The Drunken Muse or return to the school after a full year suspension

THE DRUNKEN MUSE
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The story "Drunken Muse" was audio recorded on a hidden voice recorder during
the conversations about two decades ago. The story-teller didn't know or consent
to the recording.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tape_recorder
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/8-track_tape
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compact_Cassette
The audio tapes on compact cassettes were never used. The records were partially
damaged and lost.
PAUL JAISINI VISION FUTURE GIF

https://medium.com/paul-jaisini-paints-invisible-paintings/paul-jaisini-vision-
future-c387157124d2
I am so pumped to get back to
painting as I return to the second
year of the art school after a full year
suspension. As always it is like time-travel
culturally speaking, like
walking right into the middle ages
going through the antique building’s
portal.
Art studios are the huge L-shaped
lofts with super tall ceilings 20 feet
no less with the wall to wall windows
so that sunlight illuminates the
space from south and east side
designed for the purpose so that one
could paint there from morning till
sunset.
In a studio there are classical
gypsum sculptures, expensive
copies of Venus de
Milo, David, Laocoön and the others.

In the art studio there stood the
noses, eyes, lips, feet, and palms on
the wood shelves.
Sketching the gypsum body parts
helps you to build the classic
academic base on which stands the
whole modern and contempo art.
This sort of teaching is specific for
the art schools that preserve the
traditions they had been founded on.
There is only few art schools like
this and of this caliber left now.
Could be that this is the only
legendary school that continues to
function as if nothing had changed
in the world. In the rest of the world
with billions of some art classes
nobody knows what does the old
tradition of art school is for, its
totally unfashionable.

Studying classic art
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Academic_art
) here is the foundation for creativity in
any of the art styles.

X-tasy by Stelly Riesling with added GIF effects
The smell of art is what defines the studio
but not from human presence, something
like an aroma reminiscent of the eastern
market where smoke from hookaahs mix
with the oil vapors, exotic fragrance from
candles and spices. The Art Studios were
never renovated since the times they were
built over 150 years ago. The wood floors
are saturated with art oils as if the floor is
waxed with the organic oils from nuts, linen
( linseed oil, poppy seed oil, and so forth.)

Adding to the mix the varnishes used by
painters (pine wood varnish, Dammar
varnish and others) It makes this ART
SMELL to be the most intoxicating and
ever-lasting musk.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oil_painting
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oil_painting -
Ingredients
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Studio -
Art_studio

The instance you enter the studio space you
feel the belonging to a knighthood and the
whole art history. You are the undivided
part of those people who left their creation
imprints.
Super pumped up after the long break up
with the arts after my full year of non-stop
party marathons I had returned to the
bohemian life style.
Actually my other life style wasn't any
different from the bohemian.
The only difference is that there is some
meaning in the bohemian life style,
something to create, to shape. Not just

spend time doing sports and girls but
something on a whole 'nother level only with
the same sub text and by far more
emotionally connected.
The bohemian I think is much more my
thing, that fits me as a person. Maybe
because my old man is the greatest
sculptor.
He is color blind so apparently I took up the
torch, I have a very special sense for color.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sculpture
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bohemianism
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Color_blindness
There could be an inborn human
predicament or inborn genius.
I returned into the world to kiss its ground. I
like everything about it, the babeville and
its fashion circus.
The art students are known to come up
with endless varieties of how to be stylish.
Take me for example, I am chilling in a suit
jacket. It was professionally hand-tailored
out of a denim Pajamas with stripes and
starry silk underlining.

