Free Lucy's Launderette by Betsy Burke Page A

all but pushed me up the four flights of stairs. As we climbed, he said, “This building was once a brothel.” He opened the door and flicked on a light.
    â€œInteresting,” I mumbled. There was nothing brothel-like about it now, and it was too bad, because the place could have used a little frou-frou. His warehouse space was done in black: shiny black floor, brick walls painted over with dull black, black leather sofa and armchairs in one corner, black glass coffee table and big black bed (!!!) in another corner. The only relief was the computer, and the studio area comprising a curving white ultra-modern psychiatrist’s couch and a white sheet draped on the wall behind it. Along another wall was a row of huge stainless steel walk-in refrigerators, which kept his art supplies, I imagined.
    â€œIt’s very…er…black,” I said.
    â€œAbsence of light. I need it for my work. The influence of color can be a dangerous thing for an artist.”
    â€œI see.” But I didn’t see at all.
    He threw a big switch and the corner with the white sheet became a glare of spotlights. He pointed to the wall near the white zone.
    â€œOver here,” he said. “You can hang your clothes on that hook.”
    Just like that. No preliminaries. No coyly helping me ease my way out of my clothes. No stroking all the skin off my arm or other parts of my body. Just straight to the total nudity. He rummaged around and began to prepare his drawing materials. I stood frozen to the spot.
    â€œWell, hurry up.”
    I didn’t move.
    He laughed that snicker-snack laugh again then came over and put his arms around me. “What a sod I am, asking you to strip just like that. A drink?” He was already headed toward the refrigerators. He opened and closed one of them so quickly I couldn’t see inside, then he came over with a bottle of vodka and two chilled glasses. He poured two huge slugs and handed one to me. “Nasdrovya. You have to knock it back fast.” He finished his in a gulp.
    I sipped politely.
    â€œYou do want to be my inspiration, don’t you, Lucy luv? My muse?”
    I shrugged.
    â€œWell, do you?”
    â€œErrr…”
    â€œDrink up then. It’ll help you relax.”
    I downed it. I told myself, what the hell, Paul Bleeker the famous artist wants you to model for him and you stand there like a moron.
    He held up both hands. “Okay, okay, just a minute.” He disappeared through a door in the bed area and came back with a black bathrobe. “You can put this on until you’re warmed up. Another drink?”
    â€œYesh, pleashe.”
    I was warming up nicely. After a few more minutes, my clothes seemed to have taken themselves off and I lounged on the shrink’s couch wondering what all the fuss had been about. With the vodka firing through my veins, it became clear that I was born to pose nude, a natural artist’s model, my creamy-skinned gorgeous body poised for immortality…
    â€œBloody hell, your knees and elbows are blushing. Too sloppy, that pose. Straighten up. Tits front, girl. Arse we’ll do later.”
    It was a very long night. Paul Bleeker sketched for hours. He went through reams of paper. I held walking, running and dancing poses. I sat. I stood tall. I bent to the left, willowed to the right. Crouched. Sprawled. Rolled myself into a ball. Stretched out like a corpse. It was exhausting.
    Sometime around daybreak, Paul put down his stub of charcoal and came over to me. I was kneeling on the floor. It wasn’t by chance that I was on my knees. I was praying the modelling part of the session would be over soon.
    He took me by the elbows and pulled me to my feet, then started kissing me. It was hungry-aggressive kissing. One of his hands gripped me around the waist while he unbuckled and unzipped himself with the other. We stagger-hobbled in the direction of the bed and somewhere just short of it, he pulled me