An Artist's Muse

THOMAS DEAN: AN ARTIST'S MUSE: EVERY WOMAN IS BEAUTIFUL

I was in my Junior year in Capitalland Law School. It was holiday time. Exams were over. The legislature had adjourned. Everyone had vacated to go home. "There is one good thing," I told tall dark skinned Al Mandy when I visited him at his Fertility Clinic looking for work, "With everyone taking off to go home for the holidays, I don't have to reply with my favorite Season Greetings: `A year older, not an hour wiser.'"

Everything around Capitalland was quiet, even the apartment I shared with Al's colleague pudgy Rebecca Barton. Behind her back I called her by pet name Zaftig, meaning a voluptuous woman with dazzling curves.

A couple of days ago, as Zaftig waddled to the shower with a towel slung over her shoulder, a certain wiggle in her fleshy tush suggested an open invitation. Turning to me. uncovered bulbous bare breasts bobbing, Zaftig reminded me of my promise to drive her to the train station for her trip home. The radio played the popular tune of the moment "Every Woman Is Beautiful," as Zaftig presented full-frontal nudity while she awaited my response.

When I nodded, Zaftig paused for a second to reflect as the tune faded away, "That song is so popular it manages to supplant Christmas music."

To my smile, Zaftig shrugged her shoulders and proceeded into the bathroom. Had I been invited? I wanted to join her but I hesitated and let the moment of opportunity slip away.

Mean black edged cumulonimbus hung over the river as Zaftig and I embarked in my rickety car. 'Snow?" Zaftig asked.

During the drive to the baroque Capitalland station for Zaftig's train ride home the tune, "Every Woman Is Beautiful," blared on the car radio.

"Every woman's beautiful her mystical powers at play, her very smile can chase, dark clouds away."

"Hmm, the storm might blow over," I answered Zaftig's question.

As I dropped her off, Zaftig invited me for the 100th time to come with her. "Christmas is not my time of year. I'm reminded I'm a year older and not an hour wiser." Smiling, I teased her, "Remember not to tease your father like you do me. At home with your family, you can't parade to the shower like you're in a girl's gym, naked, towel over your shoulder. Your father might not appreciate it."

I sighed. I envied her complete abandon in our private space. I was hesitant to wander our rooms in the altogether. As much as I wanted to hop in the shower with Zaftig, I was afraid to reveal my deformity to her or any another person. The song "Every Woman Is Beautiful" might be on everyone's lips, I didn't know how Zaftig or anyone else might react to the sight of me unveiled. I didn't want to relive my experiences in the girl's gym in High School.

"But it's so quiet here," Zaftig protested, "You'll drive yourself crazy."

I took a deep breath "driving" that was part of the problem. Gas had hit all of $0.55 cents a gallon. Did I have enough change to make the 250 mile trip downstate?

With a smile I assured Zaftig, "It's quiet but I'll find see if Al Mandy has something to keep me busy. He's usually has hatched some new scheme."

"Hmm, You're in luck. Al is unlikely to head home into a firestorm I heard from Father that Al's mother has sued for divorce and got Al's Dad expelled from their Clintonville Village home," Zaftig informed me, "Al's Dad has privileges at Clintonville Heights Hospital. `Three years in America,' Al's Dad declared, `and she starts acting the whore.'"

"Speaking of whores, I'm hoping Al will film a new one porn flicks," I reminded Zaftig, "it did pay our heating bill last winter." I hated myself as soon as I alluded to Zaftig's role in Al's skin flicks. Indeed, although Zaftig had performed on camera running down the corridors or showering nude, Zaftig was now Dr Rebecca Barton MD, a department head at University Hospital obviously too good for that now.

When I leaned over to peck her on the cheek, Zaftig pulled me close, whispering "Last chance, come with me." When I declined, Zaftig bolted from the car and disappeared into Capitalland station.

I took a deep breath. I shook my handbag to guess how much I had from the sound of coins jingling. "No jingle bells in there," I declared. I was so desperate I might try to persuade Al to write a freak show scene for me to appear in all my glory presenting full frontal nudity in his next production. Hopefully, Al's perverted friend Dr Wright illustrating medical texts wanted to buy some more still photos of my deformed chest.

For one who never wanted to be a doctor, Al was so gentle touching me to take measurements of the hollow in my chest as he snapped topless and nude photos. What perverted joy Dr Wright might see in freak show photos, I could only guess.