This “look” is completed by my python
leather jeans. And over that an authentic
LONG military Germany Waffen Elite
Officer black Leather Coat from the WWII,
only it is without a Swastika.
I never part with my large portfolio and a
Field Easel.
EASEL
The artwork with gif effect in neg color version
About 700 students attend the studies. The
art school accepts only the best of best with

few exception such as the kids of celebrity
artists, writers and musicians and people
who had real power in the city.
I wasn't enrolled for money or the A-lister
parents, but for my talents. The Art specialty
(painting, drawing, sculpture) teachers here
are the world-wide recognized
contemporary artists.
In a matter of my working ethics these
important artists would point at me as the
example of how fast I work, how well I
sketch in color, how I always choose the
most unexpected and unusual angle for my
composition and so on...
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Composition_(vis
ual_arts)
name banner gif

Optical illusion geometric gif
(portraiture, still-life, and landscape)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Still_life
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Landscape_painting
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Figure_drawing
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Figure_painting
I never work on an académie (live drawing
of a model, live painting of a model) the
given eighty -- ninety hours. My whole
process is about six -- nine hours to fully
complete the work so I get out of the studio
for some action and fun.
I’m probably the strongest in the class. My
art professors know I don’t need to be there
to distract the others.
When I’ve got nothing to do I start banging
the head against the wall. Still I am criticized
SUPER harshly for cutting the classes.
At this point I am not aware of the inner

workings of “THE SYSTEM”.
I call suitcase with a secret compartment.
At the grade shows I only see the bad
grades on my best artworks.
There is another side of the coin. It revealed
in the future when I got to befriend a
secretary at the Dean’s office. It was about
the time of my graduating year.
The art teachers actually always considered
me to be the leading artist among all
students. They would grade all my artworks
high on my personal record I knew nothing
about.
That was how the art school’s system
pushed the talented students to go further to
open up their potential. Pushing to the limits
of impossible.

Gif effect added to the artwork
I am harshly criticized for cutting a lot of
classes.
There is another side of the coin. It will be
revealed in the future when I got to befriend
a secretary at the Dean's office. It was
about the time of my graduating year.
The art teachers actually always considered
me to be the leading artist among all

students. They would grade all my artworks
high on my personal record I knew nothing
about.
That was how the art school's system
pushed the talented students to go further to
open up their potential. Pushing to the limits
of impossible.
Willing or not but the doubts get in my head.
I was thinking (rather frantically) that maybe
I’m all just misguided. I will work to beef up
my skills unable to accept that I am not
really a “genius” artist. The bad grades were
corrupting my vision.
Totally clueless that these bad grades in my
case were used as "disciplinary measures"
for my behavior of anarchy. These grades
had nothing to do with my artworks.
And yet my best drawings and paintings are
graded the lowest. At the same time the art
professors are taking my works home. I
always find empty walls where my works
were displayed for the semester shows.

Sooner or later the missing artworks got me
enraged. My classmates tell me the back
story on what REALLY had happened.
All the art professors usually go the painting
major's finals. So they just took my
artworks right off the wall.
Ever since I heard this back story I flaunt
how IDGAF to even pick up my works with
the bad grades after the finals end.
Like a bunch of some doomsday looters in
sight of an electronic store the art students
same as the teachers vultured my artworks.

Later some of my paintings and drawings
were seen at the school's museum,
especially the paintings.

The story of the artworks snatched off
my exhibit wall developed further.
In the art school the art teachers are
the privileged kind who exhibit
regularly. All are the accomplished
artists with big names.
Another thing about my artworks (no
longer mine and in someone else's
possession) is the story that involves
someone with the top art rep being the
art dynasty. Even so it happed that the
leading art professor nicknamed Molly
(for her annoying facial mole) used my
art stuff to have her son who studied
same years as me, just never expelled,
to apply to an art academy with the
highest qualification requirements.
Molly's son portfolio sucked. To get him
qualified to apply she gave her son all
of my artworks she collected.
The juice was given to me by the
reliable sources. The story was
concurred by the eye--witnesses the
students who were applying to the
same academy together with Molly's

son. Some of these students knew my
work by the style, special color palette
and the brushwork.
They all knew that Molly's son was
using my artworks. He only had to forge
his signature and remove mine.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Study_(art)
My drawings, sketches, paintings,
watercolors are in "wide" use by others.
I tell that to describe the routine of my life.
It could explain why I was expelled three
times for the chronic absence, for
sabotaging the lectures -- getting my
classmates to leave the studio and go to the
movies or to the beach.
Fast forward to that event of the breaking
point when I started to work systematically.

