The Artist

The Artist Pays the Muse 

 

 

Players

The Artist:

A beautiful man. The kind you want to fuck. You imagine being on top of him, him in you, riding. You imagine doing this behind your husbands back, sneaking him in through the back-door while he, (your husband) is out at work. You imagine doing things, during your love-making with The Artist you’ve never done before.

You:

You know who you are.

The Crow:

A black bird

 

Scene: A beautiful bright room, wide balcony doors thrown open wide. A four-poster bed. You are on the bed, among the sheets, naked, still trembling from the sex, which was incredible. The Artist is by the balcony door, sitting in a wicker-chair, smoking. Still naked.

 

You:     I suppose you will go now, as you always do?

Artist: Would you have it any other way? Would you have me stay, here, until he returns?

Y:         Don’t speak of him.

A:         You command me now? Not long ago you pleaded?

Y:         That was a game. This is true.

A:         The truth. What do you know of truth?

Y:         More than you, at least. For my part I have lived. Whereas, you? What have you accomplished?

A:         I have managed to please you, (he puts his hand between his legs) or at least you seemed pleased.

Y:         Is that all you have, the parts you were given?

A:         I am an artist. You know I am?

Y:         Are you? Show me, where are your masterpieces? Where are your reviews?

A:         They are not the markers by which art is measured.

Y:         A claim only made by those with none. You are a failure. That’s all. That’s it. Leave.

A:         You’ll soon beg for my return?

Y:         I might not. I might find something else. I could go to the greengrocers just as easily.

The Artist rises from the chair. Truly he is magnificent. The mid-day sun alights on his body and you cannot help but squeeze your thighs. Your eyes meanwhile, like greedy children, grab hungrily at his cock.

A:         The greengrocers, madam. I will leave you to your shopping.

He reaches for his trousers, in a heap by wall against which he first took you.

Y:         Wait. I’m sorry.

A:         Are you?

Y:         Let me show you.

You beckon him. He comes to you. Who could resist. You are beautiful. Your breasts, your hips, everything. Your hair is perfect. You take him in your hand.

A:         Do you truly think me a failure?

Y:         You know you are. You are nothing.

With each remonstration he gets a little harder, a little bigger.

Y:         You will never amount to anything. Your art is the art of the trough, fit for pigs. Pigs at best.

A:         Do I have a chance, though, if I try? If I work hard?

Your eyes on him, your smile. You put him in your mouth. He almost looses his footing. After a moment you take him out again.

Y:         You will always fail. It is not your work rate, but your lack of talent. It is not only your fault, but your whore mother who had so many cocks in her she would have been had pressed to pick out from father from the massed congregation at the bottom of her bed, but still, the choice, despite the number was limited to drunkards with spare change.

You take him in your mouth again. You recognise that he is almost there, from the way he moves his hips from little droplets beading against your tongue. It won’t take much.

Y:         Admittedly, you have this, (as he spills over your breast, down your belly) but there are many horses in the field, but you would be hard pressed to find one with more renown that the next.

 

Later, The Artist is home. It is the home of a destitute, crammed in above a pub and next to another. He has one room, a shared toilet and one barred window overlooking a putrid laneway.

He is at the window now, a bottle of cheap wine held by the neck. Drunk, clearly. It is not raining but it should be. The Crow is watching him from just beyond the bars.

 

Crow:   You went to her again.

Artist: What choice do I have. I must eat.

C:         Is that dinner, then?

A:         I am nourished. (he takes a drink) It is better than your fare.

The crow is picking at the carcass of a rat.

C:         I doubt it. This fellow was a king. I murdered him. Even know his children and his fat wife lament their loss.

A:         You are a murderer, then.

C:         (smiling) Did she give you anything in the end, for your efforts?

A:         (bashfully) An idea.

C:         (pulling something long, pink and gleaming out) An idea. Ha ha. How very generous. And what will you do with this idea?

A:         (taking a gulp of his wine) You’ll see crow. You’ll see.