The sculptor; part 3

I feel cornered somehow. Not really by him. He just leans against the counter, almost casually despite his lack of clothing. But by myself. I long to touch his smooth hairless chest. Feel the warm with my fingers. Explore the dark trail leading towards....stop it!
You'll make a fool of yourself!

"Hi," I say. And offer him my hand. "I'm Hálwen."

He keeps staring in my eyes. Ignores my hand.

"Hálwen." He seems to taste my name. "What an odd name."

He looks at me pensive, stroking his stomach with his hand. Drawing attention to the tight muscles under his tan skin.

I feel my cheeks burn.

Then shrug my shoulders and return to the teacups, rinse them under the tap.
He doesn't speak for a while. But I still feel his eyes on me. Same as yesterday, I keep feeling his physical presence and his acknowledgement of mine. I know he follows my every move, making them awkward and rigid.

I freeze when I suddenly feel a warm hand on my shoulder; moving to my neck, thumb in the nape, touching my slightly sweaty hair - softly caressing the skin.

I'm not sure if I want to shake him off or start purring.

"Why so tense, beautiful child."

I rest my hands on the counter, breathe in with a shudder.

"I'm not a child."

I turn and look up in his eyes. Amazing eyes. Incredible colour. Huge irises. Dilated pupils like bottomless wells, eyes surrounded by thick brown lashes.

He scans my face, lowers those eyes. A sensation like he is touching my breasts.

"I know." He says enigmatic, gazes back to my eyes, to my mouth, my ears. It feels as if he caresses my face.

I lift my hand, willing to touch the soul patch under his full under lip, when Martin walks into the kitchen.

"Well helloooo." He says.

"Martin." Relieved and disappointed I turn to my friend. "Almost ready."

I smile.
Look back at the rogue sculptor who takes a step back and turns to Martin.

"Well, well." He says with one brow lifted. "She has a male visitor."

Martin laughs nervously.

Sticks out his hand in an awkward way and says; "Hi, I'm Martin, a friend of Hálwen. You're a flatmate? Obviously, duhhh, draped in only a towel."

"Flatmate?" The half naked sculptor says with a bored look on his handsome face.

He then sighs and walks out of the kitchen, one look over his shoulders - from my feet to my chest.

"See you around, flatmate..."

And he's gone.
Leaving me flushed, and Martin still standing with his untouched outstretched hand.

He whispers. "What a gorgeous guy! Was I interrupting something? You never told me..."
"Shut up." I continue making the tea, inwardly shaking.

The sculptor; part 2

The air seems so thin and my feet won't listen to my inner plea to walk away in total silence. But I cannot turn, or revert my eyes.

He is standing on his knees, supporting himself with one arm on the girder of the low ceiling while his other hand holds her hip. Sweat sparkles on his smooth chest, his full bush of armpit hair, wet, adorning the soft skin under his arm.  He leans his cheek against the muscled bicep, closing his eyes for a moment. His curved lips slightly apart, showing a hint of his teeth.

A broad yet delicate hand firmly grabs the creamy flesh of the girl, then sliding slowly to her mount - making her pant even more loudly.

I swallow and let go of my breath I appear to have been holding all the time. I make an involuntary soft gasping sound.

He looks up and I'm sure he must see me through the crack of the door, but he continues to screw himself into the beautiful girl.
Esther.
Suddenly I know her name. Esther.

With the one hand he was holding himself upright he now wipes away the wet wavy hair from his face.
Yes. He does see me.
Why can't I leave?
I press my forehead against the post of the door. Sweat on my upper lip. I taste it with my tongue.
He now grabs the girl's hips with both hands, his movements a faster tempo.

And as his eyes won't leave mine, his mouth begins to twist and with a thundering roar he seems to explode into her.

Finally my feet seem to obey, I turn and run away. Through the narrow corridor, down the stairs.
I imagine I hear his laughter following me.

I slam the door behind me.

And while I sink on my bed, clasping my teddy bear, I start to giggle hysterically.

"OMG, OMG!" I keep repeating.

The image of the sculptor, the beautiful wicked sculptor, and the perfect goddess doesn't leave my retina for a while. But slowly I become calmer, my breathing deeper.

I get up from the bed. Walk to my large table. Get a paper and some charcoal and I start drawing. Drawing what I just saw.

