Violet blissfully fills a blank canvas with color, letting the marks spill out almost as if the marks are not hers, rather they belong to a muse or a devil on her shoulder. Maybe it’s a lusty fallen angel sent to guide her, whatever it is, the feeling of creating something beautiful with paint or with words feels like making love. She writes letters to her muse asking for forgiveness on days she hasn’t painted, and she writes love songs to her muse on nights feels inspired. When she enters her art studio she feels an otherworldly presence in the room with her.
Life is a rollercoaster of highs and lows for Violet. Her spirit is magnetic and it can attract beautiful people and horrible people alike. Tonight she sips a glass of wine and listens to sultry music as she remembers all the beautiful lovers she has had over the past few decades. Each lover offered something distinctly delicious and horrible. But no man or woman could make her feel the bliss she feels in her painting studio. Sometimes, painting, dancing, writing, reflecting, it’s better than sex.
It’s hot in the studio. So she strips off her clothes until she is painting in a bra and shorts, barefoot. Dancing, she loves the feeling of the old wood floor and the look of the timber ceilings in her 100+ year old building that was once a factory, then a red light district, and converted now into artists’ studios for the past several decades. She loves that this space is dedicated to the filling of her soul and the pouring out of it onto journals and canvas. As she spins she closes her eyes and tosses her head, her hair caresses her breasts, back, and shoulders. She senses the usual presence of her muse with her tonight.
Her muse is faithful, it never abandons her, or fails to bring her bliss. Sometimes she wonders if she is crazy, or has an imaginary friend. She wonders if other artists personify the bliss they feel in the studio in the same way she does, imagining it as a lover. Feeling the heat of another body, flesh and blood near her, her spirit expands and joins with a white light all around her. When she opens her eyes, she is frightened to see another person in the room with her! The person is neither male, nor female. The person is somehow beyond that. She wonders if it is an angel or a demon. But the being is the most beautiful sight she has ever seen, yet seems oddly familiar, like a reoccurring dream.
“I am your muse. When I call out to you to paint something beautiful to share with the world, you offer yourself up faithfully and obey. I often watch you painting every night to the point of exhaustion. My love for you and your letters for me have persuaded me to show myself to you in physical form so I can make love to you. I need to feel what you feel, like you can feel me urging you to write and paint and dance and sing. I left eternity in Heaven to spend a moment here on Earth with you.”
First to appear is the androgynous girl in Violet’s drawing class that was too shy to talk to her. Sunlight dances on their smooth, naked bodies and they are 18 again. Her true love, Sean is making love to her for the first time on the roof of the old house boat, rocking to the waves. Next she is 30 and having the best fuck of her life with crazy Jason. His long, wild hair surrounds her while he makes her cum harder than anyone ever has or ever will again. Even her slutty cheating girlfriend is forgiven and fucked like mad as again and again each of her old flames, future flames, and could-have-beens appear as flashes before her eyes.
When she opens her eyes, she is lying on her studio floor. The angel’s hand is cradling her head and its lips are on her lips. Slowly it pulls away and fades. Her body pulsates with orgasmic energy. She feels no bitterness over the lovers that have cum and gone. No yearning for lovers yet to cum. She is completely at peace.
She sits up and decides to write about this amazing journey. It’s then that she remembers taking a boatload of shrooms when arriving at the studio. As a result of this memory she realizes her lusty fallen angel was a hallucination from the mescaline. She is grateful for moments spent in heaven with her muse, every lover she has ever had, and ever will have. She writes in her journal. “When I am writing and painting, I am exactly where I need to be.”
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