Van Gogh's Whore Never Saw Georgia O'Keefe's Flowers
Jogging in Central Park among the thick trees and crossing bridges. Louis Armstrong’s voice and trumpet blared “Mack the Knife,” which fluttered leaves and caused birds to fly towards looming skyscrapers, then beyond to cerulean sky.
Then walking inside a van Gogh painting, on a path lined with irises, their stalks gently dancing in the breeze. Beyond the foreground, a field led to olive trees where people picked olives and tossed them into baskets.
Donna thought, Vincent, you were a nutcase, but what color. Other painters pray for half the passion you had.
Jacque, the catering boss, had been full of helpful advice. While setting up the sushi table, he asked, “Do you meditate?”
“Sure,” Donna replied. “Why?”
“Good. Very good. Breathe deeply. Relax. Close your eyes and think of anything else. Eet’s not an easy job, but with your body, you will get a lot of attention. You might steal the show away from the paintings. I hope not. But you might.”
He was right; the slow, deep breathing calmed her. That, and knowing next month’s rent was paid. But the surprise was the chatter. Hell, what did I expect? Even at a crowded art gallery opening, human sushi platters carried a decent amount of shock value.
“Would you look at this,” a woman said.
She was delicate in picking up a piece of sushi. The next person was not. Donna wanted to yell, “Hey! Watch your chopsticks!” Thoughts of a paycheck held her back.
Probably was a man. The sight of a near-naked woman covered in sushi would cause most men to lose their concentration.
“A marvelous idea.” Yep, a man’s voice. “Sir, you have created a masterpiece. Is this work of art for sale?”
“Howard!” the woman again.
“Just joking, darling.”
Jacque, who was adding slimy replacements to her stomach, chuckled and said, "Merci. But, sorry, no. Zee platters are for you to enjoy for tonight only. But zee paintings, you can take home with you and enjoy them all the time.”
“And what wonderful paintings,” the woman said. “C’mon, Howard. Let’s go to the man platter.”
Donna had to admit: This was exciting. An erotic sizzle charged the air. You had to hand it to the gallery for creating an opening that was not only grand, but tasteful and just plain hot. Sensual paintings featured three up-and-coming artists. Old Gustav Klimt even showed up, as an ice sculpture of “The Kiss” that kept champagne bottles cold. Spreads of fine chocolates and other aphrodisiacs. Start off with a bang, a big money shot. Expensive as hell, but it just might pay off. From the sound of it, the place was packed – hopefully with patrons with very deep pockets.
Frank had been giddy for weeks after the gallery called him to ask if he could be one of the featured artists. His paintings had been selling decently – sex sells, after all – but they had never seen this prominence. He called himself the “anchor store.” After all, he was the best known of the three and certainly the most graphic. Paintings by the other two were, well, more suggestive.
“I hope they have wide doors,” Donna had told him.
Frank squinted his eyes, trying to figure it out.
“So your head will fit.”
“Oh, hush. You’d be excited too. Finally I am getting out of outlet mall shows.” His term for the large shows that include a wide variety of artists. “But hopefully I’ll sell a lot of paintings. More demand means more work for my favorite model. And I can pay what I owe her.”
“About time.”
“Which reminds me. The opening’s going to have human sushi platters. They need a guy and a girl. Interested?”
“You mean lay there with sushi on me while people pick it off? No way.”
“But you haven’t heard how much it pays. Sure, it’s not easy work. But think of it. People get to eat sushi off the hottie who’s in most of my paintings. How delicious is that? Roman’s already called the caterer.”
Roman, her companion in Frank’s paintings, had amazing ultramarine eyes and amazingly cut muscles. His body rippled whenever he moved. Shame he was gay. Huge shame. The fun she could have with that body. She was nervous their first time posing together and getting that close to a total stranger and holding still for a while. Eventually her nervousness and horniness wore off – somewhat due to various limbs falling asleep, but mostly due to Frank’s stereo blaring Louis Armstrong. Funny how Dixieland Jazz can lighten a tense situation.
Frank pressed his case. “Why not? It’s not like you’re showing T&A for some beer commercial.”
“A cold beer sounds awfully good right now. Okay, I’ll take the job. I need the money. Who do I see?”
She met Jacque in his restaurant’s dining room. He bounded through the kitchen doors, dressed in full chef regalia and profusely sweating.
“So,” he said, “you are zee girl in zee paintings?”
“Yes.”
He whisked off his chef’s hat, revealing close-cropped stubble of a hairline that would’ve been called receding several years ago. They shook hands. As he looked her up and down, she felt like she was being sized up for a dress. The skirt she was wearing was short and tight. That was no accident.
