When I was a girl, I had a dream all about the things I'd like to be.

I have always liked taking risks; some would even call me a bit of a thrill-seeker. It must have been nurture. My parents were successful businesspeople; they always had a clear vision and knew exactly where the company needed to head. I guess their role modelling shaped me into a strong woman. One attribute I certainly have is emotional control. It takes nerves of steel to assess investment risk and take financial gambles. My gambles have certainly paid off, and let’s just say I don’t need to worry about price tags anymore.

I remember the day clearly. It was one of those grey, damp London days, and I felt inexplicably melancholic. I was trying to reason with myself: I don’t have to worry about money; I have an endless circle of friends to socialise with, and if needs must, I know a lover or two to call upon who will satisfy an urge. Yet, that day, when I looked in the mirror, I felt empty and hollow.

As I leaned in closer to my reflection, I realised my fine lines were taking longer to cover, my face creams were extortionate, and my hair had lost its lustre and needed a little more dye.

In all honesty, I’ve given up on love. These days, even the most splendid appendage between my thighs fails to give me a dopamine rush. As a woman in my forties, I realise—like a wilting flower—that my beauty is fading.

So, for a woman normally in control, ruminating for weeks on these feelings of emptiness, wondering whether they are irreversible, is a clear indication that I am coming apart.

ooOOoo

His London house is defined on the street by a defiant hue of plum. I knock repeatedly, whilst trying to shelter under my umbrella from the rain. The door opens, and a man with a well-spoken English accent greets me.

“Evening, Miss Neville. I’m George.” He gestures for me to come in.

I found his advert via a Google search:

“Fine art painting focusing on the classical human form. All body types, genders and backgrounds. Strict professional boundaries and mutual respect maintained at all times. Chaperone welcome to attend for peace of mind.”

This is my strategy for taking back control. Screw peace of mind, I think; I’m here on my own to seize the moment and capture my erotic beauty before I decay and my well of oestrogen and testosterone runs totally dry.

“Call me Charlotte, please,” I sputter, as the stale air catches in my throat.

He shakes my hand like a proper gentleman; the picture of a bohemian artist in the doorway. His crinkled cheesecloth shirt and baggy linen trousers look surprisingly elegant draped over his tall frame. His greying hair puts him around mid-fifties.

I turn and shake the rain off my umbrella before politely placing it in the umbrella stand. As I follow him through his house, it feels like stepping back in time. The décor is outdated and faded. The windows need to be opened, and everything looks like it needs a good clean. The smell of turpentine leads to his studio at the back of the house. The room is surprisingly spacious, with tall windows that afford a steady glow of natural light.

Endless canvases line the walls. Dust glows on all the surfaces; tables are cluttered with brushes, palette knives, and half-empty paint tubes. A rotting, half-eaten apple perches beside his easel, and a tall, ornate grandfather clock ticks—marking the passage of time. This is a man dedicated to his craft, not to a dirty house waiting to be cleaned.

Classic FM is playing in the background, helping to set the studio atmosphere. I’m overdressed, but I think it’s probably irrelevant, as my clothes will be removed soon enough.

“Take a seat; let’s go through some rules.”

“Rules?” My voice rises; he’s nothing if not direct. I was expecting a more genteel introduction to stripping off naked.

“Yes, rules. You can undress behind the screen, then put on the robe until I am ready for you. If you need a break, say so. I try to keep the room at the right temperature so you don’t get uncomfortable, but if you feel cold, tell me.”

“Okay,” I say, hesitantly.

“And strictly no touching.”

“Pardon?” I exclaim as my eyes fly open. Not that I was expecting to be touched, unless it’s a warning not to touch him.

“There will be no touching. I have to focus, so there will be no touching.”

What an interesting beginning to the world of life painting; he might be a creative genius, but he has no social skills whatsoever.

“Can we go through my rules?” I retort, determined to take back some control.

“I want you to capture my beauty and make me look youthful. My skin might not be as taut, and my tits might not be as pert, but smooth out the wrinkles and perk up my breasts; I figure I’m paying enough for a little artistic licence.”

He grunts in acknowledgement and points to the screen signalling for me to undress.

“And how many sessions will all this require?” I call out from behind the screen, regretting that I even thought about doing this in the first place.

