by Lilie Berlin
(07/21/04)

American writer Lilie Berlin was transfixed by this picture in a Clean Sheets gallery by famed photographer Michael Rosen. The picture has gone on to become iconic as the cover photograph of David Steinberg’s magnificent book Photo Sex. For Berlin, the image has finally blossomed into this tender, unexpected story of an encounter in the winter-dark streets of Germany.

I was late. The blustery wind halted abruptly as I passed through the doors of Jakobshof. The band had already started. The warm air inside the bar moved only with strumming vibrations of a contrabass balanced on the stage.

The hiss of brushes against a snare drum introduced the beat and reinforced the charm of the strings. Then came the soothing, Helen Forrest-like voice of the singer sitting on a stool with a flower tucked behind her ear.

I wasn't meeting anyone, so I scanned the room for a single seat.

A table in back was occupied by a solitary, gray-haired man who looked older than my father. He lounged with a whiskey glass in one hand, his chin cradled in the other. He didn't have that nervous, door-watching habit of waiting for someone, so I approached him.

"Ist der frei?"

His eyes lit up with something that flickered of recognition. He swung his arm to offer a place next to him. After five months as an American living in Germany, I was used to being stared at; at least when I opened my mouth to speak. Usually it was a blank stare of analysis. This man was different. The frequent, sidelong glances I sensed came from a different source. These were looks that made me aware of every inch of my skin.

He signaled the waiter for another drink. On impulse, I asked for the same. If I had meant this as an invitation, it worked.

"I'm Volker. I come here every Sunday, but I have never seen you," he said in a craggy German imitation of Oxford English.

"Hi, I'm Hana. I'm usually here Thursdays, but tonight just seemed like a good night for jazz."

The man nodded, seeming to understand.

It was a good night for jazz. Better than sitting in my apartment, surrounded by the relics of my latest failed relationship. For two months I had been unable to fill the empty half of the wardrobe with my own things, the naked nails still sticking out of the walls, or replace the dead battery in my vibrator collecting dust in the bed-table drawer.

"Jazz artists are so open. They capture the tenderness and beauty of loneliness like no other musician," he mused scratching his bearded chin.

"Such a pity it doesn't reach a wider audience."

Volker shrugged and turned back to watch the band.

Now that the conversation was on hold, I was sorry it hadn't taken a more personal note. I felt myself warming, being pulled towards his solid, older body. I could smell him now over the smoke. The hint of cologne was light, but strong enough to capture and arouse my senses. I yearned to lean in closer. Curiosity tugged at me as the band ended for the night.

We walked three blocks under the black branches of winter's trees to Volker's apartment. Inside he cursed in German at a broken furnace, got me a black, wool sweater two sizes too big with holes in it, then offered me a warm brandy and a seat next to a heater in the kitchen.

I waited as he sorted through his record collection in the next room. The speakers mounted on the walls of the narrow kitchen brought the rumble of a turntable. And then, John Coltrane.

I snapped my fingers and smiled.

"What is it you do when you're not listening to jazz?" I asked finally.

"Do you want to see?"

As I followed to a room in back, he opened the door and flicked on a light.

I had never been in an artist's studio before. Containers of paint cluttered several shelves in the wall, their colored contents dribbling down the sides. Jam jars sat along the window sills and sprouted arrangements of paintbrushes of all sizes. An aroma of turpentine and raw wood hung in the air. There were paintings everywhere, hung or leaning against the walls. Some were on easels, bursting with color and textured with thick, goopy oils.

Dried flowers filled spaces not occupied by paintings. Scarlet and ivory roses crinkled with age and secured by twine; indigo lavender and thistle assembled in jars and vases -- the room was filled with life frozen in time, set in drying paint and crisp petals.

"Wow!"

Volker leaned against the doorframe as I navigated the studio. Renderings of landscapes, re-created from reality or his imagination, leapt off the canvases. I could almost hear the wind through the trees and the swinging tides along a shoreline. In my shyness, I skimmed over several nudes which, had I been alone, I would have studied longer.

"They're all so stunning." I said.

"I wish the general public was as enthusiastic as you." I heard the disappointment, but he covered it with a light-hearted sigh. "I teach now mostly. That is what pays the bills."

I stopped unexpectedly at another nude, a pale, blonde woman with disturbing blue eyes, posed standing and turned to profile.

"She's beautiful."

"Yes, most of the models I use are very beautiful. And they know it. That is Frederike. So captivating I was afraid what you see here would not turn up in the painting."

"What do you mean?"

"The thing so often buried underneath all that skin. Sometimes it is a little bit of fire, or passion. Or sadness. If it is too deep, even the paint cannot get to it. I am only a conduit. I cannot create something that is not there."

I stared hard at the curves of her body and the darkened, erect tip of her left breast folding slightly on her chest. But it was in those eyes I saw what he was talking about. I longed for the same appeal of richness and beauty.

"You are as stunning as Frederike. I would like to paint you, Hana." He advanced to stand behind me, so close my mind began to shut down.

"Me? Oh, I'm not a model." I quickly walked across the room to an empty canvas near the window. "What's going on this one?"

