Her Portrait of Desire

Author's note: This is based on 750-word storyHis Portrait of Longingand is part of the Pink Orchid Story Event for Women-Centric Erotica

~~~~

"We should have volunteered to be booth babes years ago."

Gwen was eating lunch with her coworker Connie in the coffee shop across the street from the convention center. The sun of mid-May lit the city street outside. The large sliding windows that faced the street were open, letting in spring air to mingle with the scent of coffee beans.

That morning, Gwen had presented on "Business success though the artist mindset." Connie was hosting a panel on "Competitive advantage through arts-based learning" the following day.

"Told you we still have it," Connie said, laughing. "I haven't had that much attention from horny executives since I was an intern."

Between presentations, they filled in at their corporation's sales booth in the convention center corridor whenever the young interns, each selected for their looks and energy, went on break.

"Maybeyoustill have it," Gwen said. "No one's slipped their room number to me."

"If you want to sleep with Mr. sweaty comb-over, go right ahead. Room 319. I'm hoping for a one-nighter with one of the sales guys from Summit and Smythe."

"Why? They're so full of themselves," Gwen said. "If I was interested in a one-and-done with some self-centered manwhore, I'd get back with my ex."

"Sure, but wouldn't a solid railing from a guy half your age be great for once? Makes you feel young again."

Gwen laughed. "Well, you'd know. I think it'd make me feel even older. Like when I was teaching. Every year I got older and—"

"—and the students stayed the same age. Yeah, you keep saying that. Gwen, you're 44. Not old. And how long has it been?"

Gwen counted off on her fingers, "Two years, seven months and twelve centuries is what it feels like."

"Hah! See? You're allowed to have fun. At the office, I know three guys interested in you. But you act like an ice queen. And when we go out, it's like having drinks with a nun. Now's the time in your life to stop being a good girl and cut loose a little. Speaking of which..." Connie tipped her head towards the street side of the coffee shop. "There's a guy three tables over who's been checking us out. Oh shit! He's coming over!"

Gwen watched a guy with brown hair down to his shoulders weaving towards them between the tables. He was handsome and fit, but not gym rat over-muscled. She fixed her eyes on the table until she felt him standing beside them.

"Excuse me, Ms. Valasco?" he said, hands clasped nervously.

Gwen's head shot up to look at him. She was visiting a city on the other side of the continent that she had never been to before. She didn't know anyone there. Studying the young man's face, he looked familiar. If he had acne and short hair, he could even be...

"Oh, my God," she said. "Shane, is that you?"

When he nodded and smiled, she jumped to her feet to give him a chaste hug. Pulling back, she looked him up and down.

"Wow. It's incredible to see you again. Are you attending the conference too?"

"Conference?" he said. "No, I live here now. Just stopped in for some lunch."

Gwen invited him to take the empty seat next to her and made introductions.

"Shane, this is my co-worker, Connie. Connie, meet Shane."

Connie shook his hand, smiling with undisguised lust.

"Shane was the most gifted student I ever had in my art class," Gwen said. "Incredible talent. And hard working. Driven."

Shane ducked his head, nodding and shrugging bashfully. Gwen remembered how he would turn red and shuffle from foot to foot if she offered even a mild compliment.

Gwen wanted to know everything. In the eleven years she had spent teaching the high school art program, no student ever matched Shane's nascent technical ability and compelling, though disturbing, vision. He could craft compositions with vivid tones yet evoke an eerie aesthetic. He attacked every assignment with the fevered tenacity of van Gogh.

Shane explained he had moved to the city after graduating high school and winning a two-year scholarship at the local art college. With a lively indie art scene, it had seemed like a good place to stay for a while.

"I'll move back sometime," he said. "This is the wrong coast. The ocean smells wrong. Looks wrong."

Gwen couldn't say, having never visited that side of the country before. She and Connie had flown in the previous day and had no time to explore, not even time to walk along the harbor front.

