"You fucked her-- didn't you?"

Adam, his rump resting against a paint-dappled workbench, arms folded tightly, never lifted his eyes from the floor as he answered. "I never touched her."

"Maybe," I replied. "Still, you fucked her just the same." 

I stood; enthralled by the portrait of Donna that Adam had invited me to see. The nude he had worked on these many weeks. It was alive. I don't know how he did it, but I swear her image could have stepped out of the canvas and into the world.

Adam was my closest friend. Then we met Donna. It was twelve years ago to the night. It was Adam's first one-man showing at the Hoyt Galleries. Adam hadn't sold a single piece prior to that night, but Amanda Hoyt's word-of-mouth spread and brought in a substantial, well-heeled crowd. 

Adam worked such erotic magic with his brush. His subjects were not so much nude, as naked. He caught them in that singular moment when a taboo is shattered. Innocents just sinking their teeth into the forbidden fruit.

He and I spotted Donna at the same instant. She stood transfixed by "Girl on a Balcony." Yes, the same "Girl on a Balcony" that graced the cover of GQ and hangs in the office of that nerdy, software-peddling billionaire. 

Each of us approached her from behind. Donna stood in that careless, sexy way that she does. Her ass tilted so that her long left leg and hip form a single steep slope to her ankle, and her foot that barely toes the ground. A black trench coat clung to her willowy body that was poured into black jeans. Ash blonde hair cascaded about her shoulders.

She studied the girl in the painting closely, almost longingly. The girl squatted on a small balcony peering through a wrought-iron railing onto a street scene below her. Both her hands deep between her thighs and her hardened nipples peeking from between her upper arms. Like all Adam's subjects, the girl was looking away, and her partial profile gave only a hint of an expression. The effect for the viewer was as if one had just stumbled upon her masturbating. 

The painting worked its magic on Donna. And she told Adam she loved it. She loved all his work. 

Donna was magic, too. The moment I laid eyes on her I knew my life had changed. No other woman, no other creature would complete it. And in that single moment I understood Adam desired her in just the same way. 

We each pursued her and wooed her. I thought I could offer her nothing that would compete with Adam's magic. But, while she loved his art, she did not love the artist. She came to love me.

Adam left for New York soon after Donna and I began our life together. There was a wound in his soul that would never heal. I understood. Had it been the other way around, I would have taken my own bleeding soul into self-imposed exile. 

As the years passed, Donna followed Adam's career, counting success after success. Now he had come back home, if only temporarily. He sent us invitations to his retrospective. It was a gala event, one of the must-have tickets for the most must-be-seen-there venue in town.

It was there that Adam asked if Donna would pose for him. She eagerly agreed, and only as an afterthought asked if that was okay with me. I agreed, of course, but the look in Adam's eyes gripped my gut like a cold fist. 

For two weeks Donna spent the better part of daylight at Adam's studio. She would come home with a faraway look in her eyes and a subtle smile. I would always ask, "How's it going?"

Donna would smile and nod, "Okay." She would offer nothing more, and I did not press it.

This night Adam had called me to view Donna's finished portrait, alone. And here I stood before it. 

He painted her from behind, standing in that peculiar way that she does, ass tilted and one long steep slope from her ribs, over her hip, along the line of her leg to her foot just toeing the ground. Her face is in partial profile, as if she had just looked over her left shoulder and was now turning to look forward. Her ash blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in a subtle swirl. He has captured every shade, every nuance; right down to the light shadow where her ass cheeks concave and her shoulder blades slide beneath her back. The portrait was as beautiful as she, and I couldn't help wonder, what has this girl in the portrait done? What taboo has she broken in the fractured instant before this moment frozen on canvas? 

"Yeah," I said. "You fucked her. With each brushstroke, with each and every touch of paint to fabric. Her orgasm hasn't even begun to drain away." 

Adam would say nothing. So I tore my eyes off the girl in the portrait and looked into his face. "You did, didn't you? You son of a bitch."

Adam sighed and nodded. "Yes, I did. The only way I could." 

"Has Donna seen it?" I asked. 

"No, I wouldn't let her. I'm having it shipped to your place. That is - if you want it."

"It's Donna's painting," I said, then after a few seconds, "Did she know? Did she understand what you were doing?" 

"I don't know," Adam replied. "Maybe - I can't tell." 

I looked at the portrait again. "I feel like I just walked in on you and her, just as you finished ..."

Adam and I have not spoken since. The portrait hangs in my home. We have been offered substantial amounts of money for it, but we'll never part with it. Sometimes Donna and I stare and study it, by ourselves, of course. I'm not sure what Donna feels when she looks at it. But I feel like a voyeur.

Copyright © 2002 R.E. Buckley. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.