Paint was everywhere.
It was splattered in globs of green and blue, smeared in hues of yellow and dotted in speckles of grey and purple. Chris couldn't help but see every imperfection in his paintings. The euphoric high he got while painting was only matched by the loathing he felt for the finished work once it was hung in the gallery like this, blasted with fluorescent light, on display for hungry eyes. He hated these exhibitions, but even starving artists need to eat from time to time.
He watched as potential patrons wandered the gallery. Their Luis Vuittons, and Rolexes, and Pradas all out on display as much as the art. He wondered if any of them had ever worried about paying a bill, or where their next meal might come from.
His thoughts were interrupted by the feeling that he was being watched. A group had gathered in front of him to assess his work, but he had the distinct feeling someone was looking at him instead of his painting. He scanned the crowd until he locked eyes with a woman in the back. She was beautiful: her full lips painted a crimson red that popped against her white cheeks; and terrifying: wearing a bright red blazer that hung all the way to the floor and covered a jumper as jet black as her hair. The woman's gaze blazed a hole through the crowd, and sent a shiver down Chris's spine.
She didn't break eye contact as she glided through the crowd. The people seemed to part in front of her, like reeds around a panther as it stalks its prey. Chris braced himself as she approached, half-expecting an impact.
"Tell me of yourself," she said directly, in a thick Russian accent.
He took a step back. He wasn't sure what to say. The directness took him off guard, and patrons didn't typically want to know about him. They usually wanted to dissect his paintings as if there were clues to hidden treasure within it. He wasn't prepared to talk about himself.
"Well, um," he stuttered. "I like to paint things about society I guess. Like this one. See, the man looks out over the beach on his veranda. And on the beach are climate refugees, crowded in sweltering heat. It symbolizes inequality of...," he trailed off, noticing the woman was smiling at him. She looked like she was listening to a child, humoring him out of affection.
"What's so funny? " he said.
She waved her hand at nothing in general. "This is the purpose of art, then? To say something of society?"
"Yes. Absolutely," said Chris. This was more familiar ground for him.
The woman looked him in the eye for several long seconds, before nodding at the painting.
"I will buy," she said, almost dismissively. "And you will come to this address tonight, for my dinner party." She handed him a business card. It was thick, and onyx-black with white, raised lettering. By the time he looked up, the woman was already walking away.
"Ask for Diana," she said over her shoulder.
****
He arrived late to the party. He hadn't been sure if he was going to go at all, but eight-thirty rolled around and he found himself looking at the card Diana had given him. It was sleek and polished, like the woman herself. Not long after he'd found himself getting hard in the shower, thinking about her. Then looking up the address and calling a cab.
He'd been to these parties before. Patrons, full from their gorge on artwork, somehow still wanted their dessert. They wanted a taste of the artists themselves, to feel like they had some intimate, private connection to the art they had bought.
This woman seemed a bit more eccentric, but he knew the drill: he'd give a rich, bored housewife plenty to taste, she would overpay for his artwork, and then he would have enough money to live free and paint whatever he wanted for the next six months. The sex was always a nice cherry on top, too, he thought as he stepped out of the cab to the front lawn.
The extravagance of the house caught him by surprise. He was used to wealthy patrons, but these people were clearly in another class altogether. A stone exterior lined the left wing of the house. He heard water trickling down the stones as he made his way up the meticulously manicured lawn. A row of orange trees were planted on either the walkway to the door, giving the air an almost overpowering citrus fragrance.
Chris hesitated as he reached the front door. The ultra-wealthy might have mammoth amounts of money to spend, but he'd also heard some unsettling stories about their unusual requests. The large oak door opened before he could change his mind.
Two elegantly dressed women in the middle of a conversation stood in the doorway. "I know, I know," the one in front was saying, "but it's just so delicious." They both laughed before noticing Chris.
"Well hello," said the blonde on the left. "You're new."
Chris cleared his throat. "I am. I met Diana at the gallery. She gave me an invite for tonight." He pulled the card out of his pocket and showed it.
"Diana, of course," said the brunette on the right, looking at the other woman. "Come, come," she beckoned Chris inside.
The inside of the house was even more decadent. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lined with dim lights that cast a warm glow over the lavish interior design. What Chris thought sounded like Bach was playing from unseen speakers in the parlor.
"This way," said brunette. The blonde drifted off to join a group of people. They were chatting near a silver sculpture of a hawk swooping down and grasping a cat in its talons. He guessed it was more expensive than everything he owned combined.
"You're just in time for the first exhibition," said the brunette, not turning to look at him while they walked. She led him to a large dining hall where the table was pushed to the side of the room, replaced by a platform in the center. A group was gathered in front of it, sipping their cocktails in anticipation. The brunette disappeared from his side as Chris joined the growing crowd.
A man in a well-tailored suit was standing next to him, holding a whiskey. "What's this all about?" Chris asked.
"Appetizers," the man said. He pumped his eyebrows up and down a couple of times. The brunette reappeared with a tumbler of bronze liquid, handing it to Chris.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Shh," said the woman, turning to the stage as two women in lingerie carried a metal contraption on to the platform. It had a forked base attached to a tall pole with a metal hoop at the top. The women left the stage and a man appeared with a drill, proceeding to screw the base into the platform.
Chris decided to lean into whatever this spectacle was. He took a sip of his drink, which tasted like an old fashioned with a hint of citrus. It was good. He took another sip and waited.
A few moments later the lingerie-clad women returned, this time leading a man wearing nothing but boxer briefs. He was young and muscular, with large broad shoulders, and his mouth was stuffed with a ball-gag. The man looked slightly dazed as the two women led him to the platform and proceeded to handcuff him to the metal pole.
This was the exact kind of weirdness he'd heard about, Chris thought, getting slightly hard. But the drink was good, and the people on stage were sexy enough that he wanted to see where it went.
