Erotica Artist Ch 07 Sex Goddess

Yes, one day, as I delivered copy to Bloomer's office, the word was made flesh.

She descended the stairs, all golden thigh and swaying breast, in a sun-dress so slight it might have adorned one of the sensuous heroines of my erotic fiction.

I stood with mouth agape and held the outer door open for her, breathed her in as she brushed past me and whispered something in a voice of pure cream. I had no idea what she said. I watched her cross the sidewalk with her glorious, arrogant swagger, and sink into a smoke-gray Corvette pulsing at the curb, her hem-line rising almost to her waist. I was vaguely aware of an aquiline profile leaning to peck her on the cheek before the car roared off.

I staggered up the stairs, head reeling from the sight, the scent, the touch of her, retaining only a sense of her blondeness, and the fact that her ice-blue eyes had assessed me over her dark glasses with no small interest.

And one other thing so strange that I thought perhaps I'd imagined it: under one slender arm she carried a copy of Leon Edel's abridged but still weighty biography of Henry James. Not Vogue magazine or a Danielle Steele novel, but Dr. Edel on James. Somehow this shook me to my core.

A day or so later, as I rifled through a stack of review albums at the office, I found myself suddenly gazing into her cleavage as she leaned over me to whisper: "I hear you write pornographic novels."

"Where did you hear that?" I wonder, tearing my eyes from the sensational view.

"From a very reliable source. From several reliable sources, in fact. You have quite a reputation around here, you know."

"I'd no idea."

"Oh yes. The men envy you, I think. The women are either afraid of you or think you're some kind of reptile, or both."

"And what about you?"

"I'm quite fascinated. I've admired your reviews for some time and now I find out you have this other talent that you keep totally hidden."

"Not quite."

"You never talk about it, I hear, unless you're asked about it directly."

"That's true."

"You never show your work to anyone."

"That's also true."

"Why not? Are you ashamed of what you do?"

Why not indeed. If I wasn't ashamed of my career as a pornographer why didn't I show my stuff to whomever expressed an interest? What possible difference could it make?

"It's not something I analyze very much. I just write the stuff. I suppose it would be like revealing private fantasies."

"They aren't very private if you're having them published."

"I write under a pseudonym, and I never get to meet any of my readers. I don't know them and they don't know me. In a way my privacy is completely preserved."

All this received with a cock-eyed smile and her pretty ass perched on the edge of the desk and one thigh flexing as she swings a leg back and forth. This dress even shorter, it seemed, than the one she'd worn earlier in the week.

"Maybe you shouldn't be quite so private. You might have a lot more fun. You might not need to write pornographic books at all."

"But then lovely young women wouldn't approach me out of the blue to ask me about them, would they?"

The cock-eyed smile again, the thigh still flexing. Her hands, I noticed, were quite beautiful, the fingers slender and delicate, the nails unpainted. And I saw now for the first time just how intimidating was her facial beauty. I hadn't seen such heart-stopping perfection since Kirsten all those years back. There was something about the shape of the eyes and the fullness of the lips....

"So just exactly how dirty are these dirty books?" she went on. "Are they absolutely filthy?"

I didn't answer. I gazed at her with what I'm sure was a slightly stupid, awestruck expression.

"If so I'd really love to read one some time. You do have copies of them, I suppose?"

I nodded.

"After all, it's not that often I get to meet someone as sex-obsessed as I am."

There was an electric pause.

"I'm Dana. I take photographs," she added, reaching over to shake my hand and send a quiver up my arm. She grinned at me one last time and strolled casually from the office on those magnificent legs.

I drew a copy of last week's paper toward me and leafed through it quickly. Alongside a Templeton concert review was a photograph of a local band credited to one Dana Tessera, and I suddenly recalled seeing several more of her offerings over the last few weeks, all of them striking. She had a talent for capturing musicians at odd, uncharacteristic moments of vulnerability. I put the paper aside and went to stand in Al's open door.

"So you have a new contributing photographer," I said casually. "Where did she come from?"

"Dana? She submitted some shots that were more interesting than anything Stan has come up with in months and I thought I'd give her a chance. Why, don't you like her stuff?"

