Emile

Warning: this is a little sexually graphic at the end.

Emile picked me up outside the British Museum, although I didn’t know he was Emile then.

“Are you an artist?” he asked as he fell in step.  That was a pick-up line I’d never heard.

“No,” I said curtly.

“Really?  There’s just something about you that speaks to an artistic mind.  Do you paint?”

“Musician,” I said, “I’m a violinist.”

“Aha!  That’s art, you know.”

“Yes.”  (He seems harmless.)

“Are you from London?  I’m from southern France but come to London quite often with my art students.  We’re here for three weeks this time.”

“I’m only here for a couple of days, visiting a close friend.”

We head towards Covent Garden, my destination.  He says he’s headed there too and I let him come along, glad to have a willing guide.  I’ve always been somewhat nervous in large cities – the noise and smell of all the traffic sets my head whirling.  Emile never stops talking as we walk, telling me about his sister (a dancer), his Swedish girlfriend, his art students, and his own work.  I learn more about modern Impressionism than I’ll ever want to know.

His words slip by me and, without noticing it, I’ve spaced out completely, my only contribution to the conversation an occasional “yeah” or “mmhmm” during his expectant pauses.  Much later I decide that this must be his technique: he does not lure women so much as they are lulled into complacency by his never-ending monologues.

He took me to a small house on a quiet street, potted plants on the stoop, blue curtains on the windows (“you can tell an artist lives here because there are blue curtains,” he says).

A bowl of watermelon on a glass table,
the living room is cool.
He unveils his paintings one by one
for some reason seeking my approval of his art
though he doesn’t even know my name.
He has asked to study me for an oil painting
and I pose between coffee table and fireplace,
clad only in my underwear and a pink tanktop
(he says he’ll make it white silk in the painting).
He positions me
relaxed, one leg slightly forward,
arms gently clasped behind my waist,
hips thrust back, shoulders straight,
chin uplifted and radiating feminine strength
“you have such flawless skin”
caressing me as his eyes memorize my muscle and my curves
the fluidity of my joints.

Blue curtains, red wine, paintings, the texture of oil paint under my fingertips, he dry-humped me, his cock against my leg, then pulled away, cum spurting between his fingers as he covered the head, trying not to let me see – I averted my eyes – a phone call, hurried dressing, I left

and now I don’t know what to call it

Written in 2009 in London. I would like to turn this into poetry, but it is still too hard to write about.

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