The Portrait

It was getting warmer and warmer. The sun, goddess ablaze in the tranquil sea-blue sky was tempting, teasing, enticing him to remove, without actually putting much thought into it, his garments, now drenched by his own glistening, salty sweat.

He studied her like a lion studies its prey, crouching silently behind tall grass, burning with the desire to pounce, to capture her essence in his hands, giant paws with the power to crush, to break, to fracture, to caress, to create. But rare among his kind was his gift of patience, his ability to wait, patiently, to coax, uncomplainingly, for her to open herself up to him, petal by petal, the way a rose blooms at the precise moment, at a particular season, without any help or persuasion from anyone or anything, not even the rain. He knew, by experience, that women played a game whether they knew of it or not, retreating when pursued and pursuing when the fear of losing attention tugged at the hems of their childish hearts. And that is what he did. His eyes pierced through her like a dagger, ripping off everything that covered her intimate secrets. Full, sensual lips pursed tight in ardent concentration. Beads of glistening sweat, pearls formed from inner turmoil, stimulated by particles of her he has taken into himself, traced the strong muscles of his jaw, tight with the conviction that this conquest shall be his to claim.

She blushed. If his eyes were camera lenses, what pictures were they taking? Virginity confronted with its end? Graceful, delicate modesty masking wild animalistic passions? Is it possible for a man to see a woman’s secrets that way? She was frightened. Terrified like a gazelle who has long realized she is being watched. But she dared not move. His temper matched a lion’s as well. Her sure hands, adept at imitating calm did not belie the frantic trembling deep within her. She remained still as a statue. Unmoving. Seemingly unfeeling. But he has done it. He has brought life to the volcano inside. Now, her lava rocks and boiling waters were swirling, dancing, threatening to explode at anytime.

His hands moved. Up and down, up and down, sometimes dipping into the moist redness of her pouting lips, or into the soft curve of her long, smooth neck, coming alive beneath the artistry of his fingers. Sometimes he would opt, instead, to caress the graceful slope of her back, or the inviting textures of her shapely thighs, making every inch of her that he came across glow with the vitality of a woman who knows she is being worshipped.

He was a professional, no doubt about it. But so was she.

Up and down went his fingers. Up and down he went, in long gentle strokes and sure swift motions. Adept and skillful, as though it was his very nature to ensnare a woman so that with every stroke, she felt herself robbed of something she did not wish to give away. Into his hands parts of her went, magnetized by his clever movements, as though with every stroke, he sucked colors from her cheeks, from her breasts, from her hair let loose from its bonds, from her heart, into his hands.

His hands. Skillful. Adept. Strong and soft at the same time. Sometimes quick and sure. Sometimes slow and caressing. Sometimes powerful. Sometimes gentle as a feather upon a baby’s cheeks. Sometimes rough and urgent, as though his very life depended on the materialization of his designs. She could feel the urgency in his hands. Even when they were gentle, she could feel he was merely suppressing something that was otherwise deliriously restless, simply because it was necessary to control the wild things that attempt to enslave men. That was how it was, after all. Capturing the savagery, the wildness of nature and its strong, primitive emotions and transforming them into something that can be appreciated by “civilized” men. Thus, it was called an art.

And she was art indeed. Unmoving. Seemingly unfeeling, but he could almost see the faint throbbing of her heart beneath the thin lace enticing over her breasts. Clothing is such a tricky thing. Men never knew whether they were there to hide temptations that led them to damnation or to enhance what is underneath. Fragile and thin, hungry claws could rip them bare, the way little boys rip away paper gift wrappers from presents on Christmas day. But instead they are boundaries, overrated into something believed to keep away predators better than stone walls ever could. In this case, the floral fabric, white, the color of virginity, of innocence, running from around her smooth neck down to the inviting swells of her breasts, to the gentle curve of her soft waist, to the contour of her silky thighs, and then slipping between the knobs of her knees to reveal the creamy whiteness of her legs, serve only to give the illusion of movement to what is otherwise almost a statue. There he was, perspiration dripping from his forehead, his heart in his hands, giving it the power to move almost at will, up and down in varying strokes, sweating with the passion he knew will never be quenched lest he finish what he has begun. And there she was. Unmoved. Unbearably still, save for the awful virginal fabric which she refused to shed. It was too much, yet it was just as he desired. His hands can make them do as he pleased nonetheless. He knew his way around clothing anyway.

She could feel the sense of urgency escalating. He moved about her feverishly now, as though time has grown impatient. His eyes were quicker to analyze, hands more frantic. One small stroke here where she was most intimate, another long stroke there to drag eyes along her skin the way bare shoulders usually do. He breathed faster now, she noticed, holding his breath while perfecting a technique on her inner thighs, or sometimes breathing against her cheeks to blow some blush away. She trembled a little. She was tired. She was growing restless. They have been at this for 6 hours now. When will he be done with me?

I’m almost done, he thought, in quick, short breaths. He thrust one last powerful stroke of lustful bloodshot red at the area beneath her navel, stretched his limbs with a loud exultant exclamation and then collapsed in his chair like a withered shrub. She has sucked the life out of him. It was like an all-time high. You go for 6 hours and when you’re done, you wither and shrivel up like a pickle.

“I want to see” She said as she stood from her platform, gliding across to his worktable. His easels and brushes were everywhere. Paint splattered around on the floor. She saw herself on the canvass, more sensuous than she has ever known herself to be. “You make me look like some rich man’s daughter.”

“I was trying to make you look like a virgin.”

“You look all worked out. You did not even touch me.” She peered at him from beneath her long eyelashes and suddenly felt insecure. She never had a customer look this wasted after her services were rendered. “I’m almost insulted.”

“Don’t be.” He handed her an envelope.

She peered into it and looked satisfied. Her coat was hanging by the door. With a flamboyant twirl, she left. She looked like her old vulgar self again: small, tight red dress with the low cut cleavage and a coat that barely kept her warm. Defeats the purpose of the coat, an old lady once told her. It actually depends on what the purpose is, she had replied. It attracts customers. It serves THAT purpose. But as she left the artist’s studio, a different kind of warmth crept inside her. It wasn’t from the coat. Six hours of feeling naked although clothed in front of that man actually made her feel special. He did not touch her, but she knew he managed to penetrate her deeper than any man she has ever known. This artist knew of the age-old secret of women. The secret they keep in the depths of their souls that all women, no matter how many times they have surrendered themselves, remain virgins in their hearts.

He picked up after himself when she left. Brushes were thrown into the sink. Paint wiped carelessly off the table. Her portrait stood quietly in the middle of his studio, a world all on its own, separate from the mess that was his life. This always happened to him when he paints. He surrendered himself to it completely, that it was just like making love.

Written Sept. 4, 2007