I am busy for hours. I put on some music. Roll a joint. Smoke a bit, while I look out of my window. See the people of this small town pass by, doing their groceries. Doing their business. And then I see Martin. He waves. Holds up a bottle of wine and a little bouquet of flowers. He turns into the small alley that leads to my house.
Minutes later he knocks on my door.

"Christ! What have you been doing!" Exclaims Martin while he scans the drawings I pinned on my wall.
"You have been so productive!"
"Yes, I made them today." I say bashfully.
"They are amazing. Crude but so full of passion. Who are these models?"
"Oh, just...hey, thanks for the flowers." I change subject.
"I also brought cake."

"That's great." I say. "I'll put on some water. Be back in a second."

I go to the shared kitchen to put a kettle on. I open the cupboard and get out some tea cups. But while I do so I curse under my breath, because obviously someone has been using them and put them back dirty.

A soft but deep voice from very close behind me makes me jump and almost drop the cups.

"Well - well, my feisty little vixen. So we are house mates."

When I turn I see the brooding sculptor. Adorned in only a bathing towel. Leaning against the counter, his eyes squinted under his furrowed brows and on his sculpted mouth a crooked faun-like smile. His long curls still wet from the shower and I can smell the faint scent of cedar and cloves on his lean all but naked body.

Suddenly I feel scared.

The sculptor

"Who is that?"

I try to nod discretely into the direction of the brooding young man leaning against the wall. Army jacket with the collar up, the bottle of beer in his hand casually dangling against the inside of his thighs cloaked in a ripped jeans. From under his long hair he looks at the crowd in the pub, judging, a slight smirk on his beautiful heart shaped mouth.

Now and again our eyes meet.

Then he takes a sip of his beer and looks away.

"He's a 4th year. Monumental. Don't you know him? He lives in your building, I think." My friend Sas says.

"He does?"

"I think so. He is in that gang with the other sculptors, with those drama goddesses as groupies. His girlfriend is the nude model we had in class yesterday. She does drama too. Arrogant bitch."
I remember the beautiful brunette we had to sketch in model drawing. She is one of the untouchable goddesses of the drama academy who pose for us, not for the money but to show of their glorious bodies - like dryads, luring our male art school students away from us, more plain girls.

"Is he? You know his name?"

"Uhh Gerry, Freddy or Mikey. Something working class ending with a y."
"That's helpful, mushy brains" I poke Sas. She shoves me. Then pulls me towards her,  mock choking me.

"Let me jugulate you, you nasty pixie!"

Giggling I fend her off. I try to regain my posture and comb my hair behind my ear. All very John Travolta cool. I see the guy looking at me. He smiles. Then looks away.

"I think he used to live above me. Never saw him though." I laugh. "I really have no idea who lives upstairs from me actually!"

"You should check it out. Know thy neighbours! You really are socially awkward."

"Probably, yeah." And we toast.

At the first beats of a favourite song I pull Sas on the dance floor. Our friend Martin joins us in the exuberant post modern dance we art school students perform to make ourselves stand out. We mixed in an old fashioned jive too. But Martin's hands are slippery and as he grabs my hand to twirl me around we loose grip and I stumble backwards.

Up against the warm but hard body of the brooding sculptor. A strong arm clasps around my waist, his fingers spread over my belly. Pulls me tighter and I can feel his breath against my ear when he says:

"Be careful, my frisky child."

His soft, deep voice gives me chills.

With big eyes I look over my shoulder. From behind an amazing lock of hair his eyes seem to fixate me. I think I gasp. It is as if time stands still. Oh such clichés. But yeah.  He chuckles.

And then he elegantly pushes me back onto the dance floor, where dazed, I continue our dance.
I can feel his fingers still etched on my skin, though.

The next day I kind of feel like a silly, green poser. Frisky child, the sculptor had called me. Yes, I must seem a child with my giggling act of avant-garde artistry.

Sas, Martin and I stayed on the dance floor a while, and all the time I felt the brooding gaze of the longhaired guy on me. But when I looked at him he averted his eyes.  A bored but leery expression on his face.

So he lives in my building? Maybe I should ask Adrian, a student for life, who shares my kitchen. He knows everybody in this town and he lives on the next floor.

I get out of bed. Get a towel and my douche gel and walk through the long corridor to the bathroom. This is an old building. Like a labyrinth. I pass the stairs to the next floor. I look up. Dark. Maybe I can explore things later this day.

