Nude Model’s Fantasy

Heidi is a twenty-two-year-old college grad. She majored in Art History and hopes to work at an art studio soon. But to make money while looking for a job, she is a part time artist’s model. While she is not artistic herself, she appreciates art in the way that is uncommon these days. A self dubbed “art groupie,” she is exclusively attracted to artists, in all varieties; writers, painters, musicians. Speculating why painters turn her on, she suggests it is because she is “talentless” in the arts herself; By erotically connecting with an artist, she can share in the creative glory.

“While the other teenagers were drooling over pop stars, all I wanted was to save enough money to run away from Buffalo and come to New York City so I could hang around the art scene. I don’t know why—nobody in my family ever painted and my own ability is strictly limited to doodling and silly cartoons. My parents sent me off with their blessings when I was eighteen to Manhattan College. When I wasn’t in class, I was usually in SoHo, exploring all I could, from street art to galleries, street bands, and more."

"At 5' 6", with light blonde hair and blue eyes, I would say I was a good looking woman. When I came to SoHo, I met so many people, even on campus. And since I was finally out of my parents' house, I began to live more freely. I wasn’t a virgin, but my sex life had been pretty uninteresting back home; I was waiting for real life to begin and none of the boys I’d slept with in Buffalo had really turned me on. Now, it’s different. I’ve had many affairs with artists (two of them very famous) and almost all of them have been wonderfully satisfying for me."

Body of Art

“Sometimes, when I'm posing, I entertain myself with sexual fantasies. Here’s the one that intrigues and excites me most: I am in the loft of a painter who has begged me to pose for him. He is an abstract expressionist, but he's decided to do a totally realistic canvas, a nude, for a change of pace. It’s an experiment… He suggests I might like to lie on a velvet chaise lounge across the room, and while he's preparing his materials I try various poses. I lie with one leg arched up languidly and position my back against some pillows so my breasts are jutting out. Then I fold my arms back behind my head. My pelvis is slightly tilted upward so I seem to be offering my body to the world."

"We begin. The room is warm and my limbs grow soft and heavy; I feel like a piece of chocolate that is melting slowly, bit by bit. It’s an erotic feeling, but sleepy, too, so I try to keep awake by watching the painter as he works. I have a wonderful view of his crotch—he is standing, legs a little apart, in his old jeans, which are taut and faded from wear. The heavy, powerful mass of his cock and balls lie bunched defenseless inside the nest of denim cloth."

"I become more and more aroused watching him, and my body shows it. The whole plane of my torso has become tight and sensitive; The tips of my breasts are gently throbbing and the nipples are hard and pointed. A little pulse in my inner thigh is racing away, and the velvet couch beneath my ass seems to have taken on a life of its own, firmly pushing my pelvis higher and higher, as if to meet the brush strokes from across the room. Something very erotic is going on—because if I concentrate very hard I can actually feel the brush strokes on my body! My uplifted arm tingles as the brush curves down along the arm on the canvas... my breasts seem to swell and lift to the brush, and when it caresses them, trailing over the nipples and lingering on each one, it's like being nibbled by a lover with a luxurious mustache!"

"I am so excited now, my great fear is he’ll stop painting—but he keeps working, drawing the brush down lower and lower so that it’s like 1,000 little tongues licking my belly and feeding the deep, almost unbearable ache deep inside me."

"My inner thighs tremble and jerk at the touch of the brush. I can see the canvas and I know that soon he’ll be devoting himself to my pussy, and I’m frantic with fear that he won’t be able to get up inside of me where I need him. It’s torture when he paints my pubic hair—every little stroke comes closer and closer and it’s all I can do to hold the pose because I need so badly to open my legs all the way and take him inside. I am hovering on the brink of orgasm and my whole body is jerking violently—and when the probing and brush touches my clitoris I can’t stand it any longer. I throw my legs open and arch up to this invisible lover and somehow the force of him enters me in one huge, swooping motion and I am bathed in such intense, incredible pleasure it seems almost mystical..."

Dr. Chartham's Comments:

Heidi is not alone in finding artists sexually stimulating. Painters, writers, and musicians are widely believed to be not only sexually amoral, but more intense and uninhibited than others. This gives them a special attraction for someone whose actual experience of sex is unsatisfying.

When I was an undergraduate at Cambridge many many years ago, my rooms overlooked a house at which H. G. Wells was a frequent visitor. He was then getting on in years, but he had built up for himself a reputation as a randy, aging goat.

Doubtless he felt that he had to live up to it. In any case, he was given little choice in the matter by the almost constant stream of bluestockings who arrived at the door of his host's house as soon as it was known he was in town, offering themselves for immolation by that famous literary cock. (I have to admit that I and my cronies were often guilty of making anonymous telephone calls to Girton and Newnham, the women's colleges, as soon as we saw the squat, paunch figure in Little St. Mary's Lane, or heard that eunuch-like squeak of a voice come wafting across Little St. Mary’s churchyard.)

So far as I know, Wells never turned a girl away, though I’m sure he often wished he had. Morning, afternoon, or night, the curtains of his bedroom were never drawn, and since the distance between my window and his bed was no more than 75 yards, anyone with average sight could not fail to observe the activities (more often attempted than achieved) taking place in the room.

(There was never a scarcity of voyeurs, although I “charged” six half-pints of XXX ale, or a pound of butter, or a box of chocolate biscuits, or a jar of Gentleman's Relish, for a “seat.”)

The first two self-appointed “victims” of the day must have been the best rewarded. At least, the famous cock penetrated them and we watchers assumed that their vaginas received the famous literary semen. For the rest, however, I suppose that giving the gnarled organ (and well-used organs do get gnarled with age, believe me) an indeterminate blowjob, or even just fondling it, must have been a never-to-be-forgotten experience.

Since those days, I have often wondered what it is that is so attractive about sex with artists. Heidi’s personal answer has to do with her own self-proclaimed lack of talent and her desire to be in touch with creative power, even vicariously. The sense of personal inferiority that motivates her is so marked that the artist in her fantasy brings her to orgasm as a mere by-product of the creative act—almost without even being aware of her existence.