Nude Sucking Ink–fiction #writing #fiction

Here’s a short story I wrote some years back. It’s unpublished, previously unseen anywhere, so call it a blog exclusive. A bit humorous, a bit satirical, lots of fun to write…comments welcome, except from trolls.

Nude Sucking Ink

             He was painting a nude woman performing fellatio on a blue Pilot Bettergrip pen when his agent Curly called. Curly, a mousy man with an anemic pencil mustache, said

            Hi, Hamlet. Good news. The gallery agreed. You have a show.

            Hamlet dropped his brush and sat in the nearest chair. The model relaxed, throwing on a button-down white shirt and twirling the pen between her fingers. He looked at the painting, admiring his own work, his bold new style. On this canvas, what might be interpreted as a thin penis was capped, possibly, by a pair of full lips. This image lay at the center of the painting. Dozens of tightly woven lines—spirals, straights, diagonals—emanated from the central figure to the canvas borders. Hamlet said

            Don’t jerk me around today, Curly. I’m trying to finish Nude Sucking Ink, and I’m almost there

            and Curly said

            I’m not kidding. The Kane House in downtownLittle Rock. They’ve agreed to give you the whole second floor

            and Hamlet frowned, saying

           Little Rock. I live in Parkview and drive a Volkswagen Beetle. How am I supposed to get all my paintings toLittle Rock?

            Curly snorted and said

            I’ll send a van. Jesus, man, is that all you have to say? I tell you you’ve got a show in the Kane House, best gallery in the state, and all you do is bitch because I didn’t bring the buyers and critics to your place

            and Hamlet, only half listening, looked at the model and said

            Take off that shirt.

            She stuck the pen in her mouth and slipped out of the shirt. Hamlet felt his erection rising, just as he liked it when he was painting. He said to Curly

            Look, it’s fantastic news. I’ve just had a cruddy day and I want to finish this. When’s the show?

            and Curly said

            Next week. Call me when you finish that one and then don’t start on any more till after the big day. You need to save all your energy for schmoozing.

            Hamlet hung up. He picked up his brush and turned to the model. Her breasts hung down, pendulous, heavy. He took a deep breath and went back to work.

* * *

            One week later, Hamlet stood in the Kane House, surrounded by his paintings and several people he had already come to loathe. Each of the paintings exhibited his new style—a fuzzy image surrounded by tight lines. He called the technique Abstract Soft Focus. The work seemed to interest the browsers, though each of them seemed to have been bred especially to bug Hamlet and assault his sensibilities.

            Curly stood next to Hamlet in front of Nude Sucking Ink. Bob Kane, the gallery owner, stood next to them holding a half-empty glass of red wine. Kane clapped Hamlet on the back and said

            We’ve sold five already, Ham

            to which Hamlet replied

            I hate being called Ham.

            Curly grunted and shuffled in between them, saying

            Sorry, Bob, like most artists he has the social skills of a tree sloth. We’ve sold five so far, Hamlet. Lots of money here tonight

            and Hamlet said

            It isn’t the money

            and Curly said

            Of course it isn’t. By the way. If you only wanted to paint lips, why did you request a nude model?

            and Hamlet said

            Because I like looking at naked women.

            Kane laughed, cleared his throat, and moved on, mixing with his guests and grabbing another glass of wine from a passing waiter. Curly shook his head, frowning. A young man with blonde hair and a horrible bright pink ascot strolled up. He sipped a martini and considered Nude Sucking Ink, stroking his goatee every few seconds. Finally he said

            What lovely energy. A wonderful commentary on the proliferation of sex in the media

            and Hamlet said

            Actually, the sexual image is meant to represent all primal urges that both feed and are in turn fed by language, hence the pen

            and the young man laughed and said

            An interesting interpretation

            to which Hamlet replied

            The true interpretation. I’m the artist.

            But the young man only laughed again, as if such an idea had never occurred to him and in fact now seemed absurd since someone had mentioned it. He said

            It matters little. Your interpretation is still only one of many. You aren’t God, and even His creations have more than one possible meaning. But since we’re talking about your work and what you think it means, let me ask you this: why the speed lines?

            and Hamlet said

            They aren’t speed lines. Their elusiveness represents my denial of all form. It shows my individual vision

            but the young man said

            Ah, but denial of form is also a form. While you use this method, many others have also denied form, meaning that no form is still form, a school in fact. The only true way to deny form is not to paint, and millions of people do that. It’s so cliché

            to which Hamlet replied

            You’re an asshole

            and the young man walked away. Curly cringed and said

            Very nice, Hamlet. You’re alienating the buyers

            but Hamlet said

            I don’t give a damn if they buy. I’m here to make a statement

            and Curly said

            Me too. A bank statement. A financial statement. But I don’t get any percentage if you don’t sell. So, as a personal favor to me, try to keep your righteous indignation under control long enough to make some fucking money

            and he walked away, mumbling. Hamlet shrugged. He decided to stand in a corner, away from the idiots on the floor. Some sort of crappy music was playing over the PA, possibly Michael Bolton. He hated Michael Bolton.