Then he quizzed her, speaking a mile a minute with a heavy French accent. “You are fine with chopsticks poke at you? Soy sauce spilled on you? Wasabi smeared on you?”
“Yeah.”
“You are okay with people staring at you?” He leaned toward her, eyes glaring, either emphasizing his question or demonstrating how people would stare.
“Yeah.”
“You’re hired.”
“That’s it?”
"Oui.”
“Just one question. Why sushi? You’re French. Shouldn’t you serve ... oh, I don’t know, something French?”
He frowned. “Lady, did you know that Julia Child was not French? Then why was her show called zee ‘French Chef?’ It was foreign. Exotic. Americans ate eet up. If she cooked hamburger, baked beans, no one would watch. So. I make sushi. It is exotic. People will love eet.”
Indeed they did. But then again, they might’ve loved anything served on near-naked people. Especially near-naked people with hot bodies.
Mike had been surprised when Donna told him about the job. He seemed turned on by his girlfriend showing so much skin in public, but also sensitive about it. She reminded him of their trip to Coney Island, where he didn’t mind her in a bikini. In fact, he didn’t mind because he was busy checking out other women in bikinis.
“All right, all right,” he said. “Of course I’ll swing by and see how you’re doing.”
But so far, Mike was a no show. Probably lost track of time in a smoky pool bar while drinking with buddies and knocking balls around a table.
Frank, though, wouldn’t have missed it for the world. “Donna, sweetheart,” he said, “you won’t believe how many people are talking about you and Roman. At least eight guys asked me for your number. No, no, no. I tell ‘em you’re taken. But listen. I told the owners about your work. They seem interested, but they’re kinda hard to read.”
“Thanks Frankie,” Donna said. He hated it when she called him that. “Now run along. Enjoy your time in the spotlight.”
A mix of gasps and “oh my!” as people reaching for sushi were surprised at her voice. She thought, Why, the statue speaks!
His breath was warm on her cheek as he leaned close, and a wave of alcoholic aroma smacked her nose. Vodka? Or is that gin? He whispered right next to her ear, "Ohmygod, this is wonderful. People are practically rubbing themselves. I can’t wait to tell you all about it. My stuff’s going like hotcakes. Hot, hot, hot.”
Then, mercifully, he was gone.
On her other side, Jacque whispered, “Bah. You are a bigger star than zee paintings. What did I tell you? They love eet.”
With her eyes closed, Donna paid more attention to her other senses. Wasn’t that an old saying about people who were blind? Ignoring the pokes of chopsticks, she let the conversation and other sounds meld together into a low hum that enveloped her in a softly vibrating cocoon. She imagined hands rubbing her. Not just Mike’s, but many hands of people all around her. Fingertips and palms glided across her skin in delicate teasing touches. Hands kneaded her shoulder muscles, lightly squeezed her breasts, smoothed over her thighs. Fingers rubbed circles on her scalp and softly tugged on her pubic hair. Forefingers and thumbs twirled nipples and toes. Caresses came on a hundred different places, warming her skin and making it tingle.
More deep breaths, and Donna was so relaxed that she felt as if she were levitating, lifted by yet more hands that caressed her back and butt. The softly vibrating hum was joined by swirling blues and purples and pinks. Colors that reminded her of Georgia O’Keefe’s flower paintings – the close-up ones that smacked into your face. Colors that might have inspired the painter of a work in the show of a vertical bar that took up almost the entire canvas, which made Donna think of Mike’s cock just before it erupted white goo.
The hands parted her legs and Mike went down on her, licking the soft petals of her flower. His tongue gently, oh so gently, parted her petals and slowly entered her and tasted her nectar. Now even more slippery, his tongue traced lines on her labia.
Another mouth began sucking on a nipple and was quickly followed by a third mouth on her other nipple. Her hardened nipples bathed in the warm wetness.
The colors whirled and blended around them, repeatedly pulsing darker and lighter.
Mike continued between her legs, kissing her petals and licking and moving closer to her clitoris.
Donna bit her lower lip and tightly concentrated on exhaling. My God, this party better end soon.
The end came with her huge sigh of relief. It was good money and all she did was lie there, but damn it wasn’t easy. Seeing the world again, she was relieved. Is there anything worse than blindness? Jacque helped her sit up and set a robe on her shoulders. She stood, a little dazed and drowsy, and was surprised by the applause of the remaining partygoers for her and Roman.
