Every Girl’s Dream?

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Is it every girl’s dream to be an artist’s model?

Do girls secretly dream about being approached. Standing quietly, looking gorgeous, at some avant-guard party inhabited by musicians, writers and painters, and a tall vaguely handsome man walks up to you and asks you to ‘sit’ for him.

This was never my fantasy, but it happened to me just the same.

I’m well read, I like art in all its forms, and I have existed, thus far, outside the artistic world. That was until that night and that party. I was wearing my favourite gown and, as you would expect, I felt great. I guess my enjoyment of life was showing because there he was, talking to me. The room was full of stunning females, and I pointed this fact out to him. He dismissed my point and asked me to turn my head slightly.

“My tits are much more interesting than my face.”

“I don’t agree. You have just the face I’ve been looking for. Your tits are excellent, but I can get excellent tits any time of the day or night. A truly beautiful face is hard to find.”

I was a little taken aback. I know that I’m attractive. I’ve always known it but the word ‘beautiful’ was one that I had avoided. But that’s the thing about artists when they say beautiful they are talking about something that the rest of us struggle to see. They see the difference between pretty and beautiful and beautiful and stunning. I defy you to define the difference, but if I put those questions to an artist they would instantly have an answer, and they would be able to back it up with examples.

In the end, I said yes. I’m no longer a child, and I’m not worried about ‘being taken advantage of’. Not in the literal sense or the metaphorical one.

His studio is three floors up in the old industrial part of the city. The view is impressive without being stunning, and the light is lovely. Whenever we’d take a break, I liked to wander around and look at the finished and unfinished canvases which littered the room. I got the impression that he often slept there when the work demanded a late night. The single bed in the corner of the room was just barely comfortable enough to sleep on but more than adequate for making love. I asked him where it came from and he said it belonged to an uncle and that he had rescued it when his uncle died and the family were throwing out all his stuff. The small table on the East wall was his as well. He told me that he found a bundle of old letters in a space behind the single drawer. Mostly they were mundane correspondence letters but a small group, tied up with a silk ribbon, suggested the possibility of romance which had not blossomed. He spoke wistfully about his uncle and the lost opportunity for love.

“The rest of the family thought he was a bit of a duffer, but I liked him. He always remembered my name, and there was a heap of us youngins. He seemed a bit sad, but he always smiled at me and told me stories. Somehow he found out that I liked to draw and paint and he always asked about my current project. When they were throwing out his stuff, they came upon a heap of drawings that I had given him. He kept them. I felt bad that I had not realised at the time that we had a connection. Maybe he saw something of himself in me. Something unrealised.”

“Kids are too busy being kids to notice the subtle stuff. He liked you, that’s the thing to remember. And I’m sure that he would be impressed by the number of women you have had in his bed.”

“Yes, I think he would be.”

On the other side of the studio, there was a workbench covered in paints and painting paraphernalia, including many paint-splattered art books and sketches. The tiny bathroom looked like it has hosted a major battle and I only rarely used the toilet. Just in an emergency.

One of the walls was solid brick which still had remnants of ancient plaster. There was also an old fireplace which looked functional. The fire surround would have been more at home in an old kitchen, so I’m guessing that this was not part of any past living quarters. Most likely this used to be an office, and not a high class one. Now it was serving a creative purpose.

I did a little modelling when I was young, and I know that it is incredibly tedious. You get used to the treatment, or you don’t do it. If you are looking for glamour, you are looking in the wrong place.

I’m still not sure why artists insist on having live models. It would be heaps easier, not to mention cheaper, to take a bunch of high-resolution photographs.

My artist, insisted on me being in the room. I think he enjoys the company. It’s true that artists experience a spectacular sex life and my artist did ask me if it would be possible for him to make love to me as well as being his model. I was impressed with how comfortable he was with the idea. Not exactly ‘matter of fact’ but certainly relaxed. I told him I would give it due consideration and we would see if we both felt like it at the end of the assignment. He seemed to be okay with that, and I thought that the painting would have a more exciting edge if he were thinking about the possibility.

I was right. The painting is beautiful, and he is an attentive lover with some serious stamina. Not what I expected, but then again if we got what we expected all the time, life would be very dull indeed.

There wasn’t any long-term future for this talented man and me; I could see that. We enjoyed each others company, and he was a superior lover, but he would always be an artist, and his work would come first — all-night sessions while he laboured to finish a commission, not to mention the casual seduction of any female who walked through that door.

I like him very much but that is not the life I have mapped out for myself. Artists are fun to play with but they are way too much work long term.

The painting is finished and so is my time in this room. I sit in this chair and remember how much fun I’ve had, and I feel a little bit sad.

I’m pleased that my likeness will live on and that my beauty is immortalised, but it’s almost time for me to seek out the next adventure.

There’s no hurry though — I’m going to sit here for a while and bask in the glow.



I love the early morning.

