Home > life, Uncategorized, writing > THE SZENTENDRE TRAIN – [5]


“I’m not surprised because some kind of fate, or scentless fragrance, or the miraculous features of your face, or the elegant way you move made me notice you,” he said.  “The first time I noticed you on the platform in Szentendre I was compelled to watch you whenever I could.”

          “That is curious to me,” I said, “but first I’d like to know what you meant by ‘our true work?”

          “I don’t know you, I admit,” he said, “but I’m very sensitive to people, and I can tell that you are brilliant in your profession, a leader in your field, but it is not where your passion lies.”  I held my breath for a moment, wondering what he meant by passion, and where he thought it lay.

          “Where do you think my passion lies,” I said, squelching my anxiety.

          “I think you probably like nature, outdoors, plants and animals, so you probably have a garden,” he said.  “And in your studio, you probably draw and paint, perhaps sculpt animals and figures.”

          “Have you researched me?” I said, half seriously.

          “Just a bit,” he said.

          “Does your girlfriend go to the Fine Arts School also,” I said.  I immediately felt like a fool, being so obvious like an amateurish schoolgirl.  Well, actually, that’s how I felt… and it felt damn good.  I felt myself coming alive.  I felt warmth in my belly and a tingle in my pussy, and I wanted to talk to this young man for hours to rejuvenate my dormant spirit.

          “Yes, she does,” he said.  “She has a flat near the campus.”

          “Is that where you stay on weeknights?” I said.

          “Yes,” he said.  “You know, shared rent, studying together, cooking for each other, going out once in a while.”

          “Yes,” I said.  “I know.  I wasn’t always old.”

          “You are anything but old,” he laughed.  “There is a graceful energy in the way you move, and elegance to your bearing… well, I hate to embarrass you, but I do just love to look at you.  You are, to me, the proverbial poetry in motion.”  I was speechless.  What could I say in response to this avalanche of uplifting words?

          “I have something to ask you,” he said.  Oh God, I thought.  What could he want?  What if it was sex?  God, I hoped it would be sex.

          “Would you let me sculpt you?” he said.  “Would you pose for me?”  It hit me like a truck.  My mind became a black hole that sucked all rational thought away from my brain.  I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

          “If you’ll pose for me,” I laughed nervously, “I’ll pose for you.”

          “Excellent!” he exclaimed.  “Who shall be first?”  My mind was racing.  Did he mean pose nude?  Did he mean only my face?  What did he mean?

          “What kind of pose do you mean?” I said.

          “I will hope for a nude pose, and I will accept whatever you permit.”

          “Would you pose nude for me?” I said.

          “I have never done it before,” he said, “but I will do whatever you wish.”  I had the feeling he was meaning more than just posing for me.  But I didn’t trust myself.  I was a seething caldron of desire by this time, my mind making pictures of us naked… he at my place, me at his place… I was stunned.

          “Can we… would we… begin this weekend?” I said.

          “I’d love to, if you’re free,” he said.  I was surprised at how eager and excited he was.

          “I am free,” I said.  “Will you come to my place tomorrow?”

          “What time will suite you?” he said.

          “Depends upon how late you will be up with your celebration tonight,” I said.

          “What celebration?” he said.

          “You said you were dressed because you had something special to do this evening,” I reminded him.

          “Oh, yes,” he laughed.  “I’ve done it.”

          “You’ve… you mean I’m the something special,” I said, blushing.

          “Yes, you are something very special,” he said.  I again relinquished my sense of responsibility and blurted out what I really wanted to say.

          “Well then, we should not interrupt our special evening too early,” I said.  “If you’re free, you can come home with me now, and we can discuss our artistic endeavours over bowls of gulas and slabs of bread.”

          “Nothing would please me more,” he said.  “And you must promise to come to my studio on Sunday morning.”  We sat silently, looking out the windows at the darkness for the remaining minutes before the train stopped at the Szentendre platform.

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