She tied the robe and huddled into it, thankful for it covering the vulnerability that she felt while dressed in a bikini that matched her skin tone. At least she didn’t have to worry – like Roman across the room – about an embarrassing erection. Hell, some of the elderly patronesses might even tug dollar bills into his jockey shorts, gleefully ignorant of his sexual leanings. But no patrons, elderly or otherwise, approached her for a lap dance or with an invitation to a private party. It was just as well.
Frank was missing. Mike didn’t answer his home phone or cell phone. Feeling abandoned and in great need of a shower, she splurged on a cab ride.
As the city flew by her backseat window, she felt grimy, weary, more than a little horny, and jealous of Frank for his great success tonight. But someday she’d have her own show and flocks of people would come and ooh and ahh. The critics would mistakenly call her pieces “labors of love” when they really should write “labors of anguish, passion, and wild bursts of joy.” She resolved to pay closer attention to sounds and try to include them in her paintings.
Any other time, she would’ve enjoyed the luxury of her own private driver – even if it lasted only several minutes. Sure beat the subway and the bus. But tonight, she was impatient for hot cleansing water and an orgasm to calm the evening’s heat. And since Mike was MIA, she would have to take matters into her own hands. Maybe a search through the fridge’s produce bin would be fruitful. Or should it be vegetable-ful? Oh, Mr. Cuke, let me count the ways.
The apartment was dark. Ruth was either out on the town or asleep. Even though her roommate slept the sleep of the dead, Donna erred on caution’s side and quietly made her way to the bathroom.
The hot shower was heaven. Afterward, she bypassed her thrift store kimono and put on the thick terrycloth robe that her mother gave her two Christmases ago. The kimono somehow always made her feel like van Gogh’s whore, Sien. A curious comparison that gave Donna much food for thought. Sien wasn’t really Vincent’s whore, but lived with him, along with her children by another man, for over a year in The Hague. Assuming Sien’s persona, Donna thought, Oh Vinny, I adore your colors. And I know how you adore Asian art. So I have become a piece of art for you. Paint me in my kimono. Much more clever than when you painted me squatting. Think of the scandal you’ll cause in Paris!
But the kimono wasn’t in the cards now.
Tonight would be a detour to the kitchen then to bed and satisfaction. She tiptoed down the hall, and ... was the refrigerator door open? Did Ruth beat me to the veggies?
Quietly approaching, Donna saw that Ruth wasn’t peering into the fridge. It was George, Ruth’s boyfriend of the moment, dressed in white T-shirt and navy cotton gym pants like ones he probably wore in high school gym class.
“Hey,” Donna said.
“Shit!” His eyes lit up like firecrackers.
“Shhh.”
“Sorry. Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry about that. I thought you were Ruth.”
“She’s asleep. Deeply. She started snoring and I couldn’t sleep. Then I got thirsty.”
She nodded. “Yeah, she can be pretty loud. How about some tea?”
He scratched the top of his head. “Um, sure. Yeah. Nothing with caffeine, though.”
“No problem. Here.” She opened a kitchen cabinet, revealing many colorful boxes. “Take your pick.”
As he read the labels, she filled the teapot with water and set it on the stovetop. She thought about this opportunity that presented itself at her feet. Could this mean goodbye hand?
She quickly skipped over any ethical dilemma that may have sprung up over a serious relationship. Ruth changed boyfriends like shoes, and often the next boyfriend was made by cheating on the previous one. One boyfriend had a wife. A certifiable soap opera. Nothing that Ruth said about George led Donna to believe he would be any different. Shy and soft spoken, he was a far cry from Ruth’s usual hotheaded jerks. George was cute in his awkwardness, but Donna couldn’t figure out what attracted Ruth to him.
And what about Mike? Well, he missed the boat this time. What’s one night of me getting my rocks off? Hell, he might be doing it now with some drunk chick. And what did he say about desperate guys? They’d settle for any chick with a hole and a heartbeat? Well, here’s a pole and a heartbeat.
But George wouldn’t be easy to seduce. How should I do this? The bananas on the counter called to her, suggested she lovingly caress one, peel it, and deep-throat it – all in front of a panting George. In the absence of a pole, the corner of the wall hinted that she lean against it while strip-teasing. Maybe she should’ve chosen the kimono, so her nipples could be partially seen through the thin fabric. But I’ll make this one work. She loosened the sash, letting the robe open slightly to reveal skin.
She asked, “So what did you guys do tonight?”
George’s eyes shifted from the tea boxes to the narrow tantalizing view of Donna’s cleavage then to her eyes then to his feet. “We, um, ate Thai food. The place on 54th. Ever been there?”
“Oh, yeah. Great food. Love the coconut chicken soup with lemongrass. Best thing to eat when it’s chilly outside.”
