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“Just stunning, darling,” Ansel purrs appreciatively.
“I’m blazing,” Seattle answers shyly, though somehow I think that this may be the most accurate thing she has said so far.
“Get in closer to Ansel,” Seattle commands me, pointing with one hand as she removes the shroud and sets it in the adjoining booth.
Now that she has done her costume change, I feel a little bit off-balance. Why am I here? I can’t remember.
But I feel a bit helpless to resist. I try not to notice Ansel’s flared nostrils as he inhales me while I scoot awkwardly along the cracked, leather seat.
“Closer, closer!” Seattle directs me, holding her cell phone up.
The LED flash is practically blinding. I try not to make any expression at all. Ansel’s hand snakes around my shoulder. He pulls me closer.
“There you go,” Seattle encourages us, snapping picture after picture.
“All right, that’s good. You can stop now…” I object meekly.
Ansel shifts back and forth, using his weight on the seat and my relative discomfort to somehow slide our bodies so that he’s touching me. I can feel the scratchy fabric of his trousers through the fabric of my jeans.
“You seem so tense,” he says, too close to my ear. “You like whiskey?”
It’s far too early for whiskey, but there is no way that I can just sit here with these two in my current state. Coincidentally, there are already three drinks on the table and when he pushes one to me, I take it and drink as much as I can in one swallow.
“Ah, yes, that’s good,” he practically moans.
“See, Lindy? How much better it is?” Seattle chimes in, snapping picture after picture.
Seattle keeps pointing the camera too close to my face. Using weird angles. Like she’s trying to focus up my nose or something. If I am not careful, these pictures are going to end up as part of her final project, whether they illustrate the inside of my sinuses or not. I’m sure she would find a way to make it as horrifying as possible for me.
“Yeah, definitely better,” I agree as I feel the whiskey sinking down my throat, warming me from the inside.
“Let me get you another,” Ansel offers. “We don’t want you thirsty.”
“Oh yes,” Seattle agrees immediately. “I will just burnish the barkeep.”
She slides out of the booth, leaving me alone with her… Let’s just say it. Sugar daddy. That’s what he is.
She wiggles away, her tight dress stretched over her ample butt cheeks. Ansel dips his chin to gaze over the tops of his sunglasses. When she gets to the bar, she leans forward, obviously vividly aware that her backside is pointed this way.
Supposedly, they do not fuck. That’s what she told me. All he wants are pictures. Not even dirty pictures. Not even nudes. He just needs to have pictures of him with pretty girls on the Internet. All the time, every day. And for that, he gives her money. A lot of it. Enough to keep her in wide-brimmed hats and a few dozen yards of black silk, at least.
That is why Seattle keeps taking pictures. She is fulfilling her end of the bargain. I am not supposed to be part of that bargain, but I get the feeling I am being roped in a little bit.
“Do you think you will show at Art Basel this year?” Ansel asks me.
Seattle returns presently with a small round tray of drinks and plucks one with her thumb and forefinger to set it in front of me.
“What are we talking about, hmm?” she asks sweetly as she settles in next to Ansel, snapping a quick selfie like she is supposed to.
I finish the first drink, and take a quick sip of the new one. He knows very well that I am not qualified to show at Art Basel. He knows that I am a student. In fact, Seattle probably shows him my work. He knows that it is a goal, but I am not there yet. So he’s not really asking me if I’m going to show there. He just wants me to admit I am not going to.
“You know what? I haven’t decided yet,” I answer, pivoting.
Kind of nice to see his eyebrows go up. He didn’t think I was going to say that.
“If you need a gallery, I would be more than happy to ask someone to look after you,” he murmurs.
His breath is sort of snake-like. I can feel it oozing over my shoulder and down across my chest, into the collar of my shirt.
