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︎︎︎Cat, April 2021
︎︎︎Muse, June 2020
︎︎︎Armpit, March 2020

CLÉO’S
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CAT

April 2021


When I need a pick-me-up, I go over to Mistress Sybil’s place. It’s a little treat for me. Instead of knocking, I’ll put my nails to the wood and scratch at her door. She lets me in with a sly smile.

It doesn’t take much for me to become a cat. She wraps my hands so that I can’t use my fingers and thumbs. Pointy ears go on the head. And then I’m off. She’s so used to this by now that she’ll barely take any notice of me from then on. Unless she’s checking that I’m not destroying her apartment.

Which, of course, I might be.

Just kidding. There’s very important business to be done. I investigate my surroundings. I investigate my new body. It’s wild how different everything looks from a different eye level. It’s wild how limited we are are by how our bodies are supposed to move, that just getting on all fours could open up such new ways of thinking and being.

I am trying to climb onto a shelf in her closet when she grabs me by the scruff of my neck. “Get out of there!” Strategically I back off. No use fighting something that doesn’t matter.

Then, I discover it in a pile of laundry. A skirt. Short, pleated, black with a floral design. I know immediately that this is it. We hadn’t discussed this beforehand, so I have to check in.

“Hey, is it okay if I destroy this skirt?”

“Why?” She’s confused.

“Because its life is over.”

“Well, I guess it’s fine,” she offers.

I’m delighted. I bring the skirt to a secluded part of the room. After pawing it a few times I begin to dig my teeth into it while pressing down with my paws. It takes a few tries, but finally I strike gold. I hear a delightful riiiiip. The skirt has given way.

“You tore it??”

A strip of fabric dangling from my mouth. Sybil’s shocked, a little upset. She didn’t realize how she’d feel about it until it happened. I’ve thought back on this moment so many times, each time with more pleasure. Yes, I tore it. I found something I wanted to destroy, and I destroyed it.






The suit.


Let me draw you as I see you.

Muse

An Art Adventure
June 2020 - May 2021







A toast.



This may have been one of my favorite session requests of all time. It happened in quarantine, and I had been mostly starved for kink. The message in my inbox came from someone I’ll call sub n. He described a dynamic that he wanted to recreate. Many years back, he had been photographed nude by a woman who was doing a series on male nudes. He had posed for her, only to find himself in more and more intimate positions.

I knew instantly what this meant. My fingers tingled as I typed out a response. Put on something cute, I said. We have a Zoom date.

The day came. Watching him through a screen, I teased him about the clothing he chose: a three-piece suit. How safe.

I asked him to undress  no, slower, as if you were teasing me. To pose himself for me, showing off his chest, the way the light fell across his hands. To begin to touch himself.

I watched and drew. As he began to unravel, as his body opened to me, laid out across his sofa, dissected by my gaze, the intensity of my focus grew into a cold, hungry, clinical detachment.


“Did you want a portrait of yourself?”
“Why, yes — yes and no. I want a portrait. At the same time, it is a sort of unu
sual portrait I want…
At this moment the charcoal in my hands felt alive, and I thought what a pleasure it would be to draw the lines of this person, almost like caressing him. He had taken off his coat, his shirt, shoes, socks. There were only the trousers left.

-Delta of Venus, Anais Nin


Separate story. Early this summer, a very cute boy had taken me out for dinner. It had been an unseasonably warm night. He had invited me up to his apartment for a drink.

When we got there, I noticed immediately that he had a great home art studio set up in his bedroom. A small but comfortabe easel, a drafting table, his various endeavors scattered about the room. As we drank and talked, the conversation turned to our respective drawing practices, and he wanted to show me the new brush and ink set he had started using.

Why don't you just draw me? I suggested. I sat down on his bed. After he finished the first drawing, I gave a few light critiques. Pointing to his scattered lines I remarked that you could barely see the form of the body.

I took off my shirt.

“Draw me again.”

Astounded, he complied without hesitation. When this drawing was done, I was much harsher. This wasn’t right. The brushwork is much too rigid, as if you were using a pencil. Ink should not be angular and structured, it should be free and expressive.

I took off my skirt.

“Again,” I said.

The Beginning

A Story About Armpits
April 2021

“Your armpits were the beginning of my corruption,” she said.



I was on the phone with my friend, G.

One of my closest girlfriends is G. When I met her, she had a mediocre sex life with a boyfriend, and was working in a law firm. These days, she’s changed so much. She’s gay. She’s in an incredible lifestyle D/s relationship where she regularly gets bruised so bad that she can’t sit down. Recently she called me and told me this, that my armpits were where it all started.

“I was in denial about my sexuality for so long. The moment it all changed was when you showed me your armpits one day. I remember I was like, whew. I felt something I couldn’t deny any longer.”

As for my armpits, I haven’t shaved them since I met a girl on my study abroad in Italy. Let’s call her P. She almost always wore dark red lipstick and got me to start wearing my lips dark too. Under her armpits were fluffy, curled dark clouds that looked so soft.