She stepped back and leaned against the opposing counter. As they faced each other on opposite sides of the galley kitchen, she felt as if they were dueling. Draw that pink weapon! Giggles approached, but she fought them off.
Instead of whipping out a pistol, George said, “So what did you and um ...”
“Mike?” She spread the robe apart a little more.
“Yeah, Mike. What did you guys do tonight?”
He looked up and, on seeing the improved view, quickly turned back to his feet. A tent began to raise.
Donna shrugged. “Not sure. Who knows what he’s up to. But I was a sushi platter.”
“A what?” he asked.
“For an art gallery opening. Sushi was served on me. Pretty wild, huh?”
“Yeah. That’s pretty cool.”
“Could you get me a bag of Darjeeling?” Donna asked.
“Uh, sure.”
He was probably glad for the chance hide his obvious erection and return to studying the tea boxes.
Sien, you old sex pro, what would you do? Be obvious? Why not? No sense in being subtle and waiting all night.
She drew aside the robe, hand on naked hip, and said, “George?”
He turned, eyes popping again, and stared at her nudity for a full two seconds – until his hands flew to cover his eyes.
“Jesus,” he said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to see you. It’s just that – ”
“It’s your turn, George. Let’s see the pole that’s keeping the tent up.”
“But I... huh?”
Do I have to do everything myself?
She stepped forward, careful of his erection, and kissed him. Thankfully, mercifully, he kissed back.
“But Ruth,” he whispered.
“Forget her. She’s totally out. You can still hear her snoring.”
With that, she slipped her tongue into his mouth.
He replied with surprising energy and kissed back harder. His fingers pushed through her still-wet hair and clasped the back of her head. Lips smacked. Tongues played. His erection poked her stomach and nudged her back against the counter. His assertiveness delighted her.
She didn’t notice his hands slowly descending to her butt, and she was shocked when each grabbed a cheekful and hoisted her up. Startled, she sat on the countertop as he dropped and began licking her pussy.
Very excitedly.
“Hey there,” Donna said. “Whoa. Slow down, eager beaver.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, tossing a quick glance up.
Was he blushing? Either way, he returned to licking her flower petals. And obediently too – his tongue’s tip started low on her labia then moved up, slowly and softly, as more of his tongue dragged to enjoy the taste. Once reaching the labia’s top, he backed down to start all over again.
George was eager to please, and he was succeeding. The guy just needed a little coaching on some techniques, and he would give quite the proficient oral. Hey Sien, did Vincent ever go down on you? I bet his red beard scratched like hell.
Flight after flight of his tongue, and steam rose substantially from the stovetop.
"George,” Donna whispered hurriedly, "the teapot.”
He spun and removed the teapot from the burner and turned the stovetop off.
“Now where was I?” he asked.
Is that a mischievous smile? Why George!
He changed tactics and zeroed in on her clitoris – his tongue’s tip flicking back and forth. Still slowly. Damn, it felt good. So good that it didn’t take long for her to tremble in the electricity of a beautiful orgasm. She bit her lower lip for the second time that night to avoid crying out, and a low moan slipped free. The hot shower had taken care of the sushi’s sliminess, and now the pleasure currents melted away the strange touch of strangers and pokes of chopsticks in amateur fingers. A good bit of her pent-up horniness was quenched. But now she wanted cock.
She gently pushed his head away and slid down to kiss him, tasting herself on his lips, and whispered, “Thank you.”
He wasn’t finished. He picked her up by her butt again and carried her to the kitchen table then set her down. Like elevated surfaces, Georgie? Surprising strength too, buddy.
The ridiculous gym pants were pushed to the floor and his cock flopped free for a moment before being eased into her. Mmmm, nice and thick. Is that why Ruth keeps you? Or is it your speedy tongue?
She decided such mental chatter could wait for a morning meditation. She wrapped her legs around him and sat up. In hugging him, she whispered, “Too noisy. Carry me to my bed.”
George added another pleasant surprise to her list as he carried her down the hall and laid her on the bed, still successfully inside. His mouth sucked on her nipples. Their skin was hot against each other. His hips thrusted not too quickly but in a slow, strong pace. Georgia O’Keefe’s blues and purples returned to swirl around them. Sien, you should’ve seen this.
Copyright © 2004 by August MacGregor. All rights reserved.
August MacGregor is the pseudonym of a writer and graphic designer who has recently jumped from the corporate ship into the turbulent and fascinating waters of freelance work. But he is learning to swim and, through his love of literature, visual concepts, and sensuality, has found an outlet in writing erotica. He loves sushi and only paints houses – not canvases. Thankfully, both of his ears are just fine.
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