Socially awkward. Probably. But I guess I'm just shy. First year, academy of contemporary art, far away from the safe warmth of my family home.

As always the small, shared bathroom grosses me out a bit. Need to clean it before I take a shower. Today is no exception.

When I finish showering I walk back to my room again. I hear music coming from upstairs. Adrian must be home and awake.

Although I'm only wearing a tee and boxer shorts I decide to go upstairs and knock on Adrian's door.

Nobody answers.

The music comes from another room.
When I stealth over the upstairs floor, curious, I see a shadow of a figure standing in a small alcove. I start. But when I get closer I see it is the coarse torso of man figure made out of plaster. Then I hear the sounds of people's laboured breathing, as if in pain.

The hairs on my arms stand out.

I continue my search.

A door to another room is slightly ajar. When I get closer the sound of the music is louder and so is the grunting.

I know I shouldn't peek, but I do.

I see them. The longhaired sculptor and a girl. But it isn't the nude model from our drawing class, but one of the other 'drama goddesses'.

Lost boy.

He did seem drunk. Or stoned. Or both.

I don't know why I stopped.

It was not like the first time I saw a tourist being sick in the gutter.

Was it because he was alone? Was it because this was my neighbourhood and not the centre of the city? Was it because of the hair that escaped from under his cap? His torn shorts with the skinny legs peeping out?  The red rash on his calf? He seemed vulnerable, sitting there on the pavement. It was dark already, the shops were closed and there was hardly anyone on the street.

So I stopped. I leaned my bike against a tree and kneeled beside him.

He moaned.

I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

He looked up, weird smile on his face and his eyes were red and small - but breathtakingly blue, like the sea, and with incredibly long lashes. And yeah, stoned, definitely stoned.

"Uhhhh.....I'm kind of lost." he mumbled.

"Where do you need to go?" I asked.

"Uhmmm.....I kind of forgot." He giggled.

"You know where you are now?"

"Utrecht!" He said with a smug face, one brow lifted. Impish.

"Actually, no. You're in Amsterdam."

"Fuck..." He took his head in his hands and moaned again.

And at the same moment it thundered and a sudden downpour started filling the gutters and drains.  I told him to jump on the back of my bike.  

"Hold on." I yelled as I tried to gather speed by standing on the pedals of my bike. He was as light as a feather, but still a bit heavier than me. With trouble I tried to keep balance, but we moved forward and he couldn't stop laughing. After a minute or so I could maintain a constant tempo and he became more quiet. Only an occasional giggle while he had clasped his arms around my waist and his head leaned against my back.

I heard him hum. The sound vibrated through my spine.
And so I cycled through the city, with him behind me on the carrier.

Taking an unknown guy home. I must have been mad, but I felt strangely happy.

"Mind your head." I said as we climbed the steep stairs to my apartment on the top floor.

The ceiling was low. But despite my warning he hit his head anyway, even though he was short. Like really short. I was surprised. He was so well in proportion that I didn't realize he was tiny.

 (I keep saying this because most guys in my country are tall, like giants.)

But he, this tiny American, he was like a perfect elf. A drunken, stoned and soaking wet, elf.

He held his forehand while he shook off the cap that hid his hair.

"Ouch."

"Oefff." I replied, staring at him.

He was gorgeous. A curtain of wet golden brown hair fell over his shoulders and part of his face, wavy long unkempt hair. Almost the same colour as the corduroy jacket he was wearing.

"Let me have a look." I took his wrist and pulled his hand away to see the bruise that was already forming on his forehead.

"You have a slight cut." I told him while making a paper towel wet and softly dabbing the wound.

He sat on my kitchen chair, just looked up at me cleaning that cut.

Those incredible blue eyes had changed a bit. They were darker. His brow was furrowed, yet he smiled. His mouth was a bit odd. Perfect pink and full lips, but not shaped like ordinary lips, more sculpted - distinct cupid bow. Like a pixie. His lips opened a bit and I saw beautiful white teeth and a hint of a round pink tongue.

He said something but didn't make a sound.

And I bowed my head and kissed him.

Just like that.

His lips were as soft as I expected them, and warm. I traced his upper lip with my tongue and he delicately bit my bottom lip. His hands reached up and touched my neck, cheeks and moving to the back of my head. His fingers tangled in my hair. Pulling me closer.

The phone rang. At first I didn't hear it because my ears were ringing. I got off his lap, mouthed an apology and picked up the horn.

