Tuesday, 21 February 2012

Art Appreciation

I wrote this piece originally for Australian People magazine when I had my column "Sophie Loves Sex." This is it in its original form...  For the longer, more descriptive and even sexier version... Well, you'll just have to wait for my book to be published!

Enjoy! 

Simon was an artist who lived in a little upstairs studio in the city. Nearly the whole flat was covered in brightly coloured canvases, and easels containing half finished works.

“Do you like them?”

“Yes,” I said. “You’re very talented.”

“I’m getting a bit tired of the old canvas,” he said. “I really want to try painting on other mediums.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He paused for a minute, thinking. “Could I paint you?” Before I had a chance to respond he added, “I mean paint on you. Make you my canvas, I’ll use body paint.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

He led me to a table covered in a white sheet. I slipped off my clothes and lay on my tummy, my chin resting on my hands.

He dipped his hand into the paint. It was cold at first, making my body tense up and little goose-bumps appear, but after a few strokes I got used to it and began to enjoy it.

His hands smoothed the paint across my back, over my bottom and down my thighs, warm and strong.

After about twenty minutes he stopped and stood back to admire his work, pulling over a large mirror so I could see as well.

It was amazing. My back, all the way down to my knees, was covered in these bold shades of blue and purple and silver, all blending into each other to resemble a kind of magical stormy sky - the curves of my body complementing the swirling paint and adding depth and shadow to his work.

He walked around the table, inspecting it from all angles. “You are one sexy piece of art,” he said.

He pulled me back slowly til my feet were on the ground, my elbows still resting on the table, and I turned my head so I could see in the mirror.

He stepped out of his jeans, exposing his hard cock, and came up behind me. His hands slid up my body as he pushed into me, leaving a trail of slivery-purple up my belly, and over my breasts, his slippery fingers pinching at my nipples, making me push back harder onto him.

The paint from my back streaked over his chest and stomach as our bodies slid against each other and by the time we both came, in a slippery, paint-smeared heap, the magical storm had gone, replaced with a greyish mess.

After sponging each other off in a warm soapy shower we shared smoke and a glass of wine.

“I wish you’d taken a photo of it,” I said. “I would have loved a copy.”

“You were so sexy, I couldn’t help myself.” He reached over to a pile of small canvases and pulled one out.

It was a beautiful whirl of spirals and curls all blended together in different shades of green, and just looking at it turned me on again.

“As a reminder,” he said, handing it to me.

I still have it. I’m looking at it now. And considering the tingles I get when I do, it’s definitely still doing its job.

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