I was sucked into work as if a drug
addiction. I was penetrating deeper to the
very core of creativity. Reading books,
going to the museums, working in the field,
working in the museums to copy masters. I
completely forgot all about life around me.
Practically I was devoured and digested
with my nails and hair by that devil called
the academic art. It sucked out the leftovers
of my soul.
I stayed in the studio after the classes to
work. There were only few students like this,
spiritually close to me. To them it was their
life style since the day they had entered the
art school unlike me. Whenever I'd get
bored with art I'd quit working and just leave
without asking permission.
Now as if something had hit me hard and I
started to really work. Most art students
here typically come from such backgrounds
when they did their baby steps and studied
in the children's (secondary) art school from

an early age and tutored by art teachers at
home.
I had a tendency to take on a higher
complexity unprepared without the
experience of any art school training (the
eight years on a daily basic with teachers
and methodical practice.)
As long as I remember myself I was
drawing, during my school years, on the
notebooks, with chalk on the asphalt, with
stick on the sand. I did it subconsciously,
not knowing what I was doing.

IDK, could be due to the several bad bike
accidents when my head ended up hitting
the brick...
Why did my brain moved into the direction
of noticing those things that normal people
should not be noticing? That the leaves on
the trees are not at all green, but violet.
The falling shadows from the street lights
are not at all outlined by black, the contours
are the absolute blue.
The trees look like people.
There are so much more shades of colors
that language could articulate.

Stuff like this filled up my head so that there
was no place left for just a thought about
girls, more so even the thoughts to
manipulate my body functions. For instance
using the
bathroom. I almost peed my pants.
Truthfully I was on the edge of madness.
I remember how I hallucinated during my
work imagining that someone had come into
my studio and I spoke to "the guest." My
brain was ill, there was no escape from that
hell.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Violet_(color)
Once I was walking on a street without any
awareness. My mind was no longer in
command of anything accept the obsession
with my painting. As I was pushing the limits
of what was humanly possible in a matter of
progress from the previous stage when I
could draw and paint with intuitive results
now I considered as totally armature waste
of art materials. My condition would be hard

to describe since I could hardly remember
what was it like during that madly intense
period. I know that I was working non--stop
and did make some major break through. It
worked but at the same time the progress
turned its evil side, I wasn't able to stop
even for a brief moment. Something
happened to my otherwise incorruptible
memory that I could only remember few
things from that period. And one of those
things was my death walk through the city
streets on a day I was supposed to
disappear.

When I realized that I was walking
automatically, blind and incredibly
avoiding the cars, for the first time I felt the
fear of madness that can easily take my life.
It wasn't something I would fear if I was in
my other life when loosing it would be quite
an ordinary thing and not due to my lost
mind.
Whatever it was I survived with no chances
to stay alive that day. I had more chances to
live on when I was shot at execution style,
when I was drowning in bad storm, climbing
on a building like a cat, and on many others
such occasions.
Some guardian angel was looking over me
as I came to the final moment of certain
death, blind, deaf, disoriented and
dellusional.

As we finished with draperies, still life,
gypsum figures we moved on to the nude.
To draw and paint from the live sitter, male
or female model.

There comes an old fat hag to be posed
before the artists. She will be POSING
even during the breaks. She sits
professionally without a slight move of her
flab folds for us to draw her “forms”.
‘assume it was done for the boys not to get
distracted with the female anatomy.
The models with “rounded” forms were
chosen so we would study the reflects and
double reflects on a “sphere-like” and
“cylinder-like” forms.
There would be plenty of the cast shadow
(a type of shadow that is created on a
form), and a drop shadow ( below the
image).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_human_p
ositions
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Figure_study

