Female Nude, Reclining
- Jul 17
- 18 min read
A short story by Kirstyn Smith
This story contains: her and him, contemporary romance, self-pleasure, public place, strangers
There are blues in the painting, sickly and wan on the woman’s hands, her face, her groin. The rest of the image is sensual in its depiction of the flowing curves of her body. Her hair is a shock of black; the background of the painting is a solid block of pussy pink. She’s supine, her hands steepled just below her breasts. Her eyes are shut, her mouth slightly ajar. She could almost be dead, Sadie thinks.
The painting reminds Sadie of a photograph her ex-husband, Kit, took on vacation about a year before they split. Sadie was lying on a sun lounger, aware he was behind the lens. She’d arranged her body into the most flattering position, elongating her torso and subtly flexing her muscles. It had been uncomfortable, but Kit had loved the image and made it his phone’s lock screen right up until he left.
Sadie feels a drop inside her, somewhere between her stomach and her cunt. It’s a mixture of arousal and homesickness. She thinks of her own body, and her efforts to reclaim it since she’s been single. She has more in common now with this painting, her skin so pale as to be translucent in the winter. There’s a white patch of skin that cuts across Sadie’s right areola. She feels it gives her nakedness an artfulness. The woman in the painting doesn’t have that.
All her life, Sadie has searched for places to be alone. In jobs she’d seek out empty storerooms, the soft stillness of the staff kitchen before the kettle huffed to life. It’s stifling—living in the world—and she needs space to breathe. When she fell in love with Kit, she thought his companionship was all she required to feel more comfortable. It turned out she couldn’t shuck her independence so easily. Initially, he found it quirky, but it started to annoy him as the years passed. When he began to make noises about having children, she became more withdrawn until he gave up on the idea, then her, then the marriage.
He moved out on a Wednesday, and the following Saturday, she’d discovered this secluded room on the top floor of her city’s art gallery. Downstairs, tourists talked too loudly and stood too close to her while she strained her eyes, searching for every meaningful detail. They generally didn’t bother climbing to the fifth floor; there was a cafe on the third whose ginger and cinnamon aromas were too tempting. Here, at the top of the building, the open skylight and large picture windows let natural sunlight and fresh air into a room that was just small enough to feel intimate.
This space is a reminder of the freedom and solitude Sadie holds most dear. It has become a weekly pilgrimage and an integral part of her Saturday morning. She eases into the day, lingering over her coffee in the garden. She masturbates on the sofa in the living room, once, sometimes twice, pulling long, leisurely orgasms from deep inside. She takes the 8:37 a.m. tram to the gallery, arriving by 9 a.m. It’s her sacred routine.
A small cough interrupts her reverie. The man is in the corner again today. She hadn’t noticed him slip in. Sadie sits on the bench in front of the painting, allowing its eerie sensuality to consume her, its curves and colors to excite her, and its unknowingness to frustrate her. She wants to know who this woman was to the artist, and why she was painted in such an unnatural way. There’s a breeze, and Sadie’s nipples are hard against her silk shirt. She isn’t wearing a bra; she never does when she comes to the art gallery. Part of feeling like herself again involves reclaiming her sensuality. Knowing she is sexy, even in this subtle way, is imperative. She can’t stop a smile curling at one side of her mouth.
As the man moves closer, he brings with him a scent of early-morning maleness: generic brand shampoo, but expensive cologne. There is musk, there is pine, there is sweet citrus. She tenses her stomach muscles to ground herself and grips the bench a little tighter. He is standing behind her, far enough that it’s not awkward, but close enough that goose bumps rise on her arms and the back of her neck. If he spoke, the words would warm her skin.
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