I am in the shower when it hits me. The first self-portrait should be called “Refraction” and the second “Reflection.” I always get my best ideas in the shower. Orgasms too. I am obsessing. It’s bad enough to have a deadline to do seven paintings. It’s even more nervewracking when I have a niggling worry that ***** Shane isn’t going to call me back. I’m more gone on her than ever, and it’s pissing me off. Worse yet, it’s Monday afternoon. I had my hair done on Friday. This supposed sitting is supposed to happen within twenty four hours. I’m such an *****. I should have known she’d blow me off. It pisses me off. It’s one thing to ***** somebody and run, but to promise something like that, and then blow it off, well, it’s just assholish. I rinse the conditioner out of my hair, trying not to rememember what it felt like to- No. Stop it, Clee, we are not going there. I turn off the water, a little too roughly. The water cuts off and I hear the sound of the ringing phone. I manage to get it on the fourth ring. L.A. area code, unknown number. “Hello?” “Hey. Is Clea there?” Deep, serious, smoky voice. I smile despite myself. Relief floods through me for more reasons than I want to think about. “Yeah. Who’s this?” “Shane. Am I, uh, is this an okay time?” “It’s great. How are you?” “Hung over,” she laughs. “Bummer. Are you at work?” “No, I’m off today. How’s the painting coming?” “I’m a nervous wreck. This is the biggest one-woman show I’ve ever done and I can’t tell anymore if what I’m doing is ***** or what. I’ve lost all objectivity. And I thought you were gonna blow me off.” “I’m sorry. That sucks. Why didn’t Bette let you know sooner how many paintings she needed?” “Steve fucked up. It was a miscommunication.” “Bummer. Well, would it help if I came over today instead?” My eyes go huge. Today, as in now? The place is a mess. I’m a mess. But it actually would help. I could channel this nervous energy into work, rather than ruminating about the flaws or lack thereof of my existing canvases. “Oh my god, that would be so great.” “All right, what should I bring?” “I dunno, how do you want to pose?” “I don’t care.” “Why don’t we try something really femmy?” “Okay.” If Shane is offended by the implication that something is wrong with her butch look, she doesn’t show it. “I have a slinky red dress. Unless you want me naked?” Holy *****, she is totally hitting on me. “Hey, let’s play it by ear. Bring the dress and anything else you might want to try.” “Cool. Give me an hour.” I give her the address and go about the business of quietly panicking. Okay, she is gonna hit on me. What am I gonna do? What am I gonna wear? ***** that, can I even resist her? I slip into my favorite painting gear, a sleeveless, shapeless white dress that is splotched with every color of paint there is. I don’t bother with shoes. I stand in front of the mirror and look at my hair and I can’t get it to look nearly as good as she did. “*****,” I spit, and just take a lacquered stick from a drawer. I tie my hair into a high knot and skewer it with a stick. I have a bunch of wisps hanging out, and the effect is kind of *****. Makeup? I really have to, because without it I’m washed out. Just a little lipstick. That’s it. I think about me asking “who’s this?” as if to pretend I didn’t recognize her voice instantly. Jaz would totally call me on that *****. She knows I abhor phoniness of any kind. I don’t know why I did it, because I later admitted that I was freaking out about her not coming. I’m afraid that she’ll think I’m hot for her, which is ridiculous because one, of course I’m hot for her, and two, isn’t everybody? I don’t want to give her that power, though. Who am I kidding? She already has the power. I’m a total goner. But I don’t want her to know that she has the power. I walk into the studio and feel naked. Bette’s assistant came for most of the paintings on Friday and there isn’t much left. I kind of wish I had something around that was representative of my talent. Something to show off. “Calm the ***** down,” I mutter. “You’re being ridiculous.” . She shows up an hour and ten minutes later, bringing coffee for two and a few dresses. her hair is chin-length and unstyled, face without makeup. She looks so damn good I want to just kiss her senseless. Then she smiles, and oh god, it renders me into a babbling idiot. “Hi. Come on in.” “Thanks. Hey, nice place.” “Thanks. Make yourself comfortable.” I’m not sure what she was expecting, but my spartan two-bedroom apartment probably isn’t