"I do. Very much."

"Well isn't that nice? Because she happens to like your stuff very much. Made a point last week of asking me who this Mason guy was."

"Really?"

"Apparently your reviews turn her on. So I told her if those get her hot she should ask you to show her some of your other writing efforts. She seemed very interested."

"What do you know about her?"

"She's out of your league, I know that much. Even if she weren't several years too young for you. She's at university still. English and Fine Arts, I believe. She's acted in some college plays and has worked at City Stage. She even has a small role in a TV commercial to her credit. She's an excellent photographer, and in addition to all this she happens to be stone-cold gorgeous. Anything else you want to know?"

No, there was nothing more I wanted to know. I knew enough. She was stone-cold gorgeous and so she was trouble. What did it matter that she was interested in sex and seemed interested in me as well? What did it matter that she also seemed interested in literature?

"I saw her carrying Leon Edel's biography of Henry James. What the hell's she doing toting something like that around?"

"She reads books, Mason. The woman is intelligent as well as sexy and beautiful. Don't think all that stuff can't go together. She's living proof. And she's out of your league. Don't kid yourself."

Al was right, of course. Why was I bothering to ask questions about this woman? To allow myself to grow interested in her was to set myself up for devastation. And I wasn't going to do it. The years without sexual contact must have addled my brain.

And one other thing I had to concede: no matter how achingly gorgeous and desirable she was, I would probably not have given her a second thought but for that damn book she was carrying. That was what was throwing me.

It wasn't just that I'd gone for almost my entire adult life without sexual and emotional contact with a real live woman. It wasn't just that here I was confronted with a stunning young beauty who actually seemed to take an interest in me, no matter how perverse that interest might be. It was that this particular vision read Leon Edel on Henry James! That's what knocked me off balance and made me ask pointless questions. She was gorgeous and literate! She was sexy and brainy! And she took an interest in me. How rare in my experience was that?

I asked no more questions about her, of Al or anyone else at the paper. I tried not to think of her, and in large part was successful. Moving from my penthouse apartment into a cozy west end basement suite, complete with fireplace, absorbed me for the better part of a week, and I purposely stayed clear of the office, delivering my copy late at night through the mail slot.

But then, at a concert intermission, as I was adding to my review notes on the opening band, suddenly there she was again, sidling into the seat next to me.

"So how's the secretive pornographer?" she cooed.

She was showing off yards of slender leg again, and her nipples were prodding the front of her silk shirt. Onto the table in front of us she placed her camera and an open shoulder bag from which protruded the Henry James biography.

"Do you really find places like this conducive to the study of literary biography?" I asked, losing the thread of my notes completely.

"Not always. But I like to carry a book with me wherever I go, in case I get an odd peaceful moment."

"And why this particular book?"

"Why am I reading the definitive biography of Henry James? I'm interested in high art and the forces that create it. As you know I'm also interested in low art and the forces that create that. And I'm most interested in sexual repression and how that contributes to the creative process in general."

"The connection between sex and art?"

"The connection between sexual repression and art. I think it's sexual repression, rather than fulfilment, that contributes most to the creative process. This is partly why I find you so interesting."

"You think I'm sexually repressed?"

"Why else do you write pornographic fiction?"

"Isn't pornographic fiction an expression of sexuality rather than a repression of it? Isn't my sexuality there on the printed page for everyone to see?"

"You said yourself you never show your books to anyone."

"That doesn't mean they aren't read, maybe by thousands of people for all I know. Seems to me I express my sexuality much more publicly than most people."

"But your so secretive about it with the people you know in the real world. As if you're ashamed of these sex fantasies you put into your books."

She took a sip of my highball and leaned more closely toward me.

"And look how your sexuality is expressed. I mean, don't get me wrong, I think it's healthy to be sex-obsessed and I enjoy erotic and pornographic depictions of sex in print and visuals. If there's a difference between erotica and pornography, by the way, I don't know what the hell it is and I don't particularly care. Fantasy plays a big role in my own sex life. I just wonder if for you the fantasy is all there is. Do you have a real sex life to balance the rest?"

"If I don't, maybe there are very good reasons for that."

