The Virgin Artist

Note: All characters engaging in sexual activities are 18 years or older.

*

Winston Thomas, still as lean and lanky as a wet noodle, stands beneath a large glass ceiling in a marble room filled with artists, art, and angst. So much angst. And so sharp Winston wants to grate it over a delicious art burrito and have it for dinner. He's certainly not innocent, either. Between his absentee girlfriend Luna and the nervousness of his first art show, even a 'mock' one like this, he's worked up his own frothy helping of emo juice.

Walking eyeballs -- critics, professors, and fellow Cornell students -- move from piece to piece.

Hmmm

they say. And

interesting

. The abstract pieces will occasionally elicit a more ambitious response, an interpretation involving the great intellectual ménage à trois of sex, the patriarchy, and God.

One professor, tall, dark, and handsome, on whose arm hangs the accessory of a knock-out blonde half his age, stops in front of Winston's piece. He scans it: a tiny ship, barely illuminated by a glowing lantern hung from its fore-cabin, in a maelstrom of ocean. Churning white foam caps blue-black waves.

"Hummm," says the man. He turns to Winston, one eyebrow raised. "Seems like you've got a lot of inner turmoil."

"Oh yeah," says Winston. His eyes cut to the woman on the professor's arm. "Who doesn't?"

The man laughs. "Touché. Would you—"

Winston's phone buzzes. "Excuse me," he says and steps away. The man shrugs and leads his date toward the next piece.

He's got one text message from his girlfriend Luna:

How's your art show going?

Winston responds:

great. where are you?

Luna:

Don't hate me.

Winston:

what?

Luna:

I can't make it. Study session gonna go all night.

He stares at his phone, dread and disbelief coursing through him. Luna was slipping away from him. That week on the cruise, the sex, the wonder of it... he should have never believed it could last. It had been a dream and waking up from it sure did suck great big donkey cojones.

Luna:

So sorry, but I'm sure you'll do great. I'll make it up? XOXO

He collapses into a nearby chair. Make it up? Hah. Fat chance. One month into the semester and they had sex twice. TWICE. Granted it had been really good. But he was pretty sure Jesus had done the deed more often than that. Or Gandhi did or whoever. But no, not poor Winston. Luna was always busy. Not just a major in computer science but also one in computer engineering, with minors in Asian studies, Japanese, and Physics. She was already a captain in the Jujutsu club, and she was thinking about running for a position in the student government. Hell, forget sex. He would have been happy to simply see his girlfriend.

"What's the matter, Winnie?"

He looks up to find a tall, pale redhead standing there, one fist on her cocked hips. Ivy. She's as thin as Winston, with no breasts to speak of, but her legs. Oh man, those legs. Smooth and creamy and jeez. They're great. He loves them, for reasons both aesthetic and sexual, but his appreciation fills him with guilt.

In fact, he's discovered, being a boyfriend is tough biz. Is he allowed to appreciate other women? Like, as an artist at least? Doing so makes him feel like some sort of boyfriend traitor, but he can't help himself. Especially with Ivy.

Ivy is Luna's roommate in Balch Hall, but a room is just about all they have in common. While Luna still feels self-conscious about her large breasts, Ivy knows no such sexual hang-ups. She spends most of her time in the room dressed in sheer, revealing lingerie.

Such thoughts send a fresh batch of guilt swirling through Winston. "None of your business," he says.

She laughs. "Uh huh. Say where's my do-gooder roommate? Where's your lovey dovey Luna?" She looks around.

"She's not here."

"Awww!" Ivy plops down next to Winston, reaches out and squeezes his leg. "I'm sorry Winnie."

"Thanks," he says and brushes her hand away. "But I'd rather not be just another conquest for the slut queen."

She harrumphs and stands up. "I prefer slut

king

. And who said I wanna shag you anyway?!"

She stalks away, and Winston can't help but check out her ass, encased in a tight black miniskirt. He knows what's underneath. Every time he visits their room, Ivy seems to find excuse after excuse to bend over, revealing her ass to him in all its glory. In fact, she's seen her ass more than Luna's.

Ten steps later Ivy whirls around, and Winston's eyes shoot back up to her face. He blushes.

She smiles as if she can read his mind. "But I do wanna fuck you and I will," she says loudly. Several people look at her. "I'm gonna straddle you and pull down those trousers to reveal the long cock I know you've got hidden there. Then I'm gonna ride you until you fill me up. And I'm gonna do it all on Luna's bed." She blows him a kiss and returns to her painting and its crowd of young men. She's done a nude self-portrait done in a distressed ink style. Vaguely Japanese. Also very good. As physically beautiful as Ivy is, it's her art, as open and frank as she is, that makes her so attractive to Winston.