The working objective was to concentrate
on the drawing’s construction.
When we’d get a young female model,
she’d be so skeletal that we studied the
skeleton . This type of models was as
unattractive as the fat ones.
The art students without an eye for a
drawing and technique produced their
works of caricature quality. With the lost
proportions the models looked like animals,
skinny chickens or fat frogs.
For me it was a serious job, body didn’t
exist. I x-rayed the flubs of fat to see the
bones to connect them to muscles , to build
a form.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caricature
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muscle
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skeleton
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_skeleton

The illness I call the overdose had
progressed and my end was near.
Homies who knew me used to say that I
was cracked.
When I moved from the classicism to
modern (I refused to see any modern or
contemporary art, never wanted to see it, or
ever saw it) I entered the Modern art on my

own, as my foot stepped into the forth
dimension.
I entered the world of mad pressure. Good I
stepped in it one foot yet.
I was sleeping in the studio right on the floor
near my work and placed an electric heater
near by.
It was impossible to heat up whole place
where fifty heavy-duty easels only took a
quarter of the studio space.
In the center there was a huge round stage
made from a special hard wood to hold any
number of models when needed for the
multiple human-figure compositions.
The place was full of easels, portable and
the large for the field. The chairs, tables,
palettes, boxes with paint, cases with paper
and lots of other art stuff piled up into
mountains.
The parquet floor was always covered in
fresh oil paints even though the teachers
tried in vein to prove a fact that working
neatly was by far more productive.

We had a dormitory built same year as the
art school which was 150 something years
ago.
If you stayed late in the studio that was
forbidden, you couldn't get to the dorm.
A guard at the main door was a real watch
dog, he faithfully guarded the pathway
knowing every student's face.
The dorm was occupied by those who
couldn't pay for a room or the apartment in
the city.
Ten beds were squeezed in a dorm room.

This part of the antique building was never
renovated probably b/c it was planned to be
turned into more art studios.
But since there were out of town students
who had no place to live they were given a
place in this dorm.
The beds were of a good prison-like quality
so the survival was possible. Another thing
is what was happening in the dorm.
On a typical day nobody there had any
money left after the expensive art materials.
Not a penny to get high. Alcoholic liquid
(40-60%) was soaked into the bread.
From one bite of that bread you could
instantly drop dead as if your legs got cut off
by a train.
The receptors inside the nose absorb the
fumes to hit right into the brain, this way the
booze doesn't ever enter the digestive
system and blood.
It kills or makes one go bonkers.
Some pissheads in desperation poured
vodka into a wine bottle cap to inhale it like
coke. After one cap screw it was a total
alchoholocaust.

There were many ways of economizing: to
use a medical thin rubber tube to suck the
drink very slowly, one bottle would
serve four alkies.

It was the usual schizophrenic day for me. I
had my dose of coffee and ate on a way to
the studio.
Those days I didn't miss a class afraid to
get expelled for the last and final time.
I couldn't understand this thing about my
artworks. Why did my classmates literally
begged on their knees to have the C-graded
artworks I was never satisfied with.

It became my trade mark to give away all of
my stuff left and right. I didn't know why I let
go of my drawings and paintings so easy.
Now I regret that. It would be interesting to
see the growth.
Once I happened to tell a guy from my class
who worked very hard on his drawing (he
wasn't a good draftsman): "Oh Wow! you
are doing a lot of progress, buddy,
congrats!" I looked at his portfolio and
pointed at a piece: "This drawing here is
really mature and quite interesting, you
achieved volume and air in just a linear
drawing."

The guy suddenly goes red, stares at me
wide-eyed with anger or confusion I couldn't
quite understand...
"Am I saying something wrong?" I asked.
"You're fucking dissing me!" He answered.
"Why?" I wondered.
"This is YOUR drawing," Was the answer: "I
took it, that is when I asked you and you
gave it to me, don't you remember?"
I didn't recognize, didn't see my signature,
as it was overlapping the drawing.
The guy was holding a grudge for this but it
didn't turn him into one of my enemies.