"So have you been selling many works?" Gwen asked. "Where are you showing?" After ten years, she fully expected his paintings to have their own section in the local gallery, to see them for sale in the windows of the private galleries in the old part of the city.

Shane grimaced. "I've never been able to make a go of it," he said. "I've sold a work here and there. I just do stuff on the side: Posters for local theaters. Some book covers. I illustrated a friend's graphic novel. Other stupid stuff."

Gwen nodded, trying to mask her disappointment. After ten years, she was certain Shane would have been discovered and acquired patrons. "So... so you're working somewhere?" She looked over his dress shirt and bland office-worker chinos.

"Oh, I'm doing IT support in an office down the street," he said. "Are you still at the high school?"

"No," Gwen sighed. "They cut the art program five years ago. No more budget for the arts these days. I do some volunteer teaching for the Art on the Wharf project, but now I work with Connie at Cresevex Partners. Brand design, corporate image makeovers, creativity coaching. Illustrations for client who want better than AI. "

Shane nodded. "That sounds interesting."

"It's dull, suffocating shit," Connie said, "but it pays the bills."

"Sound just like my job," Shane said.

Gwen said, "You must be exhibiting somewhere, though. Getting your work out there."

He shrugged. "I made a portfolio online. Haven't updated it for a while." He looked towards the works hanging on the brick wall of the coffee shop. "Two of those are mine."

Excited to see them, Gwen dragged him over to look. Works from many artists hung on the walls all around, each one for sale. Before she got close, she saw two works with the telltale hallmarks of Shane's style, though brighter and significantly more refined than his work in high school. They were ink and watercolor scenes of serene fishing villages, like the many ones scattered along the coast back home.

"Your technique has really matured," Gwen said, admiring the intention and the balance, the skilled fluidity of the color blending. "The compositions are so cheery! In school, your work always had something foreboding and disquieting about it."

"Ever known a teenager who wasn't full of angst?"

Gwen laughed. "True, but you were gloomier than the goths."

He shrugged. "I finally got treatment for depression."

Gwen's breath caught in her throat. She had seen too many gifted students emotionally blunted by over-prescribed medications. "Anti-depressants?"

"I tried some," Shane said. "They just turned me into a beige ball of goo. No, cycling everywhere and running did it for me. If I don't get exercise I just... fall apart. Getting the hell out of high school helped, too."

"Yes, it's a trying time," she said, relieved

He fixed her with an intense look. Gwen felt a little inner thrill. He had the same soulful eyes.

"You were the only good part," he said. "You encouraged me, guided me. Forced me sometimes."

"Only when you didn't try your best," Gwen said. "Like any teacher does."

"No. Not like any teacher! I would've given up... in a lot of ways... without you. You were so confident in me. Never let me get away with lazy work. Guided me until I got it."

"Like oils?"

Shane sucked air through his teeth. "Oh, fucking oils! The other advanced students only had to do an abstract and a bit of color mixing. You made me do an entire still life."

"Because I knew you could," Gwen said with a smile. "You needed to know that you could."

"You hugged me when I showed it to you that day."

"I did? Oops. Shouldn't have done that. I was so eager to see what you'd accomplished. You'd spent weeks on it."

"I spent weeks doing about twenty of them until I got something worthy of showing you."

Gwen swallowed, seeing the longing look he was giving her, his eyes flicking to her mouth as though contemplating a kiss. In truth, she remembered that hug, alone in the classroom after the final bell. He was adorably nervous—resigned to getting a failing mark—when he presented that final project. The subject was the usual bowl of fruit but done entirely in oil paints—trickier than acrylics until the student got enough practice to get the feel of them.

When she praised his accomplishment, picking out the best aspects and gently suggesting improvements, the relief and pride he radiated swelled her heart to bursting. On impulse, she had pulled him into a hug, one she let linger too long—not because she needed it, but because she felt he did.