"I'll let you decide." He joined me in front of the stretched canvas, blaringly white in the company of other such lively creations. He handed me a clean brush and began squirting paint onto a round palate.

"I don't paint. I wouldn't have the faintest idea -- "

"Then let me guide you." Volker stood behind me with one hand on my shoulder and the other wrapped around my clumsy grip on the brush. "Close your eyes, Hana."

He lifted my hand up until the tip of the brush made contact with the canvas. We made little sweeping strokes in a design I struggled to piece together in my mind. He paused only for more paint and to step closer, his body pressing against mine.

"Relax your arm. Feel the movements of my hand." With his breath against my neck and his arms cradling mine, the lips between my thighs began to weep. My panties clung to my skin with a pleasure I struggled to recognize, it had been quiet for so long.

Three returns to the palate for color and one brush of his lips against my neck, my eyes shot open. Floating in front of me was a little, blue bird with a fat belly and outstretched wings, taking flight in a white void.

"I -- I have to go." I thrust the brush into his hand. He followed me to the door and noticed me staring at scarves of decorated silk hanging on hooks in the walls.

"Another way to captivate the senses."

"You paint on silk?" I paused to let lemon stars and silver moons, swirling across deep blue skies slip through my fingertips.

"Sometimes."

"You're very talented. It was...it was nice meeting you, Volker."

"Come back if you change your mind."

"About what?" I stopped in the stairwell and looked up at him, still standing in the doorway.

"About posing for me, of course."

That night I stood naked in front of the mirror. I had a long body, curved in what I considered all the wrong places. But the skin was soft and just tingling underneath, as if awakening to spring. A few sparks of life in something that had recently felt so inert.

I tried to imagine myself through his eyes. Would he like what he saw? Would I feel the same under his hands if they ran over my breasts and cupped between my legs? Would he be as surprised as I was to find the wetness there?

What was happening to me?

I took his sweater and an Apfelkuchen to his apartment two days later.

He met me halfway up the staircase, barefoot and in a black turtleneck and linen pants stained with paint. His hair was a tousled mess, sticking up wildly from his head. He smoothed it down apologetically and took the cake from my hands.

"I brought your sweater back."

"Does it smell like you now?" he asked, bringing it to his nose. I kept to myself that I had buried my own face in it more than once.

In the kitchen we had tea with the cake, this time to Dave Brubeck. I thought again of how I wanted to approach what I had come to tell him.

I blurted it out suddenly, "I changed my mind."

"You want to pose?"

"Yes."

"I am so pleased."

"If you're working on other things, I could come back. It doesn't have to be today -- "

"Hana, you are here now." He took my hand.

We entered the studio again, the smell now familiar and comforting. Volker set up a fresh canvas, my canvas, on an easel near the window.

I stood and waited for instruction, feeling silly and awkward as Volker made preparations with paint and the antique posing bench. He softened its ratty appearance by draping it with a beige cotton sheet.

"Do I undress?"

"Only if you want to."

I paused with uncertainty.

"But that is what I would prefer, if you do not mind," he amended. "You can undress behind the screen."

Aware my silhouette was undoubtedly making an impression on the other side of the accordion partition, I removed my clothing slowly. My anxiety increased with the loss of each layer. I folded the garments carefully and set them in a neat pile on my shoes. The floor was cool under my feet as I stepped out from behind the screen. I emerged unwrapped and innocent, so aware of my body exposed to the open air. I felt as though not only Volker would see, but the whole world as well.

And his eyes, I didn't know if it was an artist's appreciation or initial study of his subject, but each sweep up and down my body erupted tingling alertness in its path. He held a tube of paint in his hand, frozen in mid-gesture. My heart fluttered in my chest when his adam's apple did a deep bob in his throat.

"Where do you want me?" My arms across my chest pushed my breasts together, creating a deep cleavage.

It was a moment before he spoke. "Uh, on the bench. Lie back, Hana."

"Like this?" I asked.

"May I make just a few adjustments?"

"Of course."

I lay soft and pliant, waiting as his warm hands arranged my limbs. I watched his eyes, full of care and concentration. On instinct I wanted to reach for the elongated arousal I saw under his pants. With restraint, I did not move.

When he finished, I lay splayed, legs parted, one over the side of the bench and my foot resting on the floor. One arm was positioned above my head, the other resting dangerously close to the triangle of hair between my legs.

"Yes. Now you are open. Beautiful. Do not move," Volker said and stepped behind the canvas.

And with a few feet of polished wooden floor between us, he began to re-create me in paint.

With every stroke against the canvas I felt my body expand, as if unfurling. My senses attuned to his movements. I could almost feel the brush against my skin as he followed it with his eyes, examining every detail.

The space between my legs gained weight with moisture, the lips parting delicately in a sigh, the red, silky slit glistening. I could feel it and oh, how I wanted to dip my fingers into it! But I didn't dare.

I lay motionless for what seemed like hours, alternating between gazing around the room and letting my eyes drift shut. Occasionally, I allowed them to skim over the bulge, still so obvious in the front of his pants. It excited me to see how much he wanted me. And the more I relaxed, the further he stretched to seek me.