At some point I am thankful to the teachers
for their sneaky methods and experience on
how to tame the most unruly and bring them
into the art's stable. On the other hand
these people were like sadistic fascists who
used their special gases on me
experimenting, would I survive it and live on.
The bohemian hyped up life only started
after the classes at about seven in the
evening. This part of the artist's life was full
of sex, booze, and drugs, more sex booze
drugs and orgies. The art youth was

progressive, the sex - communal with the
conveniently shared girlfriends and
boyfriends.
Strangely the good times didn't concern me
anymore now.
There was a small group of idiots who
followed their criteria of achievement: to
draw and paint a vase with flowers so that it
comes to life, right out of the canvas to the
carrying hands of the one who painted it.
The flowers turned alive would be given to
the girl/boyfriend.

The madness of the 4th dimension.
The art group was lead by me and another
guy soon (one month later) to disappear
forever for the reasons unknown.
After the classes me and few others
searched for a studio. Found it. Not my
studio. Any studio with the door unlocked.
As usual I would set a still life. Take off my
nazi coat.
Set my next canvas on the easel to start
quick sketching.
Out of nowhere shows up some dude who
was a new student, he was much older,
about twenty three, somewhere from Texas
and just plain untalented.

He wanted to hang around with "the power-group"
to learn.
There were few girls with the ambition to
reach the level of a manly hand in creation.
We all usually worked in grave silence and
even a slight noise would be extremely
annoying.
If a brush would fall it seemed the atomic
bomb had exploded somewhere near. We
would exchange vicious cursing at the
jittery creaking sneezing noise maker.

When you are focusing intensely and can't
quite catch the brush stroke to complete the
shaping of a form so that the image would
turn real and come out of the flat surface the
nerves are high strung to the limit.
The last months I just never left the studio,
didn't even come outside. Slept on my
German coat in the corner. It was veiled
with the drapery. I'd wake up in the morning.
The doorman was already used to give me
the keys knowing that I sleep and work
there. It came with a warning that if I am
discovered I must tell any story and
solemnly kept the secret.
The memories from those years distract me
from telling what I want. It's about the event
that had closed for me the entry into the
forth dimension.
That day I was getting upset over some
stupid teases: "What had happened to you!"
Whether the bros wanted to elevate my
mental state, or they needed to get my
works it had really caused me distraction. I
was focusing on my work. Suddenly I hear
the sounds of music in the studio. It jumped

me: “Are you out of your fucking minds?
That asshole doorman will come here."
"No he ain’t gonna."
"Why?"
"He is passed out, we had to carry him
away." Was the answer.
"What is going down?" I worried.
"Not much, nothing is going down, we just
want some fun. The way it is on here is so
buzz-killing."
Was it some holiday, I didn’t know. Holidays
passed by me, I didn’t smoke or drink and
only worked. What they were saying didn’t
reach me.
“Shut down the music. You’re gone but I
must sleep here."
"Why must you sleep here?" Asked Lorenzo
(nick-named after his personal preferences
of the Benzos)
"Hmm, I guess there will be no way of
working today?" I asked.
"Working, way working, you gonna make
me some home works," Assured me the
dude nicknamed Kuz. "For that I will make
your sculpture complete."

As interesting as it was to play with the real
forms in sculpting I disliked dealing with the
clay. Those times I believed the painting to
be so much more in gradations, possibilities
and complexity. Now I changed my mind to
consider any art media possess the
unlimited possibilities.

I agreed. Suddenly the guys were fixing to
leave and I had to ask: "So? Who will finish
building up the sculpture if you're leaving?"
"No worries, will build it up, brb just a quick
run for some booze before the stores closed
up."
"What booze? Get out of here go to another
studio. I work, don’t mess me up."
"No biggie, son, you can rest for once."

It was pointless to argue, they'd already
been drunk and I was only getting nervous.
My work wasn’t going good at all. I have
changed the lighting set up many ways in
vein.

