The Patron Pt. 01

The Takahashi gallery was small and nondescript, a step up from the galleries I'd shown at before. It wasn't the kind of place that made careers. You showed at galleries like Takahashi when you had enough paintings to fill a room and enough contacts to fill it with someone who might connect you to the next room down the line.

For me, that line went through the Nakamura gallery. Showing at the Nakamura helped change the trajectory of artist's careers, granting them access to wealthy buyers and patrons who could help them live to paint rather than paint to live. I'd met talented artists who'd never shown at the Nakamura and never would. The scuttlebutt among artists was that the most talented and original among them had often taken five or more years to get in, and most had only done it through a combination of connections and raw talent.

I'd been showing my work for seven months in Tokyo, not counting five years in Chicago before I moved, and was barely making a living at it. But I was selling -- enough to keep me from giving up, yet not enough to stop counting. At twenty-seven, I had perspective, and a healthy balance between naïve and realistic expectations.

My goal for the night was simple: sell three pieces, have two serious conversations, and leave with one business card worth keeping. I was hopeful, but not optimistic about it.

I'd been living in Tokyo long enough to no longer be mistaken for a tourist, and free of the obligations of marriage. Most Western men my age were English teachers -- a plus for an artist. Women seemed more curious about what an artist was like. That helped me gain carnal knowledge and confidence I likely wouldn't have gotten teaching English.

The fourteen months I'd been in Tokyo had given me enough time to begin finding my style in a new environment. Most Western artists here painted the city's surface: neon lights, crowded streets, and pachinko parlors. I painted large avant-garde abstract oils of Tokyo's concrete structures in the soft light of dawn or the dying light of dusk. Until now I'd barely sold enough to cover supplies, framing, and the studio that doubled as my bedroom. Everything else came from what I'd saved before coming to Japan.

Tanaka-san, who ran the Takahashi gallery, had seen my last show at a competitor's venue and called to say he had a cancellation.

"Could you possibly fill the room at such short notice?"

I filled it with eleven pieces.

* * *

The opening was on an unseasonably warm Tuesday evening in January, in Ginza's Okuno Building. Thirty, maybe forty people came through over the course of the evening. It was the usual mixture: collectors who came to every opening, other artists who were there to assess the competition, and socialites who wanted to be seen and drink the wine. Since it was my first show in Ginza, something new appeared: journalists from some of the newspapers and lesser-known art magazines.

I was talking to a watercolor artist named Nakano-san about an artist we both knew, when I sensed someone across the room looking my way -- not at the paintings -- at me. She was standing near my largest piece -- the Kanda River study. Most of the year, there was nothing particularly beautiful about that stretch of the river: a gray concrete viaduct, water forced into a channel, and not much else. But in March the cherry trees along the bank exploded with pale pink cherry blossoms across all that gray, almost as if someone had painted them there afterward.

She held a glass of white wine and wore a designer navy-blue suit, nothing visible underneath the blazer -- no blouse, no camisole, shirt even jewelry. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of diamond stud earrings, a diamond studded pin which held her hair up in a bun, and a wedding band. She held a high-end black leather clutch. Everything about her was enough to make a statement.

But what?

I figured she was somewhere in her mid-forties, possibly fifty. It was hard to tell, because Japanese women almost always looked considerably younger than they were, and she looked closer to thirty. But her confidence and sophistication betrayed her. She was tall for a Japanese woman, striking rather than pretty in a way that left most Japanese men dumbstruck. She had the kind of look that appealed more to accomplished Western men, of which I was not one, yet.

She was looking at me the way someone looks at something they've already decided, but simply confirming. I held her gaze for two seconds, then looked back to Nakano-san and kept talking.

Who is she?

Don't even think about approaching her.

That kind of woman introduces herself.

I checked my curiosity and tried to avoid looking at her for as long as I possibly could -- which turned into twelve minutes. I checked my watch first, to make sure it wasn't too soon. When I looked, she was already looking at me and held it a beat before turning back to her conversation.

I was with a potential buyer -- a finance man interested in the Ikebukuro piece, when I noticed her moving through the room. She stopped at pieces that were neither similar in size nor subject, speaking quietly to two or three guests near each one, while gesturing as if explaining something the catalog hadn't mentioned. I couldn't tell what.

