CHAPTER ONE
Mila
* * *
Throughout history, painters have been supported by rich patrons. Michelangelo had Lorenzo de' Medici, Leonardo Da Vinci had Cesare Borgia, and I have Peggy.
“His cock is too small,” she says with a frown as I reveal the latest portrait she commissioned.
My shoulders drop as she scrunches her face up and shakes her head like she just bit into a rotting banana.
“What am I supposed to do with that thing?” she says, looking more disgusted the longer she stares at it. “This painting is supposed to go over the fireplace in my grand ballroom. It’s supposed to be the pièce de résistance. A focal point of the room. A conversation starter for my guests.”
“Any painting of a naked guy will be a conversation starter,” I tell her, desperate to change her mind.
“But what will the conversation be about?” Peggy asks as she pulls out a cigarette and lights it between her bright red lips. “Baby carrots? Twigs? Chapstick?”
“He’s not that small,” I say as I look at it with my cheeks blushing. I love painting, especially painting deep thoughtful portraits, but that’s not what Peggy wants at all. She wants hot guys with giant packages to decorate her obnoxiously large mansion.
“Oh, honey,” she says as she looks at me like you’d look at a puppy with a cast on its leg. “If you think that’s big, then we have bigger issues than redoing a painting.”
“Redoing the painting?” I ask with a gulp. My stomach hardens and I suddenly feel like I’m going to be sick.
I hated doing this painting. I’m not like Peggy who loves to be surrounded by naked muscular men. I’d rather be painting sunflowers or scenic sunsets. Not portraits taller than me with cocks that are bigger than my arm and balls that are bigger than my head.
Peggy saw one of my paintings in an exhibit downtown and hired me on the spot. It was a portrait of a homeless woman I had done. She was blown away by the exquisite detail and the wise yet exhausted expression I caught on the woman’s weathered face.
I was thrilled to have a rich patron who was more than happy to pay my rent and throw stacks of cash at me to paint whatever crazy thing she desired.
The first three paintings were easy enough. They were all of her fat pug, Watermelon. I learned quickly that one quick walk around the grounds of Peggy’s mansion would tire out poor Watermelon very quickly. He’d sleep for the rest of the afternoon and I could take my time painting his squished-up snout and round furry body.
Peggy was thrilled with those paintings. Then came her next request.
A hot guy with a big package.
“Like a delivery man carrying a large box?” I had asked, a bit too naive for a twenty-two-year-old woman.
“No,” she said, staring at me like I’d lost my mind. “Not like a delivery man carrying a large box. I want a painting of a hot muscular man with a cock the size of an extra-large Kielbasa sausage.”
Where the hell was I supposed to find that?
I’m a virgin who spends all of her time in her art studio mixing colors and practicing new techniques. I had never even been close to a sausage, small or large.
A friend from art school named Angela hooked me up with her gay roommate. He’s been posing for this portrait for the past three weeks, and I’ve hated every moment of it. Gavin was very nice and professional, but every time he dropped his robe, I just couldn’t take it. My cheeks blushed like they were about to suddenly burst into flames and I kept my eyes everywhere but on the (apparently not big enough) sausage hanging between his legs.
“You’re going to have to redo it,” Peggy says between deep hauls of her cigarette.
My heart slows to a sluggish beat as I stare at the bright red lipstick on her white cigarette. The thought of having to redo the last three weeks with a new male model is making me want to crawl under the table, curl up into the fetal position, and cry.
“The painting is flawless,” she says as she takes a closer look at it. “The detail is exquisite. But the cock…” She shakes her head as she stares at it in disgust. “Way too small. It’s embarrassing, frankly. I cannot hang that in my home. I will not hang that in my home. Redo it, Mila.”
“What if I just repaint that part?” My mind is racing for a quick fix. “I can copy a picture of a big… sausage off the internet. That could work.”
“Absolutely not,” Peggy snaps. “I will not have the integrity of the painting ruined. I want a real model with real proportions. No faking. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He must be very well-endowed,” she says as she crushes her cigarette into an ashtray and turns around in a cloud of smoke. “Remember, Mila. Bigger is better!”