Suddenly, out of nowhere Muse appears. A
young, very-very attractive girl about
eighteen. The returned gang introduced her
to me:
"J-Sin, meet her... lets say Nicky."
"Eh, hello Nicky, who and what are you?"
were my greetings.
She smiled to everyone and answered: "I
will be posing for you today."
"We agreed about everything, will pay the
price,” –explained Lorenzo barely moving
his tongue, "She is gonna be happy!"
His bag full of bottles made loud clanking
noise.

When the drunks got them out I counted six.
“Yes, this is going to be a wild night.” I was
thinking what to do now. I approached the
model, took off her coat and hanged it,
removed her blouse and explained that she
can go behind the curtain.
"Hey, hey! What curtain son, what’s with
you? She is from the med school, our
people!"
I heard the Kuz's inebriated voice. "She is
THE model!"

"What -- nude?" I wondered.
"And what did you think, she'd sit covered
up in here?" They burst into laughter.
Suddenly I feel elated with the anticipation
of the new and amazing subject for the
work. I was fed up with the poor set up and
the struggle to "find" the good lighting for
the gypsum head. How wonderful it turned
out that I could make some picturesque oil
sketches.

When the model took off her bra, her young
breasts, her nipples instantly distract my
attention from work.
Shit, I couldn’t focus. Since we hadn’t a
glimpse at such models it was too
interesting. Could be that something about
this evening or the environment was
different. First time in a long while the music
was playing, the glasses jingled and filled
up with wine.
As she posed we were all doing the quick
sketching. She removed everything except
her panties.

The drunken assholes wouldn’t let me
focus.
"Let me finally have a chance to work." I
yelled getting distracted.
They seemed to try bargaining: "We brought
you the model, hey girl turn around!" Kuz
pulled up her skirt and slapped her buddy.
"Look at these buns, you've got to do
another
drawing for the semester show."
"Boys, you are so bad!" She giggled to Kuz.
"I will spank you for being soooo bad!" And
she was laughing in most contagious sexy
trills of her childish capricious voice.

I didn’t understand what these die--hard
drunks were doing at the art school, without
any talent or interest in art. My former palls
in another life that was long forgotten.
Today the serious artists who always
worked together with me had left the
moment this bad company swam by.
Now I was looking at their watery eyes
winking at the model. They caressed her
things as she reclined on the wooden stage
to rest. I wanted to figure out why did they
distract me even more now?
I was the same age as the model. I didn’t
see her body, to me now it was the model
for painting.
It was getting late when the cold winds
penetrate the place from the drafty wall size
windows. I put on my sweater in the starting
freezer. The one meter or the three feet and
33/8 inch walls are like the thermos to
absorb and hold the cool temperature. I
looked at the laughing bunch who labored
on my sculpture.

One was drawing a huge flying dick with
wings with a charcoal right on a white wall.
I had finished sketching the figure. I came
up to the stage to set up the heater. I asked
the model if she could sit some more taking
breaks whenever she needs to move.
When she looked at me she was constantly
smiling.
"Sure she’ll sit! And she'll lay, right, sweet
buns?"
I held my breath working imagining how
awesome would be to have such a model
every day. With a shaky hand I was working
fast as a machine expecting any minute
now she would say that she is too cold to sit
another minute and she leaves, its all over. I
will have to kill her and sit her lifeless body
on a chair to complete my work.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!"
The heater I placed caused the red reflexes
on the body. I was painting and had to get
the color right. So I removed the heater. The
model immediately complained about the
cold. Kuz brought her a glass of wine asking
me why did I remove the heater.

From wine her face flushed red. I tried to
adjust the color scale, laying brushstrokes
over the whole figure.
Meanwhile the music turned up it was
getting real loud.
The model took her break.
I walked after her studying her forms.
"Is something wrong?" She asked.
"Its all right, could you turn this way."
"Oh, I see. Same in our med school, the nut
cases," She openly declared to the others
when I was on a floor looking from a lower
viewpoint.

