play, pause, replay

make love on art

Greyson once bought a painting as my birthday present.

It was another charcoal sketch, I thought;

the ones Grey is always crazy about.

But this time, it was an oil painting:

The rush of apricot light against the chaos

of vibrant, fleeting hues; a nude woman, her

features almost softened in the glow

was lying on the grass, melding in the fabric 

of the morning light. 

When Daisy saw the art piece standing on the 

dark console table, she swayed her hips.

I came behind her, twisting my arms around

her waist, and felt the echo of her movement.

There was a momentary afternoon haze: 

the stretch of green, a piece of the sky,

the smell of the dipping sun, the rush of desire.

It came like another slow, warm thrill of

homecoming, reeking of nicotine.

Daisy didn't speak. Her grip around my wrists

loosened and her palm was against my shoulders;

My body was half lying on the table and 

my face was turned towards the painting.

The mahogany felt slightly coarse and 

cool against my cheek.

The skirt moves higher, rough tingles

against moisturized skin, slender 

fingers making soft patterns, a gasp 

cutting through the autumn air.

The colors were blurring against the

stark canvas, and suddenly the woman

lying on the grass became the woman

over me, rocking her body against mine

so slowly, my brain was almost on the 

verge of exploding in meteor strikes.

There was the soft rustle of clothes,

the hard wince of zippers, and the

gentle thud of dresses thrown somewhere

in the corner of the room.

In an eye's flash, the studio of an artist

became the foreplay of a Victorian novel.

The frenzied lull and the maddening

gasps overcame our senses, 

devouring the last ounce of sensibility.

My eyes swallowed the chaos of the art piece

in front of me; Daisy's fingers were excruciatingly

slow, almost making me cry and burst open.

The colors were blurring and the dipping sun

was already savored by the crescendo of lust.

I felt her against me, warm and swollen,

almost like the opening of a bud in the

onset of summer; like wine slipping through

burgundy lips, trickling down the skin.

The drive was fast and the push came harder.

There was a slap of skin and I could feel

my cheek getting bruised on the creaks of the wood.

Her hand threaded through my hair, while the other

gripped my hips tightly. The smell of wood and 

nicotine drove me crazy. The nails digging into

my skin, gently coming down my collarbone was

enough for me. I was done.

When she collapsed atop me, burying her face in

my hair, my cheek started to get hurt against the 

mahogany. The sweet wild desires blurred the chaos.

It didn't matter that Daisy was Greyson's wife

or that this table had never 

experienced anything like this before.

A sudden shatter of a flower vase made something

dawn on me: we just made love on an art piece, or

maybe it was the colors that seethed the chaos.

– there is a mark of love on the table, a hue redder than our blood.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N: In writing "make love on art," I stepped outside my usual comfort zone to explore mature themes intertwined with art, transgression, and passion. This poem was an experiment in capturing the raw and intense emotions that art can evoke. I typically don't write about such explicit scenes, but I wanted to challenge myself to express the rawness of human emotion and connection through the prism of art.

I chose not to include a specific trigger warning at the beginning of this poem, as I had previously mentioned in the introduction that some content might be mature. I appreciate your understanding and engagement with the piece, and I hope it offers a nuanced reflection on the complexities of love, desire, and artistic expression. Thank you for reading.

Affectionately,

Sreeja.