VERY amused by my own cleverness
...if I was to have my sweetheart, I could not have my perfect nude model. If I demanded my perfect nude model, I would lose my sweetheart (and deserve it!)
Perchance it would not stay this way for long, I mused. Nor would it be, I suspected. Peter was an innocent now, but how long would that title suit him? How long until the fires that burned inside him demanded a satisfaction that mere hands could not provide? And how long until Peter became reckless, like me? How long until he simply took what invited him to pleasure, the same way I had? Would there be other men then, other Dr. Banners? Could I live with that? It would cut my heart open, but at least my hands would still work. Would he allow me to paint him then? My paints, my canvas longed for his body in a way I could never express in words; I might never paint those wondrous lines, those perfect forms again.
If so, then what? Could I really call myself a competent artist if I painted nothing but mythological figures? I was like unto an author who only wrote passionate romances; no, I was worse. I was like unto an author who could only write passionate romances between the same two lovers. There was nothing to be done for it.
Could I not, at least, paint other mythological figures? Must it always be Narcissus, Hyacinth, Ganymede? Could I not paint Echo, Daphne, or Hera? I could paint female models. I had no fear that Peter would be jealous if I were to employ Christine or Ann Weying on their off-hours… although there were other painters that might prove jealous.
It never occurred to me to employ another male model. Even if Peter would allow it, it was simply out of the question....
annaxmalina
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
dededos
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