Their uneasy eye contact was broken when someone barged past, almost knocking Gwen off balance. Shane caught her arm to steady her, and they looked around, surprised to see how much busier the coffee shop had become.

The place buzzed with conversation, filling up with late lunch arrivals. An older couple was standing at Shane's table where he had left his sketchbook and a half-eaten sandwich. Noticing, he excused himself to hurry over and gather them up so they could sit. Gwen ambled back to her table, where Connie sat wearing a catty smile.

"What a lovely young man," she said.

"Oh, shut up," Gwen said with an embarrassed laugh. "I was only evaluating his artwork. He's come a long way."

"Uh huh. Well, I was evaluating his ass. Think he'd model for me?"

"As if I'd let him be alone in a room with you."

"I could teach him some things," Connie said. "So could you, I bet."

"Connie, he was my student!" Gwen shook her head. "And he's wasting away in some office. Makes me sick."

"So help him out. Shop him around. You have the connections."

"I could, couldn't I?"

"You know the best artists suck at self-promotion. Look, we're only here three days. Meet him tonight. Go over his recent work. If he's as good as you say, there's no reason he has to work some office job. Or be a starving artist."

Gwen looked over at Shane, apologizing to the old man and woman for taking up a table.

"You're right," she said. "I'll meet him here."

Connie sighed. "We have that presenter's cocktail thing until seven. This place will be closed. Last time I was here, the entire downtown closed at five, except for the nightclubs. Invite him to your room. A nice private space to... evaluate his skills."

Gwen recoiled. "He might get the wrong idea!"

"And wouldn't that be just the worst thing?" Connie said. She glanced toward the young man clearing off his table. "Have you seen how he's looking at you?"

Gwen followed her friend's lustful gaze. Yeah, Shane was gorgeous. He had more confidence now, yet remained the respectful, introverted, and super-intense guy he had been back then. Women must flock to him like a rock star.

"I'm sorry, but I have to get back to the office," Shane said when he returned to their table.

Connie stood and, without shame, mashed against him in a hug.

"Very nice to meet you, Shane," she said when she finally released him. His face was red.

It was Gwen's turn.

"So good to see you again," she said, hugging him. "Can you meet me tonight after seven? Bring your portfolio. I might be able to help you out. I'm in the convention hotel. Room 633. But only come if you want, okay?"

Parting, he searched Gwen's eyes, uncertain but excited. He stammered, "O-okay!"

He blurted out goodbyes and lurched out into the street.

"Oh, stop grinning, Connie," Gwen said with a laugh when they sat. "And finish up. We have to get back, too."

Connie sniffed, pretending to wipe away a tear. "So proud of you! My girl is finally unchaining her inner cougar."

"I'm only reviewing his portfolio. See what he's done. See if I can help him improve it. And give him some people to contact."

"Whatever you say, girl. You do know why people go to conferences in far-off cities, right?"

"Sure," Gwen said, adopting an innocent expression. "To attend the seminars and learn from peers."

Connie speared her with a sour look. "Uh huh. And buy souvenirs and send postcards back home and ride the double-decker tourist bus, right? Fucks sake, Gwen. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, you know?"

"This isn't Vegas."

"Yeah, it's better. It has that guy. Who's looking at you like you're everything he's ever wanted. Did he have a thing for you back then?"

"Oh, no. He respected me. Wanted to please me. That's all."

Narrowing her eyes, Connie said, "That's all, huh? Fine. Keep your little secrets. And if you don't jump his bones tonight, you send him down to my room, 'cause I sure will."

Walking across the street back to the conference, the sun reaching between the tall buildings on either side, Gwen was buoyant. Inviting a former student to her hotel room? What the fuck was she thinking? Especially when she knew how much Shane had idolized her.

She hadn't told Connie about the sketchbook Shane always carried in high school. How he had left it behind in class one day. And page after page of sketches she had found inside.