Is she promoting my work to people she knows?

I watched her do this for several minutes while I answered questions about canvas depth and framing options. Two things were apparent even from a distance: she appeared to know more about painting than most people in the room, and she was doing this deliberately, for reasons I didn't yet understand.

* * *

The finance man bought the Ikebukuro piece.

When I looked back, she was gone. No introduction. No goodbye, not even a nod.

She'd vanished, the way a cloud moves through and leaves no trace of itself except a change in temperature.

That's odd. If she was so interested in promoting my work, I would've thought she'd have at least introduced herself.

I stood near the entrance with a hollow feeling in my gut, over a woman I'd never even spoken to.

* * *

The last guest left at 10:18. Tanaka-san was closing the gallery, asking the assistant to cover the remaining pieces. Minute later he approached me with an exuberant look on his face.

"A very successful evening, Radke-san," he said.

I looked at the room. The pieces I'd expected to sell -- the two smaller Yanaka studies, the Ikebukuro, possibly the bridge piece -- had their markers. So did the Kanda River study, which surprised me. And so did everything else.

"All of them?" I asked.

"All of them Radke-san." He was trying to mask his excitement. "The Yanaka pieces, the Kanda River study, were bought by a collector of abstracts. The remainder -- all anonymous. The same buyer." A pause. "She was very quiet about it. I only understood what had happened after she'd gone."

I already knew.

I intuitively put my hand in my jacket pocket and felt a piece of paper.

The note was folded once. Small handwriting, very clean and in English:

11 PM. Dogenzaka.

Shower. Robe. If I'm not there by 11:15, leave by rear exit.

Nothing else. No address, no name, nothing -- but I didn't need one. Dogenzaka in this context could only mean one thing: Love Hotel Hill.

But which hotel?

It's gotta have something to do with one of my paintings.

I'll recognize it when I get there.

Tanaka-san was still talking -- something about a journalist, but I wasn't listening anymore and checked my watch.

10:27.

It said 11 PM not 11:01.

No self-respecting woman waits for a man. Not a woman like her.

-- take a taxi?

No. Any traffic and I'm screwed.

I had exactly thirty-three minutes to get to another district in Tokyo, find the right love Hotel (without knowing the name or room number) shower and be ready before she got there. I had one thing going for me, I knew exactly where Love Hotel Hill was.

I can run to the subway and hopefully catch the train right away.

"Yes, thank you so much Tanaka-san," I said, interrupting him midsentence. I apologized and excused myself, saying "I'll call you Monday, Tanaka-san." I immediately turned, darted to the door, and exited the gallery.

I didn't wait for his reply. There was no point. Anyway, he was probably too busy tallying his commission on the evening's take to be upset about anything.

I ran to Ginza Station, dodging people on my way to the platform. I was twenty feet from the train when the door squeezed shut, and watched it pull away without me.

Fuck.

I glanced at the overhead platform display.

Six minutes?

The next train arrived at 10:36.

I arrived at Shibuya station at 10:52 PM and rushed out through the Hachiko exit. I ran past the statue of the bronze dog, patted its bronze paw for luck, and weaved through the crowd coming towards me from the Shibuya Scramble.

I heard the familiar jingle already playing signaling that the pedestrian crossing light was about to change. In seconds traffic would come from five directions at once.

I didn't have time to wait for the crossing signal, so I bolted across to the other side. It was a big risk, but I had to take it. I heard a man yell -- probably a policeman -- but didn't turn back and quickly disappeared from his sight as I ducked between two buildings onto a pedestrian street running in the direction of Love Hotel Hill. Fortunately, I knew exactly how to get there from that spot and practically sprinted the entire way.

Completely exhausted, I reached the base of the steps. Catching my breath, I walked up a half-dozen steps between the first few colorfully lit up love hotels. After that, I began running past fluorescent colored neon that I would've stopped to look at under any other circumstances. They looked like 3D cartoon townhouses that were squeezed impossibly close together -- each more exotic and gaudier than their neighbor. They had names like: Wild Orchid, Enchanted, and Passion. After passing the first dozen or so, I saw one named Rose Blossom.

