the real beauty in my next painting.”
“You just want me to hide my dick. You know you can paint it bigger if you want. I’m not gonna be offended,” he says, stuffing three pelmeni into his mouth at once.
There it is. The real insecurity. He pretends to be joking but won’t even look into my eyes. He’s sipping on his gazpacho when I stroke his inner thigh with the foot still resting between his legs.
“You really think that’s what I want?”
He stalls, and when his eyes meet mine, such a beautiful green in the afternoon sun, I put down my wine and speak. “My sexual awakening was while looking at ancient Greek statues. I like small dicks.”
Victor’s face is turning as red as the soup. “You do?”
I sigh and pull my leg away. For a moment, he freezes, as if waiting for me to strike, but I just grab his chair and drag it to my side of the table. I sit next to him, my arm sliding over his shoulders as I continue drinking.
“I thought you liked being smaller than your bully,” I tease.
“Oh God… I do.” He snorts and seems to relax a little. He even leans against me as we both face the endless ocean beyond the glass banisters of the balcony. I regret them on a practical level, since cleaning them is no joke, but I do have a little helper now.
I take another sip from my glass and grab his jaw. My sweet pet loosens up immediately, and when our lips meet, he grunts softly as the wine trickles into his mouth.
“Then enjoy it. Enjoy your little hands, small feet, your cute dick.” I exhale and lap across his lips. “Is your hole tight too?”
He watches me as if hypnotized. “Probably.”
“I see only positives then. I love how big my dick looks in your tiny hand.”
A warm, gooey sensation settles in my chest when he smiles, so I act on instinct and lean closer, until my forehead touches his. “I first got into art, because the museum was the only place where I could see naked men. Isn’t that ironic?”
He doesn’t even ask when he takes a sip from my glass of wine. “It is pretty funny. But please say you didn’t get horny at the museum?”
“Thirteen-year-old me? All the time. I was either sketching or rushing to the restrooms. Wish I still had that much stamina.” I poke his upturned nose and look into the purplish light on the clouds above.
“Did you then go to art school? There’s not much information about you out there.”
It feels like hundreds of years have passed since I signed my very own pact with the devil, permanently altering the course of my life, but I still remember the most important details.
“I wanted to, but it wasn’t something my family could afford. I was drawing whenever I could but I focused on judo, because my coach thought I could try doing it professionally. And later on, when I had enough money, work wouldn’t allow me to go to school regularly. I had tutors though, and one of them eventually recommended me to an art dealer. The public first encountered my paintings when I exhibited a series of works inspired by Greekmyths and the statues I was so very fond of. I had high artistic ambitions and didn’t see how pretentious those pictures were.” I chuckle. “I’d like to think I’ve matured since. Nowadays, I like to explore the human form. I had a dark phase inspired by my victims and how fragile their bodies are, but it didn’t bring me joy. Beauty does.”
I’m surprised myself that I’m awaiting Victor’s verdict. He’s barely over twenty, not that experienced, and a little unhinged. His opinion shouldn’t matter, yet here I am. Waiting in hope that this time, he will not say my art is devoid of soul.
“You’ve definitely developed a style of your own. It’s visible even in the gouache studies you did of me so far. It’s so interesting to see after all the self-portraits you’ve painted that you can transfer that skill to another subject. The new works are… honest.”
If I had a peacock tail, I’d be unfolding it right now. “I feel alive when I paint you.”
I know it sounds corny, but I can’t help feeling like he’s rejuvenated everything about my art.
Victor puts down his fork and climbs into my lap, wrapping his arms around my neck. His fragrant hair falls around our faces, creating a curtain that hides us from the world when he kisses my lips. “I feel alive whenever I’m around you. Like I’m finally a real person, not a ghost everyone passes without noticing.”