"Who is this?" She asked: "What kind of a
mental is he?"
"Its a disease, but it will pass" – was the
answer for her. "Sometimes it is terminal.
Not his tho, his will pass, he loves the young
girls very much…"
Something from the stupid jokes had
reached me.
"Hon, now he needs the medical attention.
You are the medic? We are forever in debt
to yous for allowing us come to the mortuary
and for helping with the dead bodies... What
we have here is a zombie. You are the

goddess who saves the body as your
calling."
What I heard was polluting my pure artistic
brain with that life I refused. Now I was
paying attention not to the mammary glands
but to her breasts. Her back muscles are
slightly weak. As I looked over the skeleton
the muscles slowly disappeared. No matter
how hard I tried to focus my x-rays were
weakened. Maybe the electricity turned off
inside my head.
"Pour me some," I asked.
Six months of my immaculate virginity and
celibacy was broken by a wine glass. The
red wine like the blood of innocents was
running in my throat filling up the brain that
shortly was boiling with vigor. So I said:
"Could you please remove your panties?"
"It wasn’t the deal," protested the model
with her eyes glowing like honey.
Lorenzo interrupted her:
"For god’s sake, take of your panties, what
is it to you, aren't you a medic?"

"I thought someone here was shy, as for
me" She lustfully licked her lips. "Well, of
course its nothing."
"Who is shy?" Asked someone.
"Him the weirdo!" She giggled in a very cute
bubbly little voice.
"Are you shy?"
"It seems it was me who asked her to
remove the panties." I explained.
She just jumped right out of her panties not
without pleasure it seemed.
I imagined how to position her, what pose
should she take.

"Hey!" I asked Kuz to pour me another
glass. He was cheering me on yet
reminding that I should first finish the
drawing.
"Later," I mumbled turning to the model:
"Would you please sit on a chair and spread
your pretty legs a little, as much as you
wish."
"Hey, Alex, so he is normal?" She asked.
I was far away from normality. A actual girl
weaved from the reality. But the process
was a transformation with splitting
dimensions.

She was turning more real when I touched
her to show how to position her legs.
I glimpsed at the red pubic hair seeing the
pink flesh of her vaginal lips.
I couldn't focus on my work. Could the
“female anatomy” destroy the temple of
magic I was erecting for the eight months?
I returned to my easel and continued
working. She was fidgeting changing poses
uncomfortable this something hurting that...
But it was only natural, she was sitting
naked on a plain hard wooden chair. She
was sliding from one side of the chair to
another. I was buzzed from wine and
couldn’t work, but I tried to complete my
work just to annoy these assholes who
screwed up my day. First work was washed
off with turpentine and I wiped up the
canvas dry with a rag.
I was sketching now not with a charcoal but
brushing in umber. It resulted in an
interesting tonality and I was captured
again. The model squirming on her hard
chair complained.

"Yo, why don’t you lay her down, what is
she suffering for?" Asked Alex, "Lay her the
fuck down, why not."
Right! I thought a little and told her to lay
on the stage. Underneath her I spread some
drapery.
After few wine glasses I took off my
sweater, my cheeks were on fire. Hers too. I
unbuttoned my shirt, my blood was boiling,
the body was washed with the warmth.
The heater was moved away.
"So true that wine warms you up," she said
to Alex.

"Jay, so tell me how to lay her down there.
Sit, sit, you poor thingy, I'll assist you" And
he jumped on the stage. "Do you want her
legs spread this way?" he asked opening
up her legs so that her whole anatomy was
showing.
"Is this ok for you?" He winked at me: "Is it
good?"
"Oh no, can’t show it like this at the mid-semester
show." Thinking some I added: "
Let it be, lift her leg a little higher, like this.
Turn her head down."