That's gotta be it!

My Kanda River study had cherry blossoms in its background.

Hidden in plain sight, it was sandwiched between two love hotels that looked equally as tacky.

Now which room?

I scanned the room selection in the display window next to the front door. My eyes landed on the room named Blue Velvet.

Her blue blazer. That must be the one.

I looked at my watch. 10:59.

She better be late...

Inside, I walked up to the waist high transaction window where neither the client nor the attendant would see the other. It was set up this way for maximum discretion. I placed my hand on the counter and asked for the Blue Velvet room. Without a word, the attendant slid a plastic tray with a key on it through the small opening. I knew that meant the room had already been paid for.

She must've planned this before the gallery even opened.

How long has she been planning the whole thing?

And why?

My watch read 11:02.

* * *

I found the room down the hall, walked in, and after removing my shoes, I began stripping my clothes off as I hurried to the shower. After a quick shower I put on the thin cotton robe, walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. It was 11:05.

Ten minutes. Unless she's already come and gone...

My clothes, I can't leave them scattered like that.

I quickly gathered, folded, and set them on one of the two chairs in the room, before sitting back down on the edge of the bed.

I waited, nervously turning toward the door every time I heard the slightest noise. The walls were surprisingly well insulated. I could only hear muffled noises and faint sounds that could have come from a dog, a TV or a couple in another room.

Again, I checked my watch. 11:09.

I heard a key in the lock at 11:12.

Thinking it was the proper thing to do, I stood.

She was still in her business suit and blue blazer. She set her bag on the chair near the door and looked at me with the same expression she'd worn across the gallery. She raised one hand slightly.

"Sit," she said.

I sat back down on the edge of the bed.

In this light she was even more striking. Her black hair, pulled up away from her face, accentuated her low, elegant cheekbones. She had dark brown eyes, unblemished skin, not just on her face but her neck, her chest, and her hands.

Beautiful. Don't say it.

"Tonight is the first and last time," she said, showing no emotion. "Don't ask why."

I didn't ask.

"I've got a connection at the Nakamura gallery." She watched my face as she said it.

Surprised, I looked at her and waited.

"If tonight is exceptional -- and I mean exceptional -- I'll make a call Monday morning. I'll recommend your Kanda River series. They'll contact you with the requirements for a March showing."

That's less than three months.

And if she's bluffing?

Who cares? She's gorgeous. Either way it's a win.

Just don't disappoint her.

"I'm under contract with Tanaka-san--"

"Your Takahashi contract was purchased this evening, along with your inventory." Her expression didn't change. "As of tonight, you're unrepresented."

I grinned slightly. "So, it was you? The anonymous--"

The slap knocked my head to the left. My ear rang as I sat there, processing what had just happened.

She couldn't have missed the puzzled look on my face when I turned back, but her own expression remained constant.

"I ask the questions," she said, checking her watch. "You have exactly one hour and forty-two minutes to be exceptional."

She motioned toward the bathroom with her head. "Shower. You've been sitting there in that robe for fifteen minutes."

I wasn't about to tell her that it had only been ten. I stood up and had only taken one step when she said,

"The robe. Leave it!"

I turned, looked her in the eye, then slowly scanned her clothed body from head to toe, admiring her cleavage and then lower, her beautifully shaped legs. I untied my robe, removed it and let it drop to the floor. I stood there for a moment, letting her scan my naked body as I had just scanned her clothed body.

When she looked up at me, one corner of her mouth was slightly raised.

I turned, walked to the bathroom, and showered again; more thoroughly this time.

I stepped out of the shower and walked back into the bedroom naked. She was standing against the wall on the far side of the room. She hadn't dimmed the lights while I was gone, and we could see each other clearly.

She had draped her blazer over the chair with her bag and was wearing a black silk bustier that pushed up her breasts and enhanced her waistline. She looked sexy as hell, and I found myself beginning to stiffen.

I crossed the room, closing the gap between us. When I was a step away, she motioned with her eyes toward the floor.

I got down on my knees in front of her. On the floor between her ankles lay a pair of black silk panties, likely French, that I figured cost more than I made on a single painting.