He sighs, jealous. What must it feel like to be so free? So adored? His own girlfriend probably wouldn't even notice if he got run over by a truck or killed by a rabid ostrich. He sighs again.

A hand descends on his shoulder.

"Cheer the fuck up, son!" says his professor in a voice as dark and swarthy as a good Brazilian coffee.

"I'm fine," says Winston as he turns to face his wild-eyed, wild-haired art professor Antonio Salvarez.

"Then cheer the fuck down, son!" he grabs a chair, whips it around, and sits facing Winston. He nods his head over his shoulder toward Ivy. "Never trust a beautiful artist."

"Um," says Winston. "Why not?"

"She's poison that one.

Louca.

" He brushes his long hair out of his eyes. "That's why I love her. Great potential. Do you see the façade she puts on? The flaunting of the sex, the nonchalance? Hiding something dark inside. Abuse, at the minimum. Greatness comes from darkness. You too. All fucked up inside."

"Gee, Professor," says Winston. "Thanks."

"

De nada

. Winston allow Papa Salvarez to share some advice with you." He jerks his thumb behind him toward Winston's painting. "That subdued piece of

merda

aside, you are an artist. I can see it in you. And the thing, Winstonius, the thing about being an artist is that you're an artist, not a math geek. It's not about technical skill. The brush, the pen, blah bah blah. Perspective, proportion, unity? Blah blah blah. A robot can learn those. But do you see any robot artists around here? No? Me neither. Because the most important thing an artist brings is his unhappiness."

"Great," says Winston, annoyed. "But—"

"No but about it, sonny mcsonboy. An artist is either happy and mediocre or he's unhappy and great. You gotta learn to live with it. Poison Ivy over there has her sexual promiscuity. Van Gogh had his prostitute, his brother, and his absinthe. Me, I'm rich and sexy. I've got a house in the Maldives, one in France, one in Japan, and a cabin in the middle of Siberia. I go places. I see things. I make love to beautiful people. They distract me from my unhappiness. You, though, you're gonna have to find your own means." He stands. "Embrace unhappiness. 'Own it,' as you kids say these days. Only way to be happy."

"That doesn't make any sense," says Winston.

"No it doesn't," says the wild-haired Latino as he slips his hands into his pockets and meanders away.

Winston watches his professor go. Crazy mccrazyman. But as he retrieves his phone and scrolls through his messages with Luna, he begins to think maybe the prof's not 100% loco. Maybe wanting Luna is the same thing as wanting unhappiness. Embrace it, huh.

#

Later that evening, in a small apartment crammed full of artists and art groupies, overly loud music bounces from the walls, and Ivy leans in, very close to Winston and says, "Your art rocks!"

"Thanks!" says Winston.

"You're welcome!"

"Your art rocks too!"

"I know! So does my ass! You need to fuck me!"

Several male partiers look over at Ivy, their hopeful faces falling when they realize she isn't referring to them. It makes Winston feel ridiculously good. It's how Luna used to make him feel. Damn her.

"No!" says Winston. "I'm in a relationship!"

"What?!" says Ivy.

"Luna is my girlfriend!"

"Doesn't seem that way to me!"

Winston shrugs.

"C'mon, let's do it!" says Ivy. "I hate not getting what I want!"

Two of their fellow art students, a boy with a green hair and a girl with a pierced eyebrow, move past them, bumping Winston into Ivy. Her drink sloshes over the rim of her Dixie cup and onto her shirt.

"Holy shit!" says Ivy.

"Sorry!"

"No," she reaches down and squeezes the front of his pants. "You're hard as fuck!"

Winston blushes. "Sorry!"

"Stop saying sorry!" she smiles. "Just fuck me!"

"I can't!"

She shakes her head. "Fine! But at least get us another drink! And walk me home!"

Winston nods. "Alright! But that's all! No sex!"

#

"Oh god," says Winston, his cock covered in a wet warmth that he'd almost forgotten. "Oh Luna."

Ivy pulls back, letting Winston's hardness slip from her lips. "Did you just call me Luna?" Even in the half-darkness of Ivy and Luna's dorm-room, Winston can see the anger in her eyes.

"Wha, nuh? I'm shorry," slurs Winston.

"Uh huh," she says, slowly stroking his cock in one pale fist. "Never fucking do that again." She grabs his balls and squeezes hard. "You got that?"

Winston yelps. "Ow, what the hell!"

"You got it?"

"Yesh, Ivy. Jeez, I said I was shorry."