It was my boss.

The guy walked to my record player and put on some music - Blood Sugar Sex Magik. He started moving around to the music. I watched the funky moves of that lean body in fascination, and it distracted me from the conversation with my employer. He was cute!

"Hello, are you there!" My boss yelled through the phone.

So I left the room to concentrate and continued the call in the stairway.

My boss wanted me to take over an assignment tomorrow morning. I had to be in the studio early. Make a portrait. Black and white. Anton Corbijn style, so I had to think of a location to go to with the celeb, an upcoming rock star. A picture for the cover of a monthly magazine. My boss couldn't be there, but he was sure I would handle it just fine.

Nervously I was biting my nails when I returned into my room.  My first real assignment! Not as an assistant, but as an independent photographer.

Wow.

The music was still playing, but the guy wasn't there.

I saw his jacket lying on the ground though. And when I picked it up I saw his t-shirt hanging over a lamp. And a shoe carelessly flung away. Another shoe. His socks in my yucca plant. A trail of clothes leading to my bed, in which the elf had landed - on his back, asleep or passed out, now totally naked.

Spread out on my pillow was his beautiful long hair. His skin was smooth and glowed, with here and there a little mole or freckle and his cheeks were flushed.

I thought he was tiny. Well, yeah maybe. But not everything was tiny. He was lean, muscular and huge. Because resting on his thigh was this perfect dick.

He was just gorgeous.

"Oh shit." I whispered.

And then he cupped his dick in one hand and rolled over. Perfect little ass too.

After staring a while I turned and walked to my kitchenette to make some warm milk with honey.

I changed the record for some late night Chet Baker, drank my milk and picked up one of my cameras. Changed the objective. Fumbled around a bit. Brushed me teeth. Washed. Put on an old tee and walked back to my bed, camera with me.

I looked at him through the viewfinder. Sighed. Clicked.

Climbed on the bed.
Stood above him.
Click.

"Turn around." I softly mumbled.

With a moan he obeyed. Still asleep. Click.

"Can you put an arm above your head?"

With a drowsy movement he did what I asked.

"Jeesz." I mumbled when I saw his stunning armpit. Click. Bushy. Click. Sexy.

Click.
Click.

The red rash on his calf was the irritated skin caused by a tattoo. A fresh tattoo. Earth first.
Click.

"What are you doing?" Deep sleepy voice.

His eyes were open. Furrowed brow.

"Don't take my picture."

"Sorry." I said. "Habit." I put away the camera. "Move over please."
His face changed into an inviting smile as he made room and lifted the sheets.

I was lying in my bed, with this perfect stranger, spooning. He was holding me close, warm and cozy, with his omnipresent dick against my butt.

I picked up my watch. Time to get up.
With reluctance I lifted his hand that held one of my breasts and slid out of the bed.
He breathed an inaudible protest, but turned around, in a deep slumber.

A shower, quick breakfast.
I had to go to work.

The guy was still asleep.
So I left him a note.

"Dear you,

When you know where you are and want to leave you can just pull the door behind you.
If you are still lost you can stay and when I come back from work we can sort things out.
When you know where you are and want to stay that is fine too.
There is muesli and milk, coffee or tea. Make yourself at home.
When you leave don't take anything that isn't yours because I will curse you forever.

Me.

PS. I liked kissing you (understatement)."

In the studio I had to make preparations for the shoot that morning. I whistled, I was energetic, and I felt incredible. Like walking on clouds.
I was filled with inspiration.

As my boss had said through the phone the day before, the job was for the cover of a successful national music magazine, a young band from the States touring in Europe. The lead singer only. Some close ups. Black and white. Outdoor.

Being an assistant of a famous photographer was a challenge sometimes. A lot of fun, though. I was proud. He trusted me with this assignment.

The back alley would be the perfect location. Bricks, industrial, a bit of graffiti.

But I was getting anxious. What if that upcoming celeb didn't show up? Those rock stars could be erratic.

An hour later, the doorbell rang. I rushed to the door and when I opened it I saw the back of a guy in a familiar jacket and hair stashed away under a small cap, showing a cute but strong neck.

When he turned around I saw surprise on his angelic face. And my mouth must have dropped open when he said with his deep, soft voice and a wicked smile that showed his dimples.

"So you'll curse me.....uhm....what about what you took from me, witch?"