            Curly was running back and forth between guests, alternately fawning over them and the paintings. He would run to someone, throw an arm around him or her, gesture at one painting or another, run to another guest. At a distance it looked like a mating ritual. Hamlet wondered what a zoologist would make of Curly’s particular species. He was saying

            Now over here is a really interesting piece

            sounding, to Hamlet, like used car salesman. Come on down to Crazy Ham’s. Everything must go. A tall man with a comically large cowboy hat strolled over to Hamlet and leaned against the wall. Hamlet said

            Say, aren’t you Toby Keith?

            The man laughed and said

            No, he’s got more hair and better looks. Me, I own some hotels downtown

            and Hamlet thought

            Oh Christ

            and said

            I hope you’re an art lover, mister

            but the man said

            No, but I get a lot of the artsy crowd. They bitch about the paintins in the rooms, so I cruise these shows looking for somethin good but cheap.

            Hamlet puffed out his chest and sneered, saying

            I assure you that this artist would never, in any number of lifetimes, allow any of his pieces to hang in a hotel room
            saying the words as if they were a curse that hurt his mouth, and the man said

            Yeah I heard he was one of those really snooty types. But it ain’t like I’m ask his permission, you know?

            and Hamlet said

            True enough.

            He called Curly over, took him by the elbow, and pointed to the cowboy, saying too loudly

            Have security throw that shitkicker in the Stetson out on his redneck ass

            and Curly walked away, muttering.

            Hamlet pulled up a metal folding chair. He sat down in front of Nude Sucking Ink and rubbed his temples. A monstrous headache was forming behind his left eye. The show was not going well at all. The pieces were selling, but no one was getting him. No one appreciated his artistry.

            A fat woman with enormous breasts oozed over and asked him how much time it took to paint a picture. He said

            Depends

            so she said

            On what?

            and he spat

            Models, funds, inspiration, the availability of liquor, take your pick.

            She considered this a moment before asking

            Do you sleep with your models?

            to which Hamlet replied

            You are one tasteless woman.

            She laughed and said

            That’s a terrible thing to say to someone interested in your art. Tell me, hotshot, why is your style so—what’s the word I’m looking for—goofy?

            Grinding his teeth, Hamlet turned to her and said

            Lady, my style is bold, rebellious, but never, ever goofy.

            The woman let Hamlet stew for a few seconds, just long enough for him to think she was going to leave him alone, and then she said

            I don’t understand rebellion. How do you consider yourself rebellious?

            and Hamlet groaned and said

            Look, both my parents are English professors who named me Hamlet, for Christ’s sake. The very existence of visual art from my hand is rebellion.

            The woman thought about this for a moment before saying

            Still looks goofy to me

            and walking away. Hamlet stared at her, open-mouthed, and then yelled

            I hope your fucking thighs get a rash!

            as Curly made shushing gestures from across the room.

            Goofy, rebellious, traditional, energetic, chaotic—Hamlet had heard them all, had said a few of them himself, expected to hear more. And as bad as the evening had been, he was grateful that he had, at least, not heard the one adjective that he would not abide—derivative. He could not bear that word, not even when applied to someone else. It was the ultimate curse for artists. It tasted dirty, sounded obscene. He dwelled so much on the term that he had almost forgotten the fat woman when he heard the young man in the ascot say

            So I said to him, Steven, you made a zillion dollars with the first movie. And you don’t have any of your original cast for the sequel. So won’t a sequel utilizing the same concept seem, well, derivative?

            Hamlet stood, slowly. A shudder ran through his body. He took the chair by its legs, its metal cold in his hands, raised it above his head, and then brought it down seat first on the young man’s skull. The young man fell into the fat woman, grabbing at her as he collapsed, ripping a strap from her dress and exposing one massive breast. She staggered backward and bumped into the cowboy, who spilled his drink all over a painting. The show collapsed all around him, but Hamlet did not notice. He was looking serenely at the lines of Nude Sucking Ink, thinking of wind-made ripples on the still surface of a pond.

          

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