"I'm sure there are. I'm sure there are excellent reasons. I'm just a bit surprised you don't want the real thing in spite of them. But then, as I say, if you had a real sex life maybe you wouldn't be writing anything at all."

"And if Henry James had been getting laid regularly, 'Portrait Of A Lady' would never have been conceived."

"Exactly."

I hated to admit it, but I was enjoying myself. Apart from the sheer animal magnetism of the woman, which caused several young men in the vicinity to gape at her as they passed, she had a charm and brightness that was hard to resist. And she gave you her full attention when you were speaking, ignoring all distractions. It was fun to discuss life and literature with a sex-goddess.

"Tell me more about Henry James," I said.

"Well, he was apparently quite fearful of young, attractive women, and so he avoided them, preferring the company of older, safer, spinsterish types. When he did meet young women he was totally passive with them. And yet he doesn't seem to have had sexual relations with any men either. It had to be one or the other with James: passion or art. It couldn't be both. And passion, whether heterosexual or homosexual, seems to have terrified him. Who knows why. Lack of experience? Guilt? So he avoided all physicality and lived entirely for and through his art. Kind of like you. You really do have quite a lot in common with this guy."

"Henry James was a master artist, Dana. I'm a pornographer and part-time forklift driver."

"I don't care for the term pornographer, really. I'm sure you're an artist of sorts. For you art and passion have merged. You write about passion. I prefer to think of you as an Erotica Artist."

Okay, so she's a great flatterer. She reads good books and she's a great flatterer and she happens to be the most erotically alluring woman I've ever encountered, surpassing even Nicole. She also seems eager to develop some kind of friendship with me, the fellow in the smoke-gray Corvette notwithstanding. Were these reasons enough to weaken and let myself get involved, or should I head for the hills? Did I really want my heart fed into a meat-grinder? And who was that guy in the Corvette anyway? And how many more men were lurking in the wings?

Well at least one more. Before we could go any deeper into the similarities between myself and Henry James, a mean-looking anorexic with tattoos up both arms leaned over and whispered in Dana's ear. Her eyes darkened and she excused herself and withdrew a few feet from the table to confer with the fellow, who looked quite distraught.

I thought him familiar but couldn't say from where. Once the headline band was on stage I tried to refocus, but I couldn't help glancing over at Dana and her friend every few seconds. He had one arm around her shoulders and his mouth against her ear. He seemed to have a great deal on his mind. He never once looked in my direction. Nor did Dana. She grew restive while her friend grew ever more surly, until finally he backed away from her and swatted the air with one hand.

"Well fuck it then. Just fuck it," he grunted, storming off into the crowd.

Dana returned to the table just long enough to pick up her bag and camera.

"That's Glen," she said. "I need to go talk to him some more. Can I call you tomorrow?"

I watched her disappear into the throng in front of the stage and tried to concentrate on the featured band again but found I was totally distracted. I felt sad and abandoned. There was a sure throb of jealousy in the mix too. But soon what seeped through me was a sense of relief. For in a way I was already experiencing guilt pangs over not making a move on the woman. I wanted no part of her and yet felt guilt for my passivity. I wondered if Henry James had ever felt anything similar. Or would Henry have retired to his study long before now?

Of course she didn't phone the next day, nor the day after that. And in spite of my feelings of relief I found myself thinking of her, unable to concentrate on much else. I forced myself out into the night air for my late evening runs, always the best solution at times like these. My head might be full of upsetting thoughts, but the exercise always restored some balance. The tension never completely evaporated, but the afterglow as I sat in the hot-tub or sauna at the pool helped alleviate it. I spent some time comparing Dana to Dawn and Varina, those two sad, pathetic ladies. They were so weak, so passive, so confused and neurotic. Dana was a dynamo by comparison, poised and confident and magnetic. And with so much more power to devastate.

Four days later the phone rang and I was once again listening to her breathless whisper.

"Okay, you're the literary expert," she began without preliminary. "What's the deal with Chekhov?"

"Anton Chekhov?"

"There's another? I've just had to read a collection of his short stories and I'm wondering what gives."

"I don't follow."