"Like this?" He kissed her on the lips.
"Alex, the fuck you're doing, I don’t have
any time."
"Work, keep drawing, go on!" he said. "We
won’t disturb you."
I was outraged after I just washed
everything off my canvas ready to work, but
this wasn't going anywhere. I kept asking
Alex what did he mean by not disturbing me
when he messed everything up. I heard the
girls laughing trills. "For real, he is ill!"
"The sick can be cured." Insisted Alex. "Will
hill him." He slurred.
Of course, I own them my very life. If it
weren't for them –- that’s it, finito.
Kissing her on the lips and winking at me
Alex continued bugging me: “Is this right?”
For like ten minutes I was staring in the
infinity in the emptiness… Then I yelled:
"Why are you sucking her? Get away from
her, let her lay there quietly."
Only to hear some nonsensical mumbling.
"But I want you to work on the position, is
this position right?"

"Right, just fuck off of her."
Meanwhile Kuz, I noticed, was taking off his
pants. He said: “Let him go fuck himself.
Motherfucker is gonna fuck us up today, if
he doesn’t want it, so fuck it.”
Now I thought I knew what they wanted
from me.
I saw Alex’s naked butt as he laid on the
stage, banging the girl and his ass wiggled.
I started sketching their nude asses.
My consciousness was still in the process of
transforming.
I thought of how interesting were their

poses.
Lorenzo came up to me and took the
brushes from my hands placing all in my
field easel he closed up.
"Listen, J-man, you’re being a fucking
buzzkill. Go draw some vases, fuck off to
another studio. You don’t want it. For free?"
I didn't understand him what did he mean.
He explained:
"What do you see Alex is doing right now?"
"He is fucking his girlfriend." I said.
Lorenzo continued:

"Whose girlfriend? What we have here is a
scientist, from the med school who is
helping us in our artistic quests, to
understand the core of anatomy not only
from the outside but from the inside. I
recommend you, in order to comprehend,
as you must know, you can only know the
truth from the inside, experiencing the
inside, to understand the outside. That’s

why I seize the brushes. Here is another
glass of wine. Drink!"
I looked at him as a doctor listening to his
drunken bullshit.
"The most important thing for you is to
understand from the inside. See, you can’t
understand it from the outside, it’s not how
things are done."
"Yes knowing the internal anatomy helps,
take a muscle, body doesn’t exist without
muscles." I agreed.
"Hell yeah, yeah… ha ha…that’s what I am
going about. Look how Alex is working how
he is learning."
I looked at the bare ass's motions back and
forth, at the girl who was lifting her legs and
actively moving her hips. Alex jumped off,
wiped up his cock with the drapery, he also
wiped out the girl. “Who is next?”
Kuz was kissing her from one side, when
Lorenzo said:
"He worked very hard today, he must learn
from the inside. You see, because he just
can’t break through the inside."

When Kuz was mounting her, Lorenzo
spanked him loudly:
"You can wait, the man needs the muse, get
it? Understanding the Muse comes only
from the inside.." They all bust into laughter.
Lorenzo nearly helped my cock inside the
girl cheering on: "Just do it, little one,
everything is gonna be great. Honey, turn
him back into a soldier that we've lost."

"The man is gone, the man known
yesterday is not the man you meet, forever,
around the corner, in London or in the
street..." chanted Nick appearing from
nowhere. He continued slurring his poems.
Hearing the noise I didn’t know what’s going
on as I kissed her breasts.
"Feel the forms." I heard the racket near by
as I was buzzing off the wine and licking the
girl's body. On the other side Lorenzo had
joined in groping her breasts. To be more at
ease I moved her body closer to the stage’s
edge. I was on top.
I didn't hear any sounds of music, the entry
door was covered with the draperies as the
orgy just steamed up for the whole night.
I woke up on the stage from loud knocking.
The art students asked me what happened
to the busted still life set.
I exhaled my dragon breath to hear no more
questions. Took my coat and left the
building. Walking the street I met Alex.
"Your face is not yet blushed, your eyes are
a bit foggy, can’t say anything after the
sleepless night. Like Cures Like."

He grinned getting money out of his pocket.
"Let us get some treatment."
We walked to the known spot for aching
heads gathering.

The Drunken Muse or return to the school after a full year suspension

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