"Okay, I'm finished. Do you want to see?" His voice had a new, husky edge.

I approached slowly, shy again as movement seemed to exaggerate the weight of my breasts and the heaviness between my legs.

What I saw couldn't have been me.

It reminded me of Van Gogh, sensual and romantic with swirling brush strokes and dark tones. Tiny waves exemplified her sacred anatomy. Her nipples were dark peach, almost brown and the band of pubic hair between her legs a layer of charcoal black. A darker line displayed the meeting between the two folds of flesh in the middle. Her expression was content, if not a little lost. She looked like a woman in love, or maybe just poised on the brink of love.

"It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful," he said instantly.

"I've never seen myself look like that before."

"You are lucky. You have the opportunity to see yourself with someone else's eyes."

"Is this what you see?"

"The paint does not lie."

"Is this when you make love to me?" I asked, not looking at him but at the painting.

"Yes, if you want me to." His finger running down my spine induced a shiver and my excitement inflated like a balloon, the pressure pushing to the outside, seeking release.

In his arms, pressed against his chest, I felt tiny, feminine and comforted. I had many things to say but chose to spell them out as silent words against his lips.

His eyes never left mine as he removed his clothing. I was the one who faltered, looking down at his chest covered in gray hair like that on his head and blended with black in his beard. His penis, so dark compared with the rest of his body, looked as if it had been attached separately and belonged to someone else. It pointed at me unwaveringly, defying gravity. I was so drawn to it. I needed it to fill the void in this new, larger version of myself. He stepped back, reclined on the bench, and pulled me on top of him.

Straddling his waist, I glided up and down, rubbing my nipples against his coarse chest hair that I pulled with my hands and teeth.

Suddenly so hungry, my excitement took on a frantic quality and peaked with a cry as his hands slid from my breasts to my ass. He held it above his strained excitement, right at the gate that was slick and ready.

My composure splintered with a throaty choke. I tried to wrestle against his resistance but he would not let me slide onto him. His mood was so composed, I began to wonder if he wanted me at all.

"Hana, let yourself feel."

All I was trying to do was feel, to get him inside me, fill me, join me in my urgency!

I did not debate, but kissed him again. Crouched over him, I imagined the strange contrasts in the picture we created: pale and dark; young and old; hard and soft; old world and new; artist and model. I knew that in one swift motion we could shatter them all.

He drove me deeper into this abyss with each sigh, each lick at my nipples and beckoning flick across my clitoris. Hovering above him, I watched him journey up and down the landscape of my body with hands, eyes, and mouth.

I let my gaze wander down between us to the hardness between his legs. I imagined it in my mouth, pulsing so much I wouldn't be able to keep up, the semen spilling from my lips and down to the heavy testicles dangling below.

Tiny hooks of longing pulled and pulled in every direction. I was anxious. The threads threatened to snap at any moment.

Just when I thought I would lose my mind, he rested his hand on my lower back and finally, slowly pushed me down all the way, spearing me until the empty space was full and all the wrinkles ironed out.

"I am inside you now."

His words and filling hardness distributed pellets of pleasure, like a drop of mercury bursting in my womb. He removed himself only to guide the shaft of his penis with his hand and bury the tip into the seam at the top of my labia. He directed the movements in a simulated licking motion, back and forth, up and down. I felt myself on the cusp, at the threshold of ecstasy, and grabbed onto him tightly, holding his head that I steered to meet those lips one more time.

"Just one more step closer to the edge. Let me tie you, Hana. Will you let me tie you? I promise I won't hurt you."

Anything.

I grunted permission and he dove into me again and again, cradling my ass with one hand and encircling my wrist with the other. Withdrawing suddenly, he left me straddling the bench, panting, swollen, wanting -- as he retrieved the painted silk scarves. Turning me over, he brushed my skin with the silk, stroking every inch repeatedly as though laying paint on a canvas. One by one he bound each ankle to the end of the bench, then wrapped my wrists and pulled them above my head.

And there, in his studio and tied with his paintings, he brought me slowly up and down from pleasure, each climb toward the peak more intense than the last. He did it with carefully crafted patience and accuracy, sucking the crease between my legs until the wings trembled and swelled outward, reaching for more. At one point, he straddled my shoulders to feed my gaping mouth.

Even bound, I was flying. I was free. The excitement, near a boiling point, had no where else to go.

My orgasm came suddenly. I had been riding along the precipice so long, the final release was a shock that rocked me violently against the antique bench and his body, rolling over mine, again and again.

The windows behind the curtains were pale with an early morning sun when I awoke curled against him. We were twisted together on his bed, tangled in the damp sheets. I could smell the drying sweat of our bodies and tasted the sour flavor of his semen in my mouth. He whispered between kisses across my face,

"So sweet. My muse. My beautiful little bird." His excitement returned and nudged against my thigh.

I looked at the painted silk, still fluttering from my wrists and ankles.

"I let you go," he said, smiling.

"So is this when you wrap my painting and send me on my way?"

"No. This is when I teach you new ways to fly," he said as he spread my arms and dove between my thighs.

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