I looked up and caught her eyes. She reached down and slowly drew up the hem of her skirt, watching my face as it rose, revealing first the tops of her thigh-high stockings, then the black straps of her garter belt, and finally, framed by the belt at her hips, the dark triangle between her legs.

She spread her feet apart and grabbed the back of my head with both hands. I didn't need any further prompting.

I placed my mouth and tongue on her. I heard her inhale deeply as I slowly drew my tongue forward, just grazing her clit, then lowered my head and began slowly kissing her inner thighs, building the anticipation back up. She was wet by the time my tongue found her again. This time I heard a long steady moan escape her lips.

As her breathing quickened, the gaps between her gasps shortened. I kept working her up with my tongue, bringing her to the edge twice, slowing each time before starting again. Each time I felt her thighs quiver.

The third time I brought her to the edge, I felt her thighs starting to shake. She grabbed my hair tightly with her fingers, began breathing deeply and moaning loudly. This time, I didn't hold back and started intensely moving my tongue before landing on her clit and sucking it. She pushed her hips up against my face. Completely unwound, she screamed and came hard, pulling a fistful of my hair loose.

Rock-hard by now, I leaned back, and stared at her, transfixed by everything about her, while she caught her breath.

Before I expected her to say anything, she said, "Get on the bed."

I sat on the edge fully erect.

She took her time completely undressing, placing each item of clothing on the same chair as her blue blazer. First the bustier, which she carefully draped over the blazer, then the skirt followed by the garter belt.

Her breasts were small but still held the shape of a woman much younger than she was. Her nipples were large and already hard.

I was surprised to see that her belly was still flat and that her skin appeared smooth and free of any stretch marks. Whatever her age, she had clearly never let the years get the better of her.

She met my eyes for a moment, and I could tell she saw what she expected to see: a man practically begging for her to hurry and just get undressed and in bed.

"Patience," she said.

I was so hard, it became painful having to continue to wait.

But that's the idea, isn't it?

She undressed the rest of the way tantalizingly slowly, first unfastening her stockings from her garter belt, and then rolling them down one at a time to her toes before placing each on the chair which held her purse. Then she reached up, removed one pin from the bun in her jet-black hair, freeing it to cascade down her shoulders. I wanted to possess her even more intensely.

Maintaining eye contact, she crossed to where I sat. "Get on the bed," she said. "Lie on your back."

Once I was lying on my back, she climbed on the bed and straddled me. She moved slowly at first, placed her hands on my chest, never once taking her eyes off mine. Her hair slid from her shoulders, hung down and gave her an almost savage appearance. Swallowing hard, I said nothing.

She reached back, grabbed me with one hand then lowered herself onto me deliberately slowly. I wanted to buck my hips up into her, but I knew better.

Patience.

Up to this point, the pleasure had been hers. This time the pleasure was mutual, although she was in control of the rhythm and the pace. Once I was finally inside her, she began rocking her hips back and forth. I thrust my hips off the bed to meet her with every downward movement she made.

Our bodies slammed into each other. Each movement of her hips caused me to groan. Her moans were more controlled than the sounds I made, but I could see in her eyes that she was as turned on as I was.

Maintaining a quick rhythm, she reached forward, grabbed my hands and placed them on her breasts. I could feel her hard nipples beneath my palms. I rolled them gently in the tips of my fingers as she continued pounding into me. Minutes later, I heard her breathing hasten and I gave her nipples a pinch, sending her over the edge. She came with a low moan escaping her lips.

Pausing to sit on my waist briefly as she caught her breath, I felt tiny spasms gripping me tightly inside her. I sat up, cupped one of her breasts in my hands and began sucking on her nipple. She moaned. Again, I felt her spasm around me and felt myself getting close too.

At one point she pushed back on my shoulders, and I lay back onto the mattress. Now she began rocking her body back and forth again, though faster this time. As I had before, I thrust my hips up into hers as hers came down to meet mine. She increased her pace.

"I'm going to..." I said, letting her know I was close.

She started grinding her hips into mine. I could hear her breathing deepening with each movement. My heart began pounding and I knew I was close.

Then she dug her fingers into my chest, moaned loudly and came. And came. Immediately after that, I came hard and she fell forward onto my chest and we lay there together, regaining our breath. The moment she caught her breath, she rolled off of me, lay on her back and placed her head on the pillow next to mine.