“It will take as long as it takes,” he huffs.

ooOOoo

I’ve never been naked in front of a man without the inevitability of sex.

I slip into a kind of customer mode, undress, confidently assume my pose, and try to keep my mind occupied to avoid the boredom of sitting there. Every tick-tock of the grandfather clock seems to slow, and my mind inevitably drifts. I ponder what he might be thinking from behind his easel. I suppose he sees my body as an anatomical structure, no more than curves and lines, light and shadows. I wonder if he ever gets aroused and erect…

“Turn a little to the left, Charlotte.” I jolt from my wandering mind.

God, this is torture. My muscles are tense, and my backside is stiff on the chair.

“I need a break, please.”

“Okay,” he puffs.

“Get your robe, have a drink, and stretch.”

I follow his advice, walking slowly around the perimeter of the studio. Some canvases hang on the walls, while others lean against them, half-finished. His style is distinct: dramatic shadows, bold colours, and an intensity in the way the subject looks.

“You’re talented. The way you use colour abstractly and draw out emotion in the subject.”

“Not what you expected?” he grunts.

“I’m paying you a compliment. You really are very talented. It’s as if each canvas tells a story about the person.”

“Well… a great portrait reveals who the person really is. The unspoken vulnerability, so to speak,” he explains, looking across at me.

“So what authentic me are you going to capture?”

“Are you asking me a question?”

“Yes, when I sit there, what do you see?” I ask, searching for his facial reaction.

“You are bold and spirited, yet beneath that veneer, you are unfulfilled.”

I say nothing more, take off my robe and sit back on the chair. How could he possibly know that just by me sitting here in front of him?

His observation preoccupies me, and his words follow me on my tube journey home. Why have I reduced my life to buying fine things to comfort myself? Why do I spread my legs for fleeting lovers whose quick fuck will never fill my empty heart? Suddenly, I realise I am measuring my worth by my surface rather than by what lies beneath.

ooOOoo

“Turn your shoulders a little more towards me, Charlotte.” I adjust my pose.

Strange, I don’t even think twice about posing naked for him now. Maybe that's not a good thing—perhaps this unsexual feeling is my waning hormones; the oil well is drying up! Surely not—I was horny as hell last night. Maybe it’s because he’s not judging me: how much I weigh, my cup size, or the puffiness of my labia…

“Charlotte, please stop fidgeting.”

“Sorry, I need a break; my back is aching.”  

“Alright,” he grunts, a trace of frustration in his voice.

I put on my robe, stretch and walk around the room.

“So, how come you’re not a famous, wealthy artist? You are exceptionally gifted.”

“Mmm, that’s a long story: a costly divorce, bouts of melancholia, and self-doubt. Combined, they don’t add up to success.” His candid appraisal softens me. I wasn’t expecting such honesty.

“My ex-wife put up with a lot, although, in my defence, she was emotionally shallow. I suppose I oscillate between sadness and joy, and those fragmented moods were difficult to live with.”

“Were?” I probe.

“Yes, I have levelled. Learnt to appreciate the simple things that bring me inner happiness.”

“I see; so I’m surprised you accepted a commission from a pain in the arse like me!”

I look at him. He smiles, his emotionless façade finally softening.

“Yes, that’s true, but I also need the money.”

“I’m sorry, I must have come across as a right spoilt bitch.”

“I’ve had worse,” he grins.

“You see, George, I worry this is my last chance to capture myself before I fade—before I become invisible.” My eyes glaze as I turn away, hiding my tears.

He looks surprised. “Charlotte, beauty is only skin deep. I’m more interested in who you are as a person.”

“What do you mean?” I ask quizzically.

“A beautiful heart outshines a thousand beautiful faces.”

“That’s profound,” I reply. He really has an artistic way with words.

“The words of William Shakespeare himself. Charlotte… there is no such thing as used to be beautiful.”

“Maybe,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

“You know, you can’t live your life trying to preserve your beauty in a jar of formaldehyde.”