When I arrived at Al's office in a fertility clinic, I noticed the girl at the counter was wearing the revealing Nursing Assistant costume I had designed for Al's Dr Zoptic soft porn series, featuring my roommate Zaftig in the title role. Al's Nursing Assistant wore the white lab coat which barely reached her thigh high black fishnet stockings, treating any viewer to a glimpse of her butt crease with her every move as she ushered me into Al's corner office.

"School's out no books to scour, quiet descends in a trance," I told Al, "and Zaftig -- Dr Rebecca Barton -- made her last prance, bare body bolder, bounded for the shower with towel slung over her shoulder."

"Dear Zaftig, the Ice Queen, Regina Glaceie, her class called her, gone on holiday. Quiet here, too," Al, sitting behind his desk in the darkened rooms of the Fertility Clinic, "So many of our donors are away, I have only two nursing assistants on duty in the collection department. I could cut it back to one but my lovely lassies, even little toughies shell -- hardened by daily dealing with horny men, feel more comfortable hooking up a donor's willie to the mechanical wanker if the birds can work in pairs. That way the tarts don't feel like trollops."

I chuckled. There were days I would tease Al about his `Britishness,' but I had come looking for a favor. "I guess many of the donors want to be eh -- unhooked before going home." I chided Al.

"Many do want to be temporarily released from their exclusive output contracts which require application of a coetus interdictor," Al replied, "It seems the brainy and brawny men whose output is most desirable are most hesitant to grant an exclusive."

"Hesitant to wear a chastity belt?" I suggested, "How does a temporary Christmas reprieve from Chastity affect your business?"

"Works well for me -- the clinic," Al seemed confident, "Upon return, the clinic has the expense of retesting the donor for venereal diseases true. However, when the donors return, I can go over the stats -- the demand for that donor's daddy serum and reduce the stud service fee."

"What did the female nursing assistants say to the introduction of that flimsy reveling outfit, fishnet stockings and a white lab coat. The pantiless costume worked well in the nuddie cuties films you produced. How did it carry over into 'real life?'" I led into the topic.

"Oh," Al replied, "life does indeed imitate the cinema. Incrementalism worked. Let me call in one of my nursing auxiliaries to explain how the transition went from medical scrubs to attire designed to assist in harvesting," Al raised his eyebrows, "Daddy serum."

"Daddy serum?" I tested Al.

"You've roomed with your friend Zaftig too long," Al retorted, "Spermatozoa, if you will." Looking at the door, Al greeted Aimée, "Ah, Aimée, our dear friend Erica Ehrlich came by for a visit."

In walked Aimée, swinging her hips. One of Al's dirty dozen, his usual stock characters for the films he produced, Aimée was dressed the revealing white lab coat with fishnet stockings. With every wiggle, the lab coat shifted revealing a quick glimpse of her pubes and butt cheeks. Recognizing Aimée as one of Al's Dirty Dozen, I rose to give Aimée a peck on the cheek. "Surely, a tale worth telling!" I exclaimed.

"Al brought me in from the Dirty Dozen two days a -- week to introduce the new lab coat and stockings outfit. When willing volunteers from the clinic staff expressed concern about the breeze blowing up their bottom," Aimée responded, "Al permitted a short white skirt and black undies."

"Capitalism works, by jingo," Al interjected, "Tips persuaded most of the vixens of the efficacy of a bare undercoating. Suddenly, visible contours of the bum crease didn't seem quite so dreadful."

"When the regular employees," Aimée continued, "saw the tips I received, most the others realized their sweet butts were a cash cow. These days a gal wearing panties is probably on her period."

"Profit and pride do tend to be inversely proportionate," Al quipped.

"In restaurants, waitresses stash tips in their bra or their waist band. Floating around underside bare," I asked, "where do you stash your tips? Hopefully, it isn't literally dirty money?"

"Oh, no," Aimée laughed, "fashion a secure waist band from old, worn-out clothing. ..."

Al interjected, "Gas prices doubling along with electric and groceries, more staff members decided their sense of propriety could accommodate the new outfits," Al replied, "I had to add the experimental new look to additional shifts and to additional days and in a short spance, the whole week.."

"Now," Aimée shrugged her shoulders lifting the lab coat to provide a glimpse over her butt. "A few round bottoms still wear the skirt with or without panties; most don't. It's a tease, suggest a possibility. No different from acting on camera, you create an image that you play to an audience, except that you get to see how your audience reacts right in front of you, instead of waiting to hear Al report comments he's received."

With a pained smile, Al nodded to Aimée and reminded her to return to attend to her patient.

