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It’s not long before a door is opening and Karinna is leading the model towards the blanket and cushions set up in the middle of the room. I stare confusedly. Why on earth is the model wearing a blindfold? Am I the only one who finds this slightly unusual? I try to dart my eyes around the room to see if the others are surprised, but I see no emotion whatsoever and can only assume that no one else finds this at all surprising.
As the model takes off her robe, I avert my eyes and focus on setting up my art materials. I have no idea why I do this. It’s like it’s some sort of natural, gentlemanly instinct I have that, in my mind, protects her dignity. Except that there’s nothing left to set up so I end up moving a bit of charcoal from one side of my easel to the other. It’s not like she needs any privacy, she clearly can’t see a thing as she feels her way around the cushions. I hold the charcoal in my hand as though a race is about to begin. I adjust it in my hand like I’m revving a car engine before the lights go green.
Ready, steady, go.
The model adjusts her hair one final time and off we all go.
I mentally divide my blank paper into four and I go about placing her body in the correct sections. Head, hips, legs. Then I change my mind—I don’t want to the use the charcoal today. I want to create her in colour. I reach for the pastels and start over.
I use swathes of colour in unexpected ways. Apple green for her skin tone, strips of fuchsia, burgundy, and magenta for the long hair that flows over her gently sloping shoulders. And silky-smooth black with a hint of blue for the dark band across her eyes.
Just like last time, I can feel myself changing, the excitement of caressing pastel into curves dispels all of my negative thoughts.
As I bring the drawing to life, an odd familiarity creeps in which is strange because, again, I haven’t sketched in years and can’t remember doing anything quite like this when I was younger. Back then it was almost exclusively charcoal, and sometimes the odd acrylic painting. My mind does this weird leapfrog back in time and I can’t help but wonder where all those sketches and paintings ended up. Probably lost or given away to charity somewhere along the way.
I hate thinking about that time in my life. I miss my stepfather so much it hurts, even now, after all those years. So, I push those memories away, back into the cave I keep hidden away from everyone, including myself.
Focus on the art. Details. I always leave the face for last. It’s the hardest part but also the most exciting. I notice that some of the other artists don’t even bother with the face. They’re here just to paint and sketch the body, but I enjoy faces. In fact, portraits are my favourite. A face embeds a soul into the canvas, it gives a picture depth and meaning in a way that the human gaze only can.
Except, I can’t see the eyes today. The blindfold keeps her gaze from view so, instead, I focus on what I can see—a nose, a mouth, a chin. I take my time, drawing and smoothing, almost sculpting the pastel into what I want—into a likeness that is true and authentic.
Karinna hands the model a robe and she stands up to take a break. And that’s when I see it, the beauty mark on the back of her leg.
A bolt of realization strikes me like a brilliant flash of lightning scoring a dark sky.
It can’t be. Can it? I look more closely. Is that the same beauty mark I saw at the office the other day through her sheer tights on the back of Leyna’s left calf?
Now, I’m so enthralled with what I’m seeing that I’m not even looking at my picture anymore, the pastel is hanging loosely from my hand, suspended in mid-air. I’m staring at the magnificent woman stretched out in the middle of the room, strands of long, reddish-pink hair gracing her shoulders.
And Ireallylook at her now.
The blindfold prevents her from seeing my momentary lapse and allows my gaze to travel freely across the peaks and hollows of her face, across her whole body. Her smooth round mouth, her pert nose. Her skin the colour of creamy white silk with patches of rosé. The way she holds her body as she lays stretched out. And then I let my eyes drift lower, to her hanging breasts, her smooth stomach, the small strip of chestnut brown hair at the apex of her legs—
‘Thank you for coming everyone. Time is up for today’s session. I hope to see you next week.’ Karinna brings the robe over to the model—Leyna—and they walk out together into the adjoining room while the rest of us tidy up our things.
With the closing of the door, I’m jolted out of my reverie and I’m still standing here like an idiot who’s lost his mind.
What just happened? Was it my imagination? Here I am, at an art class I’m not meant to be at and I don’t want to admit it, refuse to admit the truth staring me in the face. I go through every possible alternative, every possible explanation, but I finally have to acknowledge what I am trying very hard to refute by any means possible—the woman I’ve been painting has to be Leyna.
I look back at my picture which is only part finished, the bright colours and quick, confident brush marks, some paused mid-stroke, and I’m starting to see it in a completely new light. I begin to pack everything up. I gather my art supplies in a daze, going over everything I’ve just seen. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Was I simply imagining things?
Maybe I’ve indulged too much with the department’s administrative assistant and my mind is conjuring images of her everywhere. A lack of women in the bedroom and too much time spent flirting with the one unavailable woman I see on a regular basis has led to this. I havegotto sort my shit out.
As I get home and I pull out the drawing, I can’t help but stare at it. My cock hardens as the full implications, if true, dawn upon me and of course, no matter how hard I try, all I can see is Leyna. But the question remains, is it actually Leyna or have I subconsciously drawn her in?
I set everything up in the kitchen. I feel frenzied now, rushed, like, if I don’t get it out of me soon, I might lose it—the mental image and my own mind. I kick a chair out of the way and prop the drawing up at one end of the long kitchen table, a heavy bowl of fruit behind it to keep it upright.
It keeps slipping around. I curse. Screw this.
I grab the painting and put it on the floor. The cold, white, ceramic kitchen floor tiles kill my knees, but I don’t care.
I’m bent over, adding colour here, depth there. Smoothing out the too-sharp edges...
I try to ignore the increasingly uncomfortable tightness of my cock straining against my trousers. I undo the button and keep going, adding more colour to the picture that is now coming together. I smooth the pastel with my fingers, blending the colours as though I’m tracing her body myself.
I’m leaning over her, the woman in the painting, my body covering her naked one, and all I can see is Leyna, whether it is her or not. Sweat drips from my forehead as I contort myself over top of the canvas, adding extra shaping here, a bit of colour there. My heart races and there’s no doubt about it, I can see her clear as day now. It’s the mouth that gives her away, that sweet, inviting mouth I’ve thought about far too many times for my own good. I picture Leyna, the one I know in real life, sweet, smiley, innocent, helpful, Leyna, and then I stare at the image I’ve created.
It's Leyna, alright—luscious, succulent, and sexy as fuck.