"Good." She plants a kiss on his balls. "All better. And just to make it clear..." She returns her mouth to Winston's cock, sliding it forward along her tongue. She takes as much as Luna ever could -- about half -- and keeps going. His cock bends down her throat and still she presses forward until she's swallowed all seven inches. Her nose is mashed up against his pelvis.

"Holy holy holy holy holy," says Winston.

Her throat massages his head, creating an intense pressure around it, like she's trying to rip his orgasm straight out of his core. Between that and the alcohol, the room takes on a spinny post-impressionistic blur. She pulls back and then deepthroats him, again and again, slurping and gurgling each time she swallows him. It's one of the most erotic things he's ever heard.

She slows down and pulls all the way back. A strand of precum connecting her lips and his cock glistens briefly in the moonlight before snapping.

"Mmm," says Ivy. She licks her lips. "Bet your Miss Goody Gumdrop can't do that." She stands up and pulls her tank top over her head. She isn't wearing any bra, and even in the half-light, her nipples appear thick and puffy. Beautiful. In fact, they remind him of Luna's, the only other girl whose breasts he has seen in the flesh.

A crushing guilt rises up from within. "Ivy," he says, "I, uh, I don't—"

"Shhh," she says as she shimmies out of her mini-skirt. She's wearing a g-string that hides nothing; her ass is pale and round, curved like the moon. "Well?"

Her beauty is so fresh it's oppressive. Her pale skin practically glows in the moonlight streaming through the 3

rd

floor window. She's like some sort of sex angel.

Winston swallows. "I -- I -- I wanna paint you."

"Why? Wanna steal my soul?" says Ivy. "Too bad. The only person who gets to paint me is me. You'll have to settle for my pussy."

She turns around and climbs up Luna's loft, shaking her pale ass. After she climbs into the bed, she peeks over the edge. "Come on."

The guilt returns, battling with Winston's lust. "Ivy, is—"

"You gave Luna a chance didn't you?" she says. "How many times have you offered and she refused? This could be her who's about to ride that delicious cock of yours. But she said no, didn't she?"

"But—"

Ivy rolls her eyes. "I'm horny as fuck, Winnie. Either get up here and get fucked or get me my dildo and get the fuck out." Her hands disappear for a moment, followed by the sound of cloth on skin. When her hands next appear, her g-string is dangling from one finger. She drops it over the edge, onto Luna's immaculate desk below.

It's too much. Much too much too much. No man could resist it. That is what Winston tells himself as he scrambles up into his girlfriend's bed.

Ivy immediately throws him down and straddles him with her knees. She's well prepared. She grabs hold of his cock, retrieves a condom from who knows where, and rolls it onto his hardness. She then points his long shaft upward between her legs and slides down. She's not as tight as Luna, but her pussy is soaking wet. And she's burning up inside, as if her lust were an inferno raging inside her belly.

"Goddamn my clit feels ginormous," says Ivy as she grinds up against him. "I'll properly fuck you in a sec. Lemme just enjoy your fuckstick inside me for a bit. It's so nicely curved."

That suits Winston just fine. He's so horny and it's been so long and Ivy's so damn electric and so damn, well, naked that he's just about ready to explode. All that's preventing him is the weight of her ass on his waist, a deep fear of not performing well, and not a little alcohol still sloshing around inside.

"I really like your art," says Winston to distract himself.

"Oh yeah?" says Ivy, half-moaning. She moves her hips in circles, working his cock inside her. "Tell me more."

"It's... open. Exposed. Everything on dishplay. And vulnerable."

Ivy grabs Winston's hands and pulls them up to her tits. There's not much there, but he squeezes them anyway, relishing their smooth softness, a sensation unlike anything he's ever felt.

"The nipples," says Ivy. "And keep talking."

He's happy to oblige, pinching her thick, puffy nipples between thumb and forefinger, enjoying their crinkled texture.

"Harder," she says.

He twists her nubs, much harder than he ever had with Luna. Ivy gasps with pleasure.

"Art," she says.

"Uh, right," says Winston. "Your portraits. So, uhhh, raw. Not sexual, but..." he struggles for the word. "Primal." The world swirls around him. He twists her nipples even harder, and she grunts. He thinks back to what their professor said about Ivy. Damaged, on the inside. "Are you, uh, are you..." the words won't come to him, "are you fucked up? Inside fucked up I mean?"

Ivy stops her grinding and looks down at him. "Oh Winnie, you're drunk." Then she lifts herself up until just the tip of his cock is inside her then drops back down.

"Nnnfffuck," says Winston.

"Mmm," agrees Ivy.