Most of the night people are seeking refuge in a cafe — bacon and eggs over the latest wholegrain toast, black coffee, no sugar and a bleary-eyed remembrance of an evening that will not come again.

I’d been delayed, and as I walked back to my table, the rising sun sent a soft golden glow across the Piazza.

My assistant was no longer sitting at the table. His working night had ended, and he was probably propping up the bar at Il Baccaro or wrapped around one of the night owl females who frequent this part of the city.

As I approach the table I see my tally book lying where my assistant had left it. My keys lie on top of the book, undisturbed.

I like keys.

I prefer an analogue solution to security wherever I can find it. I’m not disturbed by electronics — it’s just that I like the feeling of a key turning in a lock and the sound keys make when they jangle in my pocket.

The huge black umbrella is not offering any shade to the two well dress gentlemen seated at my table — the sun is way too low. I have a sense that there was a third man seated where I usually sit. He hasn’t been absent from the table for very long, and I’m wondering if he is due to return.

The two well-dressed men give me a lazy glance.

I’m still in evening dress and although a little dusty, I’m well presented after a long night of keeping book for the rich and famous. Millions of dollars and only a few slips of paper to show for all that activity.

My two guests are dressed in expensive suits and carrying expensive guns — well concealed. The value of what they are wearing would purchase a well-kept second-hand Mercedes. Where they come from the streets are full of Mercedes and during their Civil War, a few decades ago, the news footage showed armed men, ambulances and swirling smoke. Even the taxis were Mercedes. The vehicle of choice for a Middle Eastern civil conflict.

My occupation doesn’t require me to carry a concealed weapon, but I do. A large calibre two barreled Derringer strapped to my right ankle, and I’m proud to say that I’ve only needed to draw it once.

Part of my job is calculating the odds — seeing the trouble coming before it arrives. I have had to dodge the occasional closed fist and the well-aimed polished boot, but mostly I can calm a situation down before it comes to that. Sore losers are an occupational hazard.

I brushed the dust and a few flower petals off my seat before I sat down and the larger of the two well-dressed gentlemen said, “You may not want to sit there Mr Barker. In fifty seconds, it is going to be unhealthy for anyone who is sitting in that chair.”

Fifty-seconds isn’t very long to decide if he was just a smart arse and I’d used up a few of them calculating the odds.

It seemed safer to assume that he was telling the truth when he and his silent companion, who was directly in the follow-through line of fire, got slowly up from the table and walked away. The taller one had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the umbrella.

I picked up my book and my keys and left the table with as much composure as I could muster.

After I had taken a few steps, I heard the zip of the bullet and the crack of the splintering chair and table top. The bullet would have struck the quiet gentleman somewhere between the groin and the kneecap.

There was no audible bang. The shot must have come from a considerable distance. The police would work all that out at their leisure, but now I had some celebrating to do. I had dodged a bullet and made a lot of money, all over the course of an eventful evening.

Now, if I were lucky, Charmaine will be at home waiting for me.

I must say that’s misleading. Charmaine never waits for me. She does her own thing. It’s just that we share a very expensive apartment, and we sometimes arrive there at the same time, usually early in the morning. On those occasions, we sometimes do the sorts of things that men and women like to do.

The apartment has glass walls on two sides, and I never draw the blinds. I love the view that it affords. The ancient part of the city is, by now, bathed in the golden light that this section of the world is famous for.

This morning, Charmaine arrived home before I did. She is making eggs in her underwear. Her body isn’t perfect. Her torso is slightly too long when compared to her beautiful legs. Her breasts are sumptuous, but some would say that they could be a little larger. She has long black hair, dimples on her bottom and delightful pink toes.

Last night she had been wearing a black bra and panties — lots of lace. I see the dress she was wearing hanging on the outside of her huge wardrobe.

Not including the bathroom, our apartment is one large room with a king-sized bed in the middle. I hope to be lying on that bed a little later and I’m hopeful that I will be knee-deep in Charmaine, but it will depend on the type of night she has had.

My carnal ace will be the story about nearly being shot. That kind of near miss adventure story has given me the green light before.

Charmaine gathers information and what she collects makes her a lot of money. It’s exciting and dangerous, and she loves every minute of it. She has an incredible memory and in her line of work it needs to be.

She knows I’m in the apartment, but she does not look up from her breakfast preparations. I remove my jacket, tie and Derringer and stand behind her. She smells amazing. Her scent produced over a long night’s work mixed with the remnants of her French perfume, and my equipment is on full alert.

I place my hand on her bottom and my expectations for the morning are in my hand. If she brushes me away, it means the night went badly and so will my morning.

She does not react, but neither does she dispense with my wandering hand. So far so good. My luck is holding.

“If you keep doing that you won’t get any breakfast,” she says in a voice that gives me further hope.

“That’s a tough choice for a man, food or carnal delights.”

“I didn’t say you had to choose.”

