Chapter 9: Out of Body

I WAS AWAKE, rested, showered, shaved, and fed. It was a considerable advance from the last time I’d had such an emotionally draining studio session. And I was happy.

I’d pulled myself out of my cocoon after Rita left and headed for the bathroom. When I opened the door, I smelled freshly brewed coffee. There was, however, no sign of Rita or my mystery date. I poured a cup of coffee and headed directly to my studio. I didn’t bother to dress. I have several workspaces in the studio, set up to let me work on different kinds of paintings and sketches. I sat in a comfortable chair, set the coffee on a table, and pulled a small sketchbook and soft pencil out.

I started small, trying to capture the essence of what I’d felt in the night. Sensory deprived in all but my cock. I had no control over the use of it. Even my one attempt to thrust had been rebuffed. And behind my blindfold, my eyes painted explosions of color into the darkness. In two hours, I’d moved to a larger sketchpad and the remaining half cup of coffee was cold.

I set up my easel with large sheets of rough paper and experimented with charcoal as I drew sweeping curves. The figure leaned back toward the left of the paper, just her chin showing below the upper left corner of the sheet. Her throat extended as her head was thrown back, arching into the line of her breasts. It narrowly missed the feeling I wanted. As I looked at it, I saw the problem. I’d drawn shadows against a white background. I needed to draw light. The sudden burst of imagery I saw behind my eyes as we exploded together.

On a large sheet of Bristol, I laid in a full-page background with the flat of a 4B soft graphite block until the entire page was covered. Then I pulled out an Art Gum eraser and a tortillon and began erasing the parts where highlights would burst out of the shadow. As I saw the shape emerge from the shadows, my heart began to race and adrenalin pumped into my veins.

I prepared a canvas, changing from my initial concept of a horizontal image to a square image. As I worked, I absently chewed on a sandwich and drank coffee without bothering to wonder how they had materialized in my studio. My mind was filled with the image and I could do nothing but focus on my painting. The rough sketch flowed onto the canvas and before I had even finished it, I began laying in the background. The figure would bisect the canvas diagonally. The man below her would be a faint suggestion of a dream-lover, penetrating her depths. There was just enough detail to suggest the act without being explicit. The torso twisted to her right, facing the artist slightly. Her right hand extended down to grasp at the darkness with her fingertips as the left arm was flung across her breasts, raking passion out of her ribs.

But most of all, there was the palpable texture of the darkness surrounding the figure. Each color I worked into the highlights was muted into near transparency against the pebbled Payne’s grey background. I painted that texture as if my eyes were closed and I could sense the pinpoint of each rod and cone firing to create light and color on my retina. Paint flew across the canvas and much of the area that surrounded me as I let go of the fine control of figure drawing and let the light be born from the darkness.

That was the theme. That was what I truly captured. Light borne of darkness. It was as different from the painting of Allison as it was from any of my other work, yet it was a complement as well. In one painting, flames of passion threatened to consume the figure and all it touched. In the other, passion seemed to arise from the ashes, coalescing them into lover.

I took a deep breath and awareness gradually dawned on me that I was still naked, having come directly from my bed some twenty-eight hours ago. I was spattered with paint, and I sported a rigid hard-on as I looked at my painting.

I spent Monday cleaning my house, changing the linens on my bed, and eating. Periodically through the day, I found myself giggling uncontrollably. As pained as I’d been when drawing and painting the canvas of Allison, this canvas had left me high as a kite. Around noon, I sent a text message to Rita that said simply, “It is finished.” Even that made me giggle as I noted the religious connotation. Half an hour later, I received a response: “We’ll be there at six to see. Let’s have Chinese.”

That was all it took. First, “we” were coming to see the painting. Rita was bringing my model—secret lover—with her. I would see her with my eyes for the first time. And we would have dinner. At five-thirty, I ordered from a local restaurant and went to pick it up. I arrived home just minutes before Rita pulled into her drive, followed closely by a late-model mid-class import. A conservative car, I noted as I set the table and dished steaming rice, soup, chicken, and vegetables into serving dishes. I watched from my vantage point inside to see who would step out of the vehicle.