She begins riding him like a well-lubricated machine. She slides herself up and then drops back down, and each time the sensation of her hot, wet pussy surrounding his cock sends shivers of pleasure from his crown to his toes. She's way more experienced than Luna, riding him faster and harder than she ever could, the whole loft shaking and squeaking with her movements.

She's louder too. Every time she raises herself up and then slams her ass back down onto Winston's quivering thighs, she groans out-loud. "Fuck yeah, Winnie," she says in a deep husky voice. "That cock of yours feel so great in my cunt."

"Unghh," replies Winston.

Ivy laughs and begins really fucking herself on him, angrily impaling herself on his long, pulsing hardness. "Always good --" she slams herself down on him and grunts "—to fuck—" another slam "—your wits—" her ass slaps against his thighs "—out."

The world seems to split into mirror images. There are four Ivy's on top of him. One is hard enough to handle. Four is outright. His orgasm begins as a lightness behind his eyes. It's fueled not just by Ivy but all of his frustration with Luna. Countless nights of listless longing, all infused in this one single orgasm.

"Unngh," says Winston. "...cum. Gonna... cum."

His pronouncement is like the pistol shot at the start of the race. Ivy grabs hold of his shoulders and begins riding him frantically, working his 'fuckstick' in and out of her pussy, desperate for her own orgasm.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," says Ivy.

Winston's orgasm explodes more in his mind than his body. Empty epiphanies, like hollow bubbles of pleasure, erupt inside his thoughts. Stars and colors burst in his vision. Ivy clamps down on him too, embracing him skin-against-skin, caught in the throes of her own orgasm. She shivers and whimpers, her fingers clawing into his shoulders.

When it clears up, and Winston's mind returns to him, he realizes, suddenly, they are not alone. A shadowy silhouette stands in the middle of the room.

"Winston?" says Luna in a broken voice.

His heart stops. His alcoholic fugue dissipates. A flood of guilt and nausea takes its place.

"How could you?" she says, her voice catching on a half-sob. Her books and notes drop to the ground in a flurry of pages. She turns and flees, slamming the door behind her.

"Oh shit!" says Winston. He tries to slide out from Ivy but she squeezes her thighs around him. "Move!"

"No!"

He bodily lifts her aside and practically falls out of bed in his haste to get away. He strips off his condom, full with his seed, and tosses it into the nearest trash can. His groin is wet with Ivy's juices. He can't find his underwear or his shirt, so he just puts on his pants and slips on his shoes.

"Don't you fucking abandon me," Ivy is saying. "Don't you fucking go chasing her!"

"I'm sorry!" says Winston. "I have to!"

"You'll regret this!"

"Already do!" Half-dressed and still drunk, he flings open the door and runs after Luna.

#

Winston finds her at their secret spot, the place they had met up during orientation, after they were supposed to be asleep in their dorms. She's sitting on a concrete slab, legs dangling over the edge, just above the falls of Beebe Lake. The old power station, with its metal shacks and mammoth gears, continues to rust nearby.

Winston sits down next to her. She looks over at him, but says nothing. She looks tired. Her eyes are red and puffy, but she's not crying now. Her features, one-quarter Japanese, three-fourths European cocktail, are scrunched together in anger.

"Hey," says Winston, the cold air having further sapped his drunkenness.

"Hey I kinda hate you right now."

"Yeah," says Winston. "I kinda hate me right now too."

Luna picks up a stone nearby and skips it over the surface of the water. It bounces four times -- better than Winston could ever do. The reflection of the full moon undulates in the ripples.

"I'm sorry," says Winston. "I was drunk, I didn't—"

"Oh you were drunk, were you?" she says. "I guess it doesn't count then. I guess it's all forgiven."

"Uh, yeah," says Winston. "Sorry."

She says nothing in response. Winston's too scared to say anything else.

They sit there, not speaking. The trees shuffle gently in the wind. Winston's thoughts drift back. During orientation, a month after they had met on the cruise, they had snuck out here after dark to be together. There hadn't been any sex -- Luna was way too shy for that. But he hadn't minded. Why would he? They were going to university together. They could fuck to their heart's content. Instead they'd kissed and chatted and made plans for the upcoming semester. It was supposed to be amazing.

Winston sighs. Reality had turned out much different than his fantasies. But then, it always did.

"Why?" asks Luna.

"I don't know," says Winston. "I just... I'm lonely. I miss you."

"So you cheated on me? Wow. Great. Do you know how much sense that makes?" She pauses. "Zero. It makes zero sense."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care."

Her accusatory tone makes him angry. "Oh I know how little you care. You know, if you had shown up at my art show, this would have never happened."