coughing up colors. [p]

OoC; So fantastic. :D

BiC;

Blind contour drawings of the prostitute's angles and subtleties, quick fluid lines that arched across the paper and hinted at form, at that lithe torso and narrow, structured face. Dessin's eyes remained on the arden while his hand moved from edge to edge of the page, the charcoal pencil seeming to direct itself in those sweeping lines that told so much, so simply. Anatomy studies, Dessin called it as he focused on the taut lines of muscles visible beneath the skin and fur and scales of the strippers and prostitutes. Anatomy studies, he rationalized. But it didn't hurt when the "models" looked like Meth.

All at once the chalky black tip of Des' pencil folded under itself soundlessly, broken for no better reason than that it felt like it. Mumbling a light curse or two, he tore his eyes away from the dancer and glared down at the pencil. Where was his sharpener? One hand plunged impatiently into the pocket of his pants -- his favorite pair of pants, the yellow and black plaid ones that played up the glowy teal in his hair and the pink-orange in his eyes -- but came back empty, no sharpener in there.

"Damn," he murmured emphatically as the music changed pace and there was still no sharpener to be found. He knew there was an exacto in his bag, but sharpening with those was messier and more hazardous, especially in the dim, oddly-colored air of a club like this; and his sharpener -- shaped like a tiny globe, the landmasses slightly textured and the oceans shimmering blue -- had to be around here somewhere. But where?

And abruptly he was being touched by a stranger's fingers. The dancer's. The dancer with the glittering naval ring and gorgeously articulated body was sitting on his table, fingers pulling Des' face up so he was forced to look at him, eye to eye. Pink-orange to blood ruby. And the prostitute spoke -- nay, purred.

"Hey, pretty."

A grin broke out across Dessin's face -- partly from genuine pleasure, partly from nervousness -- and he imagined that he could feel the eyes of other patrons swivelling toward him in jealousy. He had to remind himself that this sort of interaction was just what the workers were paid to do here; likely, this arden saw nothing more than a day's wages when he looked at Des. But he found it kind of exhilerating nonetheless.

"Hey," he replied breathlessly, still clutching the broken charcoal pencil, sketchbook propped between the edge of the table and his lap. What was he supposed to say next?

 

"They're beautiful."

And then the prostitute's hand trailed dangerously downward, bringing Des' mind with it. Des had never spoken with any of the whores before, though he'd definitely imagined; now, suddenly, there was a leather-clad arden with a crimson naval ring giving his utmost attention to him. No imaginings could have prepared him for this, and he was halfway through saying yeah, it's you; thanks when the other arden's mouth came into contact with his own.

For a moment, he stopped thinking, even leaned in a little -- it had been a while since he'd last had someone to kiss -- but then his senses seemed to return and he jerked back enough to break contact.

"I'm sorry; I'm really only here to draw. Anatomical analysis, you know," he said, though he couldn't keep the light smile off his face. He almost considered winking, but vetoed the idea as soon as it entered his mind: he was sure the arden got quite enough of that already, and he imagined it could get irritating, even a little depressing to have everyone so openly lusting after you all the time.

 

Des kept his eyes steadily trained on the whore's face, and he saw each little quirk of brow or twitch of mouth from an artist's standpoint, mentally taking note of what emotion the arrangement of features portrayed. The pale yellow arden's gleaming lust (most likely faked for the sake of the customer, Des noted), and then a less intense though still burning expression, a grin that could easily be amped back up if Des were to change his mind.

"I'm about to finish up, if you want anything."

"I, uh.." Des wasn't sure how to say this delicately. "I probably don't have sufficient funds on me at the moment."

Of course he didn't. He was an impoverished art student. He drew portraits for spare change; he spent all his time and money on art and art school, and his parents surely didn't give him an allowance any more. They'd be shocked even to know that he was at this club -- a club that was leeching away at his money quickly enough with just its entrance fee. He sighed half-bitterly, shrugging at the prostitute.

"I'm Des, by the way. Dessin Vull."

 

Breathing the used air between the two of them was making Des a little light-headed, suggestible. When the other arden leaned in for a second short kiss, Des returned the slight pressure willingly, even eagerly; the thought of so many others kissing this stranger's lips in just the same way did not deter him in the slightest. Once contact was broken again, Dessin's bright eyes sought the gaze of the other, and when he found it he saw unbridled want. It was almost intimidating.

In a heart full of dust,
Lives a creature called lust.

The stranger spoke again, and Des hardly believed what he heard. Specifically, "You're unbearably gorgeous," "I'm not just saying that because I'm paid to," and "I'd take you up for free..."

"R- really?" he said, and he couldn't keep the astonishment out of his voice. "Meth," he started slowly, testing the strange name (a stage name? he wondered briefly) on his tongue. "Are you sure? I mean..."

Des himself wasn't sure why he would hesitate at such an offer: here was Meth, beautiful, experienced, and willing to 'take him up for free.' But the level-headed part of Des was winning out in the silent battle of his inner selves; he considered the fact that he was still a virgin (did he really want to lose that to a prostitute he met in a club?), the fact that he was at least five or six years younger than Meth, and the uncertainty of hygiene -- though he felt confident, looking at the other arden, that he didn't really need to worry about that.

"I guess," he said finally, "I..."

Personal reasons aside, Des somehow felt that saying yes would be taking advantage of Meth's lust. Unchivalrous, almost, like some kind of basic code of conduct was being broken.

"I don't know."

 

Des wasn't sure what he was supposed to say or how he was supposed to act: he'd never before been any situation even remotely similar to this, and everything he'd ever assumed about the prostitutes was turning out wrong. Wrong when it came to this one, anyway. He'd assumed they would look worn-out and haggard up close, given their occupation, but Meth was as beautiful face-to-face as he was wrapped around a pole onstage; Des had assumed they would drop the lust act once they learned he had no money, but Meth didn't seem to be acting and hadn't cared a lick that he wouldn't be paid for his efforts; Des had also assumed that the average whore had more than enough lust in their life from work, but once again Meth had dashed that assumption to pieces.

To phrase it with slightly more brevity, Dessin was rather confused.

And he was growing worried that he'd insulted the arden, refusing such an offer -- he wanted to say yes so badly; those kisses had been like a spark to the heat that smoldered in him from drawing so many lithe bodies. He wanted to accept that generous offer and be led away to one of those dimly-lit backrooms he'd imagined since the first time he entered the club. He wanted to make Meth happy, too.

But he was so uncertain, he didn't know what to say. Especially at the offer of drawing all of Meth -- clearly, he was suggesting a little more than sketching; but Des wouldn't have minded if Meth meant only what he said. Nude models were the best to draw from, anyway.

"Do you want a drink?"

There, finally. Something Des could say yes to honestly and firmly without pondering the ethics behind it. So he replied with a broad, warm smile, "Yeah, I would. And.. I didn't mean to, y'know, offend you or anything. I mean, I'd say yes in a heartbeat, but..." He trailed off lamely, feeling very out-of-place. Almost as an afterthought, he murmured, "And I'd love to draw you sometime."