I couldn’t tell if she was smiling, because I was looking in another direction and imagining my good fortune.

A good breakfast and the delicious Charmaine to follow.

I didn’t get shot, and I’m going to get laid.

It’s been an awesome day.

Georgina Comes Home


This story follows on from this story — https://araneus1.wordpress.com/2014/06/09/georgina-finds-herself/

Coming back is not the same as coming home.

Too much has happened for home to feel the same as it did. Which is probably just as well.

My time at Oxford had taught me several things, not the least of which was true friendship. Who else would sail halfway around the world just to save me? Harriet would not phrase it that way, but that is exactly what she did — she saved me.

I also learned that there are going to be times when I don’t have all the answers — this realisation did not sit well with me at first. I like to think that I have the strength and drive to solve any problem — meet any challenge.

Harriet was never as lucky, never as smart and certainly never as strong as me, and yet there she was, scooping up what was left of me and bringing me home. So calm, so sure of what to do.

Picking up my studies again here at home was relatively easy. Having spent a year and a half at Oxford tends to open doors. Melbourne University has always considered itself to be the most prestigious Australian hall of learning, so from snobbery alone, I was assured of a place.

Harriet found us a little flat near the Flagstaff Gardens. She obtained employment at a cafe on Flinders Lane, and I meet her every night after work. Lectures during the day and study in the library until it was time to jump on a tram and travel into the City.

Harriet is always tired after her long day, but apart from her first sentence after I ask her how her day went, “My feet are killing me” there is no further mention of how difficult her working life is. Instead, I am regaled with stories of strange and unusual characters who visit her cafe.

There are the regulars like Mr Johnston who always orders half a fried chicken and a coke. Harriett believes that he thinks he is a character in The Blues Brothers. Mrs Wilkins, who orders porridge no matter what time she comes in, “the cook never complains.” Harriett gets along with them all — you could almost say that she loves them — she has that ability. She can make herself larger. She seems to be able to find more love and deliver it wherever it is needed.

The cafe staff feed her during the day, but at night we usually eat at home. Our budget is tight. Her wages pays the rent on our flat, but there is only a little bit left over after we pay for the utilities. My parents give me what they can afford, but it barely covers my studies and expenses. Despite all this, there are days when customers at Harriett’s cafe are particularly generous, and her share of the tips sends us off on a wild night of dancing and boys. The boys always gallantly offer to buy us drinks which is just as well because fancy, dizzy, fizzy drinks are not within our budget. It’s true that when we are out and about, we are difficult to separate, but we see this as a necessary degree of difficulty for our enthusiastic suitors. “It makes them work a little harder and that way we separate the lions from the cubs.” Harriett’s comments reflect her practical streak.

Having said that, we always leave the dance hall together, never with a man. There is often a deal of pleading and cajoling, but on this point, we stand firm. That is not to say that a man is forbidden from calling one of us and arranging to meet at a later date. We don’t have a phone of our own. “Not going to happen Georgina. Forget it. I like eating, and it is a choice between a phone and food.” I quickly weighed up the options. “We could get boys to bring us food?” I knew it was a long shot.

The little old lady who lives in the flat closest to the stairs used to be young once. “You can give the boys my phone number, and I’ll vet them for you. Failing that, you give me a list of the ones I’m supposed to say yes to, and I’ll take down the details.”

Mrs Cuthbert has been a widow for a long time, and she always smiled at us when we ran into her on the stairs or when she popped around to deliver the good news about a man who had rung. “I liked this one. Said his name was Matthew. Had a sweet voice. I gave him the third degree, and he stood up well under questioning.” Then we got her patented smile, which meant that she was kidding. She loved this game. She loved being needed. “I don’t work anymore, and apart from my dog and you girls, no one needs me. It’s nice to be needed.” I nodded in agreement. Harriett needs me, and I need her.

Sunday is our favourite day.

If we are particularly low on funds, we take a blanket and picnic basket, and we picnic in the park, which is about a dozen steps from our front door. It isn’t one of the more popular parks in Melbourne, so there is always lots of space. We live in an upmarket part of Melbourne where the parks are well maintained. We lie on the blanket and stare up at the huge old trees, and we dream as all young girls have dreamed since the beginning of time. These are patient dreams, not the frantic send a Prince charming to save me sort of dream, but gentle hoping dreams. We love our life together. We love the gentle rhythm and the unexpected twists and turns, and throughout it all, there is a bond that ties us together. Georgina and Harriett — many mistake us for sisters, and in a real way we are.

The men who will inevitably catch our eye will have to live with the fact that we will want to live close to each other bringing up our families together and sharing our lives until the lights grow dim. They will understand that it has to be this way — we will not be separated.

The Chinese believe that if you save a person’s life, you are responsible for that person for the remainder of their existence. Harriett saved me and in a real sense, I saved her right back.

Neither of us has any Chinese blood in our veins, but we know that we are responsible for each other, and it will always be so.