Rita went to the door of the car and opened it, carrying on an animated discussion with whoever was in the car. The occupant seemed reluctant to come out. I debated whether or not to intervene by opening the front door, but this was Rita’s show and I was determined to let her control the way it played out.

Finally, the figure emerged from her vehicle. She was professionally dressed in a dark suit with short-cropped dark brown hair. She stood a good two inches taller than Rita and, though she was fully dressed in a shape-concealing business suit, I was certain I could have recognized her even if I’d merely glanced at her on a street corner. My eye superimposed the curves and the elongation of the torso from my painting over the figure of the woman who now approached my door.

“Doc, I’d like you to meet Dr. Kelly Thompson. She’s my...”

“Colleague,” Kelly broke in. Rita beamed. I was pretty sure Rita was about to say ‘boss.’ I instantly respected Kelly for her separation of work hierarchies from her afterhours relationship. She immediately held out her hand and I took her firm grip in mine. I nearly giggled again.

“Dr. Kelly, I’m Dmitri Peters,” I said.

“Doc,” Rita broke in.

“I’m not a real doctor,” I said. “I have an MFA in art. I can’t be Doc in the presence of someone with a degree.”

Kelly laughed. “Over the past few months, I’ve heard Rita talk constantly about ‘Doc.’ If you don’t mind, I’d be happy to just be Kelly and let you be the doctor. I can’t quite think of you as Dimitri.” Kelly’s laughter was infectious. I was already thanking Rita in my head for bringing this woman into our lives. I ushered the women to the table and we began eating, carrying on the normal chit-chat of new acquaintances.

I learned Kelly was the lead researcher on a project at Rita’s company and, while they had become good friends, they seldom worked directly together. Rita was the research assistant on a parallel project and they often found themselves in adjoining labs at odd hours. None of us mentioned the events of the weekend or the artwork waiting in my studio. Nonetheless, I was fully convinced Kelly had been the model, the secret lover, and the inspiration for the work. I was a bit nervous to find out her reaction.

I served coffee and the three of us moved to the living room. I sat in an armchair and noticed Rita and Kelly sit next to each other on the sofa. It’s a large sofa—Rita and I first made love on it just a few months ago—but the two sat closer together than was strictly necessary. Nor was it an aggressive act. Neither sat at the end with the other encroaching on her space. They sat as a couple in the middle. I thought I detected more than a friendship between the two.

“I’ve a confession,” Kelly said.

“It was my fault,” Rita broke in.

“We have a confession then,” Kelly corrected.

“I ran an experiment on you without your permission,” Rita jumped in.

“Rita explained to me what she had in mind and I jumped at the chance to help her,” Kelly added. “But I have to say I was selfishly motivated. If you are upset, please direct it at me rather than at Rita. As the senior researcher, I didn’t exactly follow protocol. I used you.”

“Please,” I said. “Let’s not level any blame until you’ve seen the results. I’m not particularly upset. Although the circumstances were, shall we say, unusual, I did give Rita my assent and trust. I was surprised but not displeased.”

“It was all about creating a safe way for you to be out of control,” Rita said. “It didn’t go quite the way I’d expected. I kind of lost control myself.”

“Well, as far as control goes, I’d say we all suffered a degree of loss,” Kelly said. “But Rita, dear, I need to put things into perspective for Doc. After all, I...” She hesitated and I moved to ease the way for her.

“You became my lover and inspiration,” I concluded. She grimaced at the words and I wondered what was up.

“Not exactly,” Kelly said. “That’s what I need to clear up. I am not your lover, nor are you mine. You see, I’m not exactly turned on by men.” Now that was a surprise. The raw passion I felt sometime in the middle of Saturday night was certainly not that of a lesbian as far as I could tell. Kelly reached over and grasped Rita’s hand, scrunching her eyes closed before continuing. “I joined Rita Saturday night as a scientist. Although her experimentation base was questionable, she’d described her intent to me in such a way that I agreed—no, I volunteered—to come and record the experiment.” She must have seen my eyes pop open at that because she hurried on. “Not on tape. Oh God! That would have been unconscionable. I was just taking notes. It gave me a sensation of voyeurism that was unbelievable.”