~~~~

The conference that afternoon dragged on. Gwen and Connie attended one presentation, sitting in the last row, whispering caustic remarks to each other about the topic and the droning speaker. Then it was two long hours of being booth babes, deflecting lame come-ons and handing out brochures and tchotchkes until the cocktail gathering began in a private meeting room.

The event had an open bar with servers in vests and bow ties circulating with endless trays of tantalizing hors d'oeuvres. The event organizers did the rounds, thanking each presenter and making small talk. They gave out amusing "awards" to each presenter: loudest, most animated, most audience participation. Gwen bowed when they handed her a tiny plastic trophy for the "Never mentioned AI once" award.

Gwen and Connie sipped wine, chatting and complimenting the better presenters while avoiding the soul-sucking egos of the keynote presenters. They had enough people fawning around them anyway.

Connie had attended three conferences before. She was perfectly at home mingling, grabbing fresh glasses of wine for them both and scarfing down every tidbit on a toothpick offered her.

For Gwen, it was a new experience, plus it was her first time being a presenter. As interesting as it was to observe the dynamics of the room and join in the conversations, she kept eyeing the door, longing to escape—to get to her room, shower and prepare for Shane.

The feel of their hug, his strong arms squeezing her, lingered. And that long hair? You'd think he played guitar in a metal band. Maybe he did. She pictured running her fingers through it like combing a lion's mane.

During her MFA program, Gwen had a short fling with an undergrad TA who wore his hair almost as long as Shane's. Gwen mused how he had possessed a 'noble dork' vibe similar to Shane as well.

She didn't know what would happen. She didn't know what she wanted to happen. She did know that Connie was right: it was time to stop being the good girl and lean into what she wanted. If anything happened, Shane was fully adult. Plus, he lived a continent away. The city wasn't Vegas, but it might as well have been.

~~~~

Gwen tried to escape the cocktail gathering early, but the organizers kept interrupting with speeches, recorded reactions from attendees projected on the wall, and little giveaways.

At twenty to seven, she bolted down the endless carpeted hallway into the lobby of the attached hotel, half-corked on wine. She tapped her foot as the elevator seemed to stop at every. fucking. floor. to let convention goers on or off. Then it was into the shower for a perfunctory scrub of the important bits.

Toweling off quickly, Gwen pulled on the least ugly panties she had brought and considered what to wear. What should an early middle-aged woman who wanted something but had no real idea what put on to meet a former student in her hotel room?

The slinky cocktail dress? God no. Yoga pants? Maybe. Jeans? Yes, perfect. She had remembered to pack her good jeans, right? She had five minutes to wriggle into them and find a top to wear.

A knock on the door. Shit, Shane was early! Greeting him wearing only panties wasn't the impression she wanted to make. She grabbed her white poplin shirt, buttoning it halfway while tossing her jeans into the bathroom. She'd pull them on after letting him in.

She glanced at herself in the mirrored door of the hall closet. The shirt hung below crotch level. What the hell—it would give Shane a brief thrill, though she fastened two more buttons.

Gwen hoped his jaw would drop when she opened the door. Instead, he appraised her from head to foot and beamed a bucolic smile, shaking his head.

"Astonishing, Ms. Valasco. Radiant."

Gwen felt her cheeks burn but reveled in his appraising gaze. If he hadn't got the wrong idea when she had invited him to her room, he did now.

"You're a little early, Shane. And we're adults now. Call me Gwen. Come in and I'll finish dressing. "

Stepping inside, he shut the door and said, "Why? That has to be more comfortable. Wish I'd brought my sketchpad." He looked up and around. "Except... not great lighting in here."

Ah, artists, Gwen thought. Sometimes you could cha-cha across the room doing a naked fertility dance and they would furrow their brows at the lighting and balance of the scene.

Under his arm, Shane carried a large black portfolio case. Gwen directed him to spread his works on the bed for review.

He had brought 16 pieces in a variety of styles and techniques: charcoals, pastels, watercolors, and one oil painting on a panel of gesso-primed plywood.

He had assembled a reasonable portfolio, each work highlighting his talent and vision in some way. Gwen was impressed by how far his skills had progressed since high school.

"Wonderful compositions," she said. "Balanced, dynamic. Purposeful and original. Controlled vibrancy. Yet there's still a touch of ennui. Longing. And these nudes... intimate but somehow still disquieting. Been studying Andrew Wyeth, Shane?"

He sighed. "It's that obvious? Sure. I've been trying more for Hammershøi, though. Ultimately, I want to capture tension like Coleville. Not in his precisionist style, though."

Gwen nodded. "I think you're getting there. Was it me who introduced you to Coleville?"

"You brought in that huge book of his work. Even let me take it home for a week." He chuckled. "If you wanted my work to be more cheery, that was the wrong thing to do. I completely obsessed over his style. The atmosphere. The unease."

"When I saw your pieces at the coffee shop," Gwen said, "I thought perhaps you'd entered your own Rose Period. Or did I miss seeing a dead body floating under the pier or something?"

Shane laughed. "I've stuck in surprises like that in a few works. No, the stuff I have in coffee shops and places like that are designed to sell."

"You'd be able to sell any of these works in your portfolio to the right collectors. Shane, if you could be free to paint full time, would you want to?"

"That's a stupid question." He gasped and straightened. "Sorry, Ms.—uh, Gwen. Who wouldn't? Don't you?"

"At one time, I did. Things changed when I discovered teaching. No, I'm fine with dabbling on the side."