As soon as Aimée left the room, Al released a long sigh. Looked down glumly, he reflected, "Cinematography was my passion. Unfortunately, making an underground film with a few scenes of dancing nymphs but," Al released a sigh, "even the raciest film I ever produced --the training film for fertility clinics -- is no longer any more erotic here in the great modern age of the 1970s than what you can see for a couple of dollars in the legitimate theatre. I need some new ideas, Erica, my dear girl, to test the limits without bringing the law down on me. Put on your thinking cap."

"How about letting me turn my brain on by giving me a job here -- part time," I pled, "Restaurants are slow, with legislature adjourned. Even if I get hours, tips from the locals who hang around during the holidays aren't good."

"Every one of the Dirty Dozen has come to see me. Aimée got here first and got the job," A sad look filled Al's face, "The rest, oh I had to tell them the hard truth: Once you produce a marvelous, multi-purpose training film, it remains out there in circulation for quite a while. I may get a request after the holidays for a film on insemination -- sometime after the holidays -- until then.. There is one request I have for you -- some money perhaps -- Dr Ron Wright the illustrator who kept ordering topless pictures of your bare chest would like to meet you."

Biting my lip, I thought aloud, "I was afraid that this fellow buying pictures was such a geek he'd might eventually want to meet. What could your friend the illustrator see in me? A hole in my chest, a surgical scar and tits the size of raisinettes! I'm a freak."

"One that appeared in porn -- soft porn sublimated just enough to qualify as having a redeeming social value. Your performance doing two girls on camera attracted a third's curiosity. Mary, Zaftig's double, emerging from a scene in a steam bath invited you to join her in the shower," Al reminded me.

"You didn't give this Dr Wright, the illustrator these films, did you?" I was shocked.

"Good heavens no," Al protested, "No, why should I ever give away my films?" Al exclaimed, "The illustrator's name is Dr Rob Wright. Rob bought them -- all of them." After a pause, Al added, "you should be pleased. Without purchasers, how could I pay you? Meet the bloke. You've become his muse. Poor fellow! Rob is probably wankering off every night in front of your picture."

"He's a donor, isn't he?" I retorted. "Let's meet here."

"I was thinking of more of a dinner date," Al suggested.

"Ha," I scoffed, "He's a donor. I'll throw on the costume and draw a day or night's pay and so will your donor."

"Incredible!" Al declared, "For the privilege of making the coupling I pay both the Rajah and the Ranee. How long will The British Raj," Al implored clasping his hands in a mock appeal, "be maintained on such a basis?"

I chuckled at Al's effort to remain faithful to his assumed English character. I thought of bringing up his less -- than -- British, but I needed a favor.

"You're already charging the illustrator -- Dr Wright -- for making the date, Right -- I had better say Correct?" I retorted. "We wouldn't love you otherwise."

"Jolly good, me heartie!" Al concluded discussion, "time to get yourself tarty. Your Mr Wright shall materialize in a jiffy."

"Here? How?" I questioned.

"I had Aimée call Dr Wright during our conversation," Al responded. Looking toward the door. He invited Aimée in with instructions to escort me to the female staff locker and allow me to shower alone. Al turned to me with the direction, "That ought to meet your satisfaction."

"Shall we?" Aimée, with a smile, tapped me on the shoulder.

We walked the dimly lit, black carpeted, charcoal grey wall hangings. "You should remember the way through these corridors from the time Al was filming here."

"While I was working with Al, I wasn't involved in any of the scenes in treatment rooms," I recalled.

"I'll walk you through. Efficiency is profit. Few guys are long -- lasting, Hook Dr Wright to a socket. Not to worry though. A little stim outflows the deposit. Guys cum faster here than with you in bed wrestling," Aimée declared.

"A few secs, right? A sniff of your perfume in sum, is so potent under it's spell, he's a goner, one whiff makes guys cum?" I returned the tease, "And about our guest of honor. How capable is our Dr Wright?"

"I don't rightly know?" Aimée chuckled, "Dr Wright pops into Al's office. The door is shut. Then Dr Wright takes off. I never seen a girl join them."

Up ahead light cast across the darkened corridor from the open locker room casting an intense beam of light across the corridor leaving rectangular image on opposite the wall. Entering the locker with Aimée, I squinted. "I had forgotten how bright it was in here."

My pulse picked up. The locker brought back memories.

"Bright enough for Al to shoot you rollicking on the floor with that buxom nurse," Aimée remarked, "My husband loved that scene of two girls getting it on down and dirty right there on the floor of the locker. Why didn't Al have you follow the nurse into the scene under the shower?"