"Turn off the light," she said.

I got up, turned the light off and returned to the bed.

Out of nowhere she asked me, "Why do you paint objects and places? Why not people?"

I said something about subject matter, the gradations of light on man-made structures.

"Don't give me the answer you think I want to hear, tell me the real reason."

"It's not a choice, I'm compelled to. That's why."

At first, I thought my answer had satisfied her. After a moment contemplating my answer, she said, "No, you paint buildings because they're static, people move."

I didn't argue. There was no point.

I wasn't hard yet, but I wanted her badly. Wanting to taste her, I rolled over on top of her and without asking, I began slowly going down on her. First kissing her collarbone then each one of her breasts, taking time to nibble on the nipple of each breast before kissing my way down her belly, past her navel. She neither directed nor objected. I noted the change in her breathing pattern the lower I went. Her breaths became more frequent and less deep.

I kissed along the diagonal crease in her leg above her thigh and slowly made my way lower where I started teasing the inner part of her thighs with my tongue and lips before moving back up to find her heat with my mouth. She made a quiet, low moaning sound as I began exploring her folds with my tongue, sporadically brushing my tongue up against her clit.

I heard her starting to breathe faster and felt her fingers pulling at my hair this time instead of just holding it between her fingers. She began shifting her hips. When she did this, I found her clit again with my tongue and played with it until she firmly gripped my hair and pulled my mouth against her center. I began sucking, licking, sucking...

She lifted her legs and wrapped them around my head; at the same time rocking her hips toward my mouth. Without warning, she pulled my hair harder and loudly moaned.

"No," she said, almost in a whisper.

Does she or doesn't she want me to stop?

Her moaning was louder and more guttural this time. Her legs dropped back to the mattress.

She's clearly spent, but she hasn't said no again.

Still wanting more of this beautiful goddess laying before me. I rolled her over and buried my face between her ass cheeks, probing and licking with my tongue.

I brought her down slowly, allowing her to catch her breath. Her moans became softer and lower as the quivering of her thighs began to fade. After the tiny spasms in her upper thighs had faded, I moved my head using her ass as a pillow, putting the side of my face against her soft skin.

Laying there on my belly, I could feel the mattress beneath me and how hard I'd become, but I lay motionless, patiently waiting to take her again.

Perhaps a minute later she began to stir. I felt her hips shift and her body starting to move. I lifted my head up, pushed off the mattress and got on my knees. I felt her calves against my knees and placed my hands on her hips. Then without warning I felt her turning around.

Does she want something different?

Then I felt her hand on my erection, and her lips close around my cock's head. She took me halfway into her mouth and continued to hold me with one hand as she cupped my balls in the palm of her other hand. As she took me deeper, she began moving her tongue with a technique I'd never experienced before and have no words to describe the intensity of the sensation, her hands working both sensitive spots at once, her mouth taking me in further. still.

As if she had a third hand, she found a pressure point behind my ball sac, and I felt as if I were about to explode.

"I'm... I'm..."

She pulled her head back, moved her hand up my shaft, and applied pressure to me with her thumb to keep me from coming. Once again, I felt her lips around me, only this time her tongue circled the head of my cock. She moved it differently this round, creating a similar sensation in my body, again bringing me closer to the edge. The moment I grunted, she applied pressure to the same point she'd had earlier, giving me the video game equivalent to an additional life.

All at once, she stopped, turned around, and I felt her calves against my knees once again.

So, now she wants it from behind.

I gripped her hips after I'd gotten into position.

"Harder this time." I heard her say.

She was still wet and as I began entering her, she pushed back into me until her hips slammed into mine. I pulled back, intending to thrust into her one more time. As I began thrusting forward, she drove her hips backwards even harder. This time she began relentlessly grinding against me, somehow squeezing my cock at the same time.

How is that even possible?

I pulled her hips firmly against mine and reveled in the sensation, until it became too much for me and I pulled back just before coming. I took hold of myself and applied pressure where she had earlier. She didn't say a thing, and I didn't hear her move either.