"What's so great about Anton Chekhov? I consider myself a fairly sensitive reader. I like Henry James, Faulkner, even Conrad. In translation I've enjoyed Thomas Mann and Turgenev. It takes a lot to bore me. But Chekhov... the guy is driving me to distraction. I've never been so exasperated in my life."

"You don't like him?"

"I loathe him. I mean isn't great literature supposed to elevate you in some way, even if it deals with the most tragic and horrendous subject matter? Isn't literature, isn't art, supposed to be spiritually uplifting?"

"I think so, yes. Most of the time."

"Even the stuff you write - pornography - is uplifting in many ways, and I'm not just referring to the erecting of cocks here. It excites sexual desire, presumably, and that's a positive thing, as far as I can see. But Chekhov isn't uplifting in any sense of the word. He's just the opposite. I've never felt so frustrated and depressed as I did after finishing his stories. And that's not right. True art shouldn't do that to a person."

I didn't know what to say.

"I didn't care about any of his characters," she went on, her voice never rising above a whisper. "I didn't give a damn what happened to any of them because they never came to life for as much as a minute. They're just cardboard cut-outs mouthing platitudes at each other. They're totally lifeless. Virtually nothing happens to any of them, and what does is completely uninteresting. There's no lightness of touch, not a scrap of humor. The stories just go on and on, page after numbing page. One is even called 'A Dull Story.' Is it ever! What can possibly have been the attraction of this guy's work over the years? We all know life can be empty and boring and unfair, but do we need to have it pounded into us with every word he writes?"

"Well at least his stuff stirred you up."

"But that upsets me too. I know I'm not a stupid or insensitive reader and I've never felt so negatively about anything I've read before. I guess I just never read anything so dull and unremittingly depressing."

"You can't like everything. There are going to be artists we loathe, even among the so-called masters. If it's any comfort, I don't like Chekhov either."

"Oh good. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me."

There was a pause. She seemed to be catching her breath.

"How's Glen?" I asked. I was still reeling from this onslaught of literary invective. It was the last thing I'd been expecting from her.

"Glen? He's okay. He's just confused."

"He seemed very upset."

"He was. He is. But it's nothing he can't handle. Look, I don't really want to talk about Glen or even think about him, to be honest. The real reason I called, apart from wanting to get Chekhov off my chest, was to invite you to a play."

"Not a Chekhov play I take it?"

"A university workshop production written by two of the drama students. I know that sounds awful, but it's fairly short, and I have a small part in it. I could use your moral support. I need someone I like out there in the audience. Someone who reads. It's such a help. And you're one of the few people I know who would be remotely interested in this sort of thing."

"I don't believe that for a minute."

"It's true."

"This isn't going to be a literary discussion evening, is it?"

"It'll be a fun evening, I hope. I'm begging. I'm pleading. Will you please be there?"

Dana Tessara, she of the gorgeous face and stunning figure, begging and pleading for me to attend her play. What a strange development. To be asked out by a walking wet-dream. How many men would kill for such an opportunity?

Should I refuse outright, knowing full well this could only drag me deeper into her clutches? Should I play hard to get, but give in later? Should I simply act the adult and tell myself I could attend her play without anything further developing between us? What?

Something in her heartfelt appeal touched me and I actually did attend her play. But as the evening wore on I asked myself again why she was so keen to have me around. For there was someone else in attendance much better qualified to give her what she needed: the director of the piece, no less, her fortyish, elegant and attractive drama professor, a fellow named Philip Armitage, who seemed to me to be an intellectual, non-tattooed version of Glen, right down to the ponytail and earring.

The play wasn't as bad as I expected, and Dana was very appealing in her small role. Her voice, usually so soft and whispery, carried far in the small auditorium, and her performance was very sexy. But there lay the problem. I knew that I wasn't the only one in the audience who couldn't take his eyes off her. You were never not aware, not for one second, of how gorgeous she was. She herself was never for a second unaware of how gorgeous she was. It made the piece great to watch, but it was the real limitation of her performance. She was by far the most magnetic person on stage, but she was also a major distraction. She overshadowed the material. Dana didn't have to be on stage to give this particular type of performance. She acted it out in the real world every day of her life.