I resume my pose, his words repeating loudly, over and over in my mind. He’s right; I can’t keep hoping to live in yesterday’s version of my body. I need to work out when I will begin to live again.

ooOOoo

The tube journey is delayed, and I'm desperate to get to my third sitting on time. I love how, in his quietness, he is still constantly observing and analysing the world. Our conversations have prompted me to reflect on my mad existence. He tilts a bottle of red wine with his paint-stained hand and carefully pours me a large glass.

“Isn’t this against the rules?” I ask playfully.

“I figured you might need it, and it might help me get beneath your veneer. I want to capture your true essence, remember,” he says with a tender smile.

I undress behind the screen, more self-conscious than before. My senses are sharpened: the air moving across my skin, the shape of my body, the roundness of my breasts, his scent and his calming presence. I settle uneasily into my pose, acutely aware of my nakedness.

Deep in thought, I jar as George comes over to me and tilts my chin slightly. Taken aback, my body electrifies at his touch.

“I thought the rule was no touching, George?” my voice edged with panic.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t think. It was just automatic.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting it, you know… after the rule thing,” I say, trying to sound unbothered. But I am bothered; the energy in the room has shifted. His eyes no longer trace benignly over my body; they penetrate me. My pulse increases, and I start to perspire—desire transcends my unsexual pose.

George looks across; I hold his gaze. There is no need to exchange words; our attraction for each other is suffused with the sexual tension in the room. I’m unable to hide my arousal, which is unmistakable in my nakedness.

ooOOoo

His kisses leave a trail of goosebumps along my neck and down my spine. Kisses that are full of promise, making you want to disappear inside them. I know this is a man more interested in giving me pleasure than indulging in his own gratification. A soft kiss on my lips is replaced by urgency as the wave of longing rises in me.

He nestles his knee between my thighs, then boldly spreads them apart as if wielding his palette knife to sweep colour across a canvas. Arousal seeps from me like oil dripping onto a canvas, crawling over the woven fibres like a living substance. Heat burns between my thighs like he has smeared flame-red pigment from his palette.

Spreading my legs wider on the chair, I silently invite his lips to press deeply into my heat. I hold his head close, writhing and moaning as his tongue swirls relentlessly around my clit in sweeping arcs as if he is dragging thick pigment across a canvas. His artist’s image of me, frantically being brought to life as a living canvas.

My legs shake uncontrollably as a gush of fluid seeps copiously from me. He lifts himself from between my legs, offers a look of silent admiration, and then kisses me on my lips, letting me taste the sweet juices of my arousal smeared on his face.

He lays me down on his sofa and grabs my hips, then he glazes his cobalt-stained fingers over my smooth mound and along the slickness of my folds. Sensing my mounting desperation, he smiles. The vivid contrast of his pigmented fingers, as they probe me, is like witnessing an abstract painting come to life.

I let out a guttural moan as one finger—then two—plunges deep inside, swirling masterfully while he locks his teeth onto my clit. I close my eyes, and a burst of orgasmic colours washes over me. Colours erupt and collide in my pelvis: hues of deep ruby pulsing with indigo, then brilliant flashes of silver and gold—as my orgasm reaches its peak. Finally, as the climax dissolves, a breathless expanse of warm light lingers over my body.

Tears spill over my lashes and run down my cheeks. I feel his breath brush over me as he leans in to kiss each salty tear.

I have never seen such vivid colours before.

ooOOoo

My post-orgasmic languor is momentary as George nudges my pussy with his hardness. I rise from my weighted stillness, and we kiss passionately, our bodies forming one tangled, passionate knot.

I take him in my mouth, my lips wrapping around his girth. My tongue traces the meanders of his shaft, savouring the salty-sweet apéritif of his pre-cum. I swirl my tongue around him, swallowing him deeper as his moans send shivers through me.

I long to be filled by him and to gently mount him to seal our union. I barely recognise the version of myself grinding rhythmically on top of him, without any self-conscious worry about how my body appears while I exult in erotic pleasure.

A rush of dopamine surges through me as I gyrate and grind until I draw from his lips the sound of his orgasmic pleasure.

My heartbeat slows as we sink into post-coital haze. A deep wave of calm envelops me as my superficial world fades.

“Hold me tight," I whisper, trying to hold the seconds still on the ticking grandfather clock, not wanting this perfect moment to disappear.

Maybe love is not through with me after all.