Ten or fifteen seconds later, I relaxed my grip, moved forward, grabbed her hips with both hands, entered her and began thrusting into her forcefully. Her moans were shorter and sharper this time around, so thinking I was too rough on her, I relaxed the intensity. That's when I felt her push back harder than she had earlier.

"Do it harder," she cried.

I thrust into her with my full weight behind me causing her to collapse onto her forearms. I reached around and placed my hand between her legs and began rubbing her clit. She pushed back and squeezed my dick the same impossible way she had before. As I groaned, she moaned.

"Yes, there," she said, making it clear that I should keep rubbing her clit. I leaned forward because I felt like biting her. I followed through on my desire and bit her on the nape of her neck.

"Ooh!" she cried or moaned. I couldn't tell.

"Bite me harder!"

Still rubbing her clit, I bit her neck harder without breaking her skin. This time, she practically howled. That's when she completely unraveled and fell forward onto the bed. I also finished, collapsing onto her back.

I laid on top of her for as long as I was hard. Once I was no longer hard, I rolled off her onto my back.

As if she were waiting for this moment to escape, she got up off the bed, without a word, and walked to the bathroom. A moment later I heard the shower. I lay there with my head on the pillow and waited.

Twenty minutes later, she came out of the bathroom and turned on the lights. She was wearing a thin printed cotton robe and looking completely refreshed. Her hair was pulled back and gathered neatly into the bun she had worn at the gallery.

I looked directly at her beautiful eyes, but she was not looking back at me. She crossed the room and walked to the wall where I'd knelt before her and tasted her for the first time. I felt myself getting hard at the mere thought of what had happened earlier.

Without making eye contact with me, she turned toward me, untied the obi around her waist, opened the robe, pulled it over her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, where it pooled at her feet.

Her body resembled a statue carved from a single flawless block of white marble. I wanted to possess it once more before she departed. Just the thought of it aroused me.

I reached down and found that I was already fully erect.

I caught her looking at my body.

"Stroke yourself. I want to watch you finish while I dress."

She began to dress without saying a word or looking directly at me. She dressed as slowly and seductively as she had undressed in front of me earlier that night. This time, I stroked myself as I watched her, expecting her brown eyes to fall on me at any moment.

I stared at her breasts and the place between her legs I had licked and fucked. Though not as erect this time, her nipples were nearly as arousing as when she had initially stood naked in front of me. I continued stroking myself anticipating a look my way at any moment.

I watched as she put each item of clothing on, appearing to ignore my presence just a few feet from where she stood.

I had one final unobstructed view of her breasts before she pulled her bustier up and covered them. After pulling the straps over her shoulders, to put on her garter belt, then reached for her skirt and stepped into it.

I looked up in time to see her inner thighs disappearing under the fabric of her skirt, which she zipped up on its side, before smoothing the navy-blue material flat with the palms of her hands.

Finally, she grabbed her blazer, put it on, walked to the door, and stepped into her heels.

She placed her hand on the door handle, opened it, and turned. For a moment, her eyes met mine the way they had that first time in the gallery, confirming something -- not deciding. Then she looked away, and almost as an afterthought, said, "The Kanda River, in four seasons," that's what you should be painting.

She stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her. I finished after the door shut.

* * *

Monday morning at 9:42 the telephone rang. It was the Nakamura gallery interested in booking me for a spring showing, eight and a half weeks out.

They wanted ten 8 x 6-foot oils. They had studio space available starting Wednesday. They would cover the cost of all supplies and provide me with an assistant for stretching canvases. The female voice on the other end of the line also told me that they had prepared a press release and printed invitations. Finally, she wanted to know if I was interested.

"Absolutely," I said, not bothering to hide my enthusiasm.

I sat on the floor of my apartment/studio in Shimokitazawa and looked at my phone after the call ended.

On the floor near the window were four gesso primed canvases I'd stretched but not used for the Takahashi showing.

I thought about the woman who had said, "Tonight is the first and last time."

I thought about the Kanda River in March -- the faint pink cherry blossoms lining both sides of the river and covering it in a canopy of pink blooms. I pictured how Tokyo's early morning light fell on the concrete and the water below.

I stood up, walked over, placed one of the canvases on my easel, and picked up a brush.

* * *

The End.