“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Blake tells me, his words filled with frustration.

I cannot deny it, the painting, even unfinished is amazing.

The detail sends shivers down my spine. My nipples, I’ve never really studied my nipples as closely as Blake obviously has.

I’m not sure if it is just me but the longer I look at myself, images of our sexual escapades flash through my mind. Will other people see the sex we’ve had?

I can almost see Blake caressing gently between my legs, his tongue on my clit and hands on my breasts.

Sexual desire oozes from the canvass.

“It’s just too personal,” I turn to Blake who is casually leaning on his workbench, his piercing gaze set on me.

He tilts his head to the left.

“Nudes are personal.” Blake says. I see the glint in his eyes and I feel naked even though I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

‘You know what I mean.’ I roll my eyes.

I walk to the canvass and point to my neck.

“See the way you’ve darkened my skin there ever so slightly?”

Blake pretends to squint and study the spot I’m pointing to.

“And?” He looks so innocent, like he truly has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Well,” I try and work out how to explain this so he understands where I’m coming from. “It’s really personal. A private thing. Only someone who gets really close to me would notice the subtle change in my skin.”

I fold my arms.

“What can I say, Kat: you inspire me. You bring out the artist in me. This is you. I’m just the painter.”

I sigh.

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s so much more than this.”

Should I go out on a limb and tell him all? The painting reveals so much about me, about who I really am, but at the same time…

“It looks like we have had sex. It looks like the artist, you, wants to jump my bones.”

Blake laughs.

“So what? I’m not ashamed to admit we are sleeping together.”

Unable to stand still, I start to pace the length of the studio. I need to move. I need to walk to be able to clearly express my emotions.

I walk up and down, back and forth. Blake simply watches. He seems confused. He cannot understand where I’m coming from.

“It’s too personal.” I blurt out again. “I think it’s way too personal to be out on exhibition for the world to see me. I…” I trail off for a moment, and I sigh before continuing. “I know the whole world won’t be looking at me, but you know what I mean.”

Blake still says nothing. He is looking at me and then back at the painting.

Eventually he shrugs.

“I don’t get it. It’s you. All of you. You come through the painting just the way you are.”

“Exactly.” I’ve stopped pacing. Hands on hips I look at him.

“Exactly what?”

The little smile around his lips leaves me confused. Is he trying not to understand or does he really not understand?

“Anyone that looks at me will see all this sex aura around me.” I try again.

“What’s wrong with that? You’re perfect.”

He comes toward me. Next minute I’m in his arms. He kisses my face, neck and arms.

“You’re delicious. You’re sexy.”

I push away from him. It’s not that I don’t want him, it’s just my brain shuts down the minute there’s close personal contact between us.

If I want him to understand how important this is to me I must keep a clear head.

“But it’s just that the world will see me that way. Complete strangers will drool over me, maybe.”

Again Blake shrugs.

“What’s wrong with that?”

Obviously I’m not getting my point across.

“I’ve told you before. You inspire me. You inspire this painting. It’s you.”

“Yeah. But it’s too intimate.”

I can see Blake study the artwork again, as if being a critique.

“You write?” His gaze returns to me.

Since I’m not sure if this is a rhetorical question or not I nod.

“And isn’t your writing inspired by personal matters, by intimate occasions and maybe even people you meet and fuck?”

His crudeness surprises me.

“It does.” I hesitate. “But it’s only words. Words on paper, words people read and re-interpret. Sometimes my experiences and what inspires me is left out so the reader can imagine it using their own experiences and put their own interpretation on it.”

As Blake seems to ponder my words I try and remember what one of my lecturers said during my studies.

“Writing is not really original. Everything has been written before.” I pause. There was something about writing being the clashing of words, but I’m not sure if this will add anything. “Every writer is shaped by what has been written by someone else. Writers are readers. When I write, I reinterpret what has been written by someone else.”

I can see in Blake’s facial expression that he is trying to understand what I’m saying. He isn’t simply dismissing me. Dale used to dismiss me, and what I had to say all the time.

Suddenly, it seems a lifetime ago that Dale had been my partner. And I cannot recall what I ever saw in the man to make me even want to be with him.

“And so when people read, they interpret what I’ve written in their own way. It doesn’t have anything to do with what my inspiration and experiences are during the time I am writing it.”

Blake seems to chew over my words.

“I still don’t see what’s your problem with the painting. Don’t people also interpret what they see?”

I laugh and point at myself in the nude, my heart tightening up as my eyes meet my naked curves again.

“Blake…it’s too personal. It’s intimate,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time. “I don’t want everyone to see the true me. You caught a glimpse of that, and you’ve captured it…isn’t that enough?”

We both say nothing for a few minutes. I can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

Eventually it is Blake who breaks the silence first.

“What are you trying to say, Kat…?”

He has closed the distance between us and I snuggle into his arms.

“I don’t want you to put me on display. By ‘me’, I mean the painting.”

After I utter the last few words, I nuzzle my face into his chest. He smells so delicious. Will he be angry?

I can feel his lips on the top of my head. He is kissing me.

“If you don’t want me to display your beauty to the world, so be it.”

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Promise?”

Now he pulls my face toward his.

“Promise.” He whispers before his lips meet mine.