You asked how I know anything about your breasts.
I’ll tell you by memory — and actually, since I’m at a red light, let me pull up my phone and take a quick look. All right. One, two, three, four pictures of you in the time we’ve been in touch. My answer, generically, without going photo by photo, because the light’s now green: your sweater, your shirt, follows your breasts from the top around to the bottom and gives a sense of the pertness of them — the way they sit relative to your chest, and the space in particular at the bottom where my hand might cup them, which is just fucking awesome.
I know you think you are demure and modest, and you are. But the tops I’ve seen you wearing trace the contour of the curve rather than hang over it. They communicate a real sense of shape. They invite my imagination to conjure feel.
The thing about breasts and curves is that they’re all about the relationship between mass and void. I’m no art historian or artist — I can’t speak in grand terms about it, and I’m aware I’m reaching for a vocabulary I may misuse. But suffice it to say: a life drawing artist, a figure artist, would love your breasts for exactly that reason. The charcoal or the pencil or the pen or the paintbrush would sketch out that space, that relationship between presence and absence.
Since I’m not a visual artist, I have to do that with my mind and with my words.
And I hope soon enough with my hands, lips, mouth, teeth, cock.
Featured image prompt (gemini): Cinematic photography, natural light from a tall window raking across an empty life-drawing studio at late afternoon. A wooden easel holds a large sheet of cream paper with a single unfinished charcoal contour — a curved line suggesting mass without completing it, smudged at the bottom where a hand brushed across. A low stool sits before the easel, a worn linen cloth draped over one corner, a stick of charcoal resting on the sill. The room is warm ochre and shadow, dust motes suspended in the slant of light. No person present. The tension is entirely in the unfinished line, the negative space it curves around, and the warm hollow the light carves between the easel’s legs — presence implied by absence, the void that defines the mass.
Bottom image prompt (gemini): Cinematic photography, natural light from a tall window raking across an empty life-drawing studio at late afternoon. A wooden easel holds a large sheet of cream paper with a single unfinished charcoal contour — a curved line suggesting mass without completing it, smudged at the bottom where a hand brushed across. A low stool sits before the easel, a worn linen cloth draped over one corner, a stick of charcoal resting on the sill. The room is warm ochre and shadow, dust motes suspended in the slant of light. No person present. The tension is entirely in the unfinished line, the negative space it curves around, and the warm hollow the light carves between the easel’s legs — presence implied by absence, the void that defines the mass.