it. “Okay. I brought coffee. Didn’t know how you took it.” “Oh my god, you’re my hero. Let’s see these dresses.” The red one is slinky and bohemian all at once, with wandering embroidered patterns and opalescent beads and ***** fringe at the bottom. “Wow. This is hot. I love the way it catches the light.” It would be totally fun to paint. “I didn’t know if you would like it to paint or not. I know we’re not doing a fashion shoot.” “I don’t mind incorporating a little fashion, as long as it fits the mood.” “And what mood would that be?” she smiles. “I dunno. What kind of mood are you in?” “Frisky.” I laugh to deflect my feelings. “You sound like a cat. Go try on the dress.” I close my eyes as I gesture her into the other room. Oh, I know what mood I’m in. I know very clearly. She is totally flirting. And I don’t know how much more of it I can take. She is back incredibly quickly, and catches me standing there, lost, pinching the bridge of my nose. Her carriage is way too butch for the dress. I nix it instantly, and the other one. If we do her femmy we’re gonna have to take another approach. I stand there, hand on my nose, thinking. “Okay, I have an idea. Do you mind being nude?” “No.” “All right. We’re gonna incorporate the dress, though, because I love that texture. Go do something femmy with your hair. Like that freshly fucked look you gave me.” She looks at me for a second, mouth open. As if I’ve shocked her. “What’s wrong?” “Oh, nothing, I just, you reminded me of something… uh, a friend of mine used to say.” She emerges from the bathroom with her hair in waves, very flapper-era. Still wearing her clothes. Her lips are painted *****-me red and her eyes have a smoky kohl-eyed look. I’m in the middle of mixing paints and I almost drop my brush. “Holy *****,” I blurt. “What?” She looks disarmed, paranoid, as if she has no idea how hot she is. “You look hot.” “Thank you.” She grins, this cat-eating-canary look, and she probably thinks I’m a sure thing. I stare at my paints as she begins to undress. She slips out of her pants and who am I kidding, of course I turn to look. She is wearing lacy red panties, a inordinately exciting paradox. Then the shirt is gone, and she is naked. “Something wrong?” I gulp, time stretching for long seconds as I try to kick my mind into gear. I grin. “Other than the fact that you could use a few square meals, no.” “Shut up.” “I’m ***** with ya. You know you’re a goddess.” “Thanks.” “Okay. Here’s what I want to do. Lie down on the futon, facing this way.” I’ve covered the futon with orange sheets. With the pink of her skin and the red of her lips, the color sings. She has no ***** to speak of, but her ***** are small and marvelous. “Allright, let your legs fall off the edge, and turn your hips away from me. Then turn your head. Look out the window. But stretch your arm toward me. Keep this tension in your shoulder, it’s great. I’ll prop it up in a minute so you don’t get a cramp.” I touch her shoulder briefly and her skin is very hot and silky under my fingertips. Good god, this is going to be so hard. I walk back and forth, trying to look at her objectively. It is goddamn hard. Sometimes I wonder if dead people can see us, and if so, what would my mom think of this little tableau? Shane stretches a bit, then gets into position. She is this flushed, ripe Venus, and I just want to take her. “Open your mouth, just a little, like someone really hot just whispered something dirty in your ear. Perfect! I’m gonna mess your hair up, okay?” She smells like green tea and cleanliness and something sweetly tart that I can’t place, cirtus maybe. I play with her hair, every which way. I can’t decide which way I like best. Or maybe I just love to touch her. Her hair is surprisingly silky. I lean over her, crawling onto the futon. Her eyes meet mine and she tenses as if she expects me to kiss her. “You,” I mutter, “Need some color in your cheeks.” I put my fingertips on her jaw and rub my thumb over her lush bottom lip. Her lips part and I feel her hot moist breath and in that instant it takes all my willpower not to do what I want. I rub the color into her cheek, then do the same on the other side. I’m going to get revenge on her for that comment about having a warm body. Oh, payback is a *****, baby. I hold her face in my hands, then pull away, looking at her from different angles. “Gorgeous,” I say, jumping up from the futon as if burnt. I pick up the dress and dangle it over her so that the fringes tickle the skin just below her *****. She jumps. I drop the dress, so that it hangs in a swath diagonally across her body, under her *****. Knowing she feels the weight of the beading, that it is heavy, cool, and textured. “Do something ***** with the dress, like tangle your fingers up in the fringes.” She does, looking up at me, writhing a bit, moving a bit from the position I’ve put her in. “Stop!” Her legs are bent, sensually tangled, her upper body facing the window, but the opposing arm is stretched away from the light, fingers there tangling in the fringes with exquisite tension. I fight the urge to take a polaroid, because I don’t think I could possibly capture the beauty of her. “Tilt your head back a little. Yeah. Perfect. Now don’t move a muscle.” She doesn’t. It takes so much effort to set up the easel and my paints and get started. I just want to stare at her, lest she disappear. “You said you were hung over. Why don’t you just fall asleep and I’ll wake you when it’s time for you to have your eyes open?” She looks at me without moving from the pose I put her in. The effect has her looking up at me through her eyelashes. The effect is staggering. “I don’t feel like sleeping.” Oh, Christ, she is laying it on thick. This painting is never going to get done and I am never going to get out of this situation unscathed. Still she watches me, only moving her eyes. . This is torture. The stroke of a brush, the frictionless drag of paint along canvas, the interplay of my breath with the evolving painted lines of her body. The way I can stare at her until she dissolves into curves and planes without meaning – it is all too much. She is a great model, and she holds the position without moving. She closes her eyes, and appears to sleep. Sleep makes her even more beautiful. The last harsh wall she holds up to the world falls away and she shines. I paint her as if from above, and sometimes while I’m doing it I feel like I’m going to fall into the canvas if I don’t catch myself. I know I’m really fucked six ways from Sunday when I realize that I’ve been sitting there for minutes staring at her. My brush even drools a glop of flesh-colored paint onto the floor, like a teenage boy who comes in his pants. Just pathetic. I keep working until the light fades and becomes useless, though it is beautiful on her skin, then stand up, stretching, bones popping. I walk to the entrance of the studio and look at the canvas from a distance. It shows promise. Damn, I’m good. I’ve captured some of what I need to. More than what I hoped to. Somewhere in the past few hours it has become a need. There is a soul that she has, a light, almost, where hurt and strength and humor and compassion pool into one essence, and it’s Shane. I’ve been desperate in these last few weeks to touch it, to capture it, feel it. Maybe my mother would be proud of me. *****, maybe even my father would. Because I’ve gone for it in the safest way I can. Yet at the same time I’m falling, falling right through the ceiling. I hate falling for her. I hate being a cliche. I hate being what I was ten years ago – just one of many who laid at her feet, no one special. Quietly, I draw the venetian blinds in the studio. Her body is now striped in slats of light. This in and of itself would be a fabulous painting and I again resist the urge to take a photo, since my goal is not to disturb her. I’d meant to paint her with her eyes open, to catch their amazing lucid fire. But the darkness of eyelashes on her cheeks has its own appeal, and I don’t have the heart to wake her. Now the desire to paint her awake tugs at me. I will never get enough of painting her. I keep thinking of amazing ideas and tell myself to stop creating the images in my mind. Trying to stop mental images goes against everything good in my nature. Try it with other models, I think, forcing myself to turn away. I pull a clean white sheet from my linen closet and unfurl it as quietly as I can. I drape it over her sleeping body and leave her there, shutting the door. I’m glad she’s fallen asleep. Painting her was extremely overstimulating. With thought, instinct, hands and eyes in overdrive. I’m exhausted. I lie on the couch and light up a big joint. Pull the chopstick out of my hair and toss it on the rug. I smoke the weed down to the nub and watch the ceiling fan approach and retreat. I drop the bud into the ashtray, and fall asleep myself, into turbid dreams. I dream that she is the Flaming June, clad in gossamer orange, lips and cheeks burning with Los Angeles heat.