I breathed a sigh of relief. Al hadn't circulated the films of me with Zaftig's double Mary in the shower. I was concerned Al might. What if my roommate Zaftig realized the power her presence held over me? While I suspected Zaftig preferred women, I wasn't sure. Might Zaftig be offended and kick me out?

"My husband might have liked to watch your sculpted butt wiggle as you followed that nurse into the shower." A daring smile appeared on Aimée's face when she informed me, "My husband was fascinated that I might like to be screwed by a girl while he watched."

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

"Naturally, any gal can do a guy; it takes skill to do a girl," Aimée, tongue licking her lips, answered.

"Is that an invitation?" I tested her with the conception. "Husband in chastity watches?"

"Let's wait until Al casts us in a scene," Aimée responded.

"Good choice!" I exclaimed. "Why not suggest the scene to Al?"

Shown my locker and provided, the stockings and lab coat, Aimée pointed to the shower, "Everything off, soap up, dress quickly in the Nursing Assistant's kit. Hurry up, Dr Wright will be waiting." Pointing to a corner, "Panties and pads available, for the monthly event," Chuckling she reflected, "For a doctor, Al can be profoundly innocent. He gave in to the girlies on the scant white skirt easier than on the panties. Al cut up too many dead bodies in training. With the live ones remaining, Mother Nature flows cyclically; taking its courses in hormonal surges unleashing tidal forces which activate male infatuation, also initiate the aversion whisking away attraction."

"You recommend?" I enquired.

Holding up a white pleated skirt, Aimée replied, "Dr Wright may be the wrong man to flash your tush at. What if he's a eh -- likes guys? Cover your ass. It's easier to take something off if you have to than to cover up."

At that I was left alone in the locker, the door from the corridor was held open by a steel levered door jam. There was no barrier from the lockers to the showers. I tested the door jam. The door was unbudgeable securely locked in place by the silvery steel stopper.

Annoyed, I'd be on display to anyone walking by. Fortunately, there were only a few people in the suite. Al had the whole place wired for photography.

Shrugging my shoulders, I undressed, stowed my clothes, looked around, threw a towel over my shoulder and proceeded into the shower. Turning to face the door, I expected to find Al Mandy arms crossed watching. But alas, I finished in the shower alone.

Having just finished drying my hair, I was straightening the white lab coat and adjusting the white skirt when Aimée returned. "Good choice," Aimée lifted my skirt to playfully tug at the sheer black panties.

Out in the waiting room, Al was chatting with a youngish ruddy faced man, my age or a little older. Not quite as tall as Al but powerfully built, Dr Wright, his open black overcoat covering a pin striped suit, rose from the circular couch which nestled in a corner facing a receptionist's station. As soon as I entered, Al deferred to me,. "Oh, Erica here you are." Turning to Dr Wright, Al smiled, "Rob, I think you'd prefer talking to Erica than to me. Why not let Erica show you about?"

When I asked Dr Wright, "Shall we get to work?" I started to move away toward the male patient shower, but froze in my tracks when Dr Wright didn't rise.

A grin appeared on his broad face. "I thought dinner out might be a nice way to get acquainted."

At that Aimée nudged me. "My next patient is a bit early. If you need help call me." Under her breath she added, "If you call, you're crazy." At that she disappeared down the corridor chattering away with a male patient.

"Dressed like this?" I asked. I twirled to model the skirt.

"Everyone there would be jealous," Dr Wright's voice was smooth.

"Later, perhaps, just for you. An invitation enticing, but with gas prices rising, I need Al's money for car gassing. So, now, we have a job to do," I pointed the way down the darkened corridor.

I escorted Dr Wright to the patient shower.

To Wright's uncomprehending look when I brought him into the male patient's locker, I chuckled. "Nothing untoward or improper. Everything off. Don't totter. Stow your clothes in your locker. Then, rub -- a -- dub -- dub into the shower for a scrub."

When Dr Wright returned a blank stare, I insisted, "Do you require detailed advice or need I say it twice?"

Throwing a locker open and removing a hangar, Dr Wright removed his overcoat and hung it in the locker. His suit jacket and tie followed. Off came his shirt and onto a hangar in the locker, revealing a hairy muscular chest. Bending over to touch his toes, Dr Wright boasted, "still limber enough to accomplish the task."

Untying the laces of his shoes polished so well they reflected the intense light, Dr Wright hobbled on one foot to remove one shoe then the other. Shoes and socks were tucked them into the bottom of his locker. Unbuckling his belt, he, with a single slight of hand, slid his pants and shorts off and hung them in the locker.