"Phoebe on Sunday" (part 1 of 3)
series m-solo


I pedaled my bicycle slowly along the road leading south from town, steering
carefully to avoid the potholes remaining from the town's battle with the
Indiana winter. The spring sunlight, somehow kinder and friendlier than the
occasional joyless glare of the colder months, sparkled through green-gold
leaves newly unfurled >from the trees lining the streets. Around me,
children shrieked happily in yards and adults puttered in gardens; the sense
of renewal, of relief at the turn of seasons, was almost palpable. I
relished the sensation of warm air moving around me as I left the houses
behind and emerged into the quieter, sparsely populated area to the south. I
was on my way to my second session as artist's model for Phoebe.

I glimpsed Phoebe's house in the distance, and the visions and sensations of
the previous day becme suddenly more vivid, as if reawakened by the sight.
Phoebe had occupied most of my waking moments since my visit yesterday; the
image of her naked in the shower--the water cascading over her enormous
breasts and vast hips--had seared itself into my memory and circled there
endlessly, haunting me without respite. The house grew closer as I pedaled,
and the sheer reality of the structure gave renewed force to what was had
begun to seem like a dream.

I had not decided if Phoebe had meant for me to see her in the shower; it
seemed inconceivable that a woman I had just met would willfully place her
naked body on display. Yet, coming on the heels of my rather obvious arousal
during the session--in which I hid my erection rather unsuccessfully as
Phoebe painted--her nakedness could be interpreted as a gesture...a signal
of potential intimacy. This, and her warmth toward me as we conversed later,
convinced me that "something" was possible...but I could not know what that
"something" would be.

My attraction to Phoebe had not diminished with the return home yesterday or
the passage of hours. Last night, as I lay in bed, the novel that I held
before me became a meaningless blur as Phoebe's image floated before me; in
the silence of my tiny bedroom I found myself overwhelmed with desire once
again. I put the book aside, pulled the sheets down and brought myself to
orgasm as I softly whispered Phoebe's name. I awoke the next morning to find
my passion undimmed...though filtered through a haze of unreality, the
residue of my tortured dreams.

Now, as I walked my bicycle into Phoebe's yard, seeing once again the
slightly unkempt yard and the peeling paint, I wondered if perhaps I was
allowing my imagination to construct relationships that simply did not
exist. I was a model, employed to sit perfectly still while Phoebe pursued
her art, just as she had for years before meeting me. I had seen her naked;
this was merely an accident. Perhaps the only significance of this, for me,
was that I discovered my attraction to the beauty of larger women. Phoebe
had momentarily become central to my personal fantasy world, but I could not
necessarily impose that role onto our working relationship.

Then Phoebe emerged from the door, waving happily, and my resolve vanished.

"Scott! I'm thrilled to see you again," she called, as I leaned my bicycle
against one of the huge trees. She was wearing essentially the same thing as
yesterday: an oversize man's white shirt, denim cutoff shorts, and sneakers.
Today, her short, gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a short ponytail,
emphasizing the roundness of her face.

"Hi, Phoebe," I called back. I climbed the steps to the porch as Phoebe
leaned against the doorjamb, beaming at me. I heard piano music wafting from
the open door--something by Debussy, I thought; the gently shifting
harmonies suggested moonlight reflected on water.

"How about some tea before we start, Scott?" Phoebe asked. "You look a bit
winded from your ride."

I smiled gratefully. "That sounds terrific."

Phoebe turned and disappeared into the dimness of the house. I sat in one of
the two wicker chairs on the porch and watched the trees swaying gently in
the breeze; I could faintly hear Phoebe running water in the kitchen.

I smiled slightly, recalling my lustful dreams of the previous night. Now
that I was here, quietly waiting on a cool, shaded porch for Phoebe to serve
tea, rationality returned to me. Phoebe was as beautiful as I had
remembered; my newfound appreciation for large women was not some temporary
aberration of the preceding day.

Yet, at that moment, it was difficult to imagine flinging myself into a
passionate physical relationship with Phoebe; friendship, perhaps a long
friendship, would likely come first. I welcomed the prospect of having this
radiant, creative woman as my first real friend in the community.

Phoebe reappeared, carrying a silver tray with a white ceramic teapot and
two cups. "Just sugar, right?" she asked as she poured.

"Right," I said, ruefully recalling the circumstances in which Phoebe had
learned of my tea preference. I ruefully recalled that, the last time she
asked me that, I had been recovering from a stunning climax.

Phoebe handed me the cup and sat in the other wicker chair. She smiled
warmly at me, and once again I felt the wave of empathy I had sensed from
her yesterday.

"So, are you up for this? Ready to sit perfectly still for hours and hours?"
Phoebe asked.

"Sure," I said, shrugging. "It's fun."

Phoebe laughed at this; it was a gentle, knowing laugh, and its warmth and
affection sent tingles through me. "It's work...I've never heard it
described as 'fun.' But I'm glad you're helping me out, Scott...I've been
without a model for a long time now. A long time..." Her voice drifted into
silence, and her eyes became distant. I wondered what memory I had
inadvertently glimpsing, but decided not to pursue it. I sipped my tea in
silence as Phoebe momentarily lost herself in some reverie.

Phoebe focused on me again and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, Scott. I get
distracted sometimes. The absent-minded artist, I guess."

"Is something bothering you?" I asked hesitantly.

Phoebe looked out at the landscape. "I've been here for a long time, Scott.
Too long. I need the solitude...the sense of isolation for my work; I was
never able to paint in some loft in a city, with traffic and sirens and gray
buildings surrounding me. But I'm beginning to think that perhaps the price
is too high...I realized yesterday, as we were talking, that I've got
virtually no friends in this town. Acquaintences, certainly...but no
friends." She shook her head sadly. "And certainly nothing beyond friends,
either."

"You do have a friend here," I offered.

Phoebe's face brightened with affection. "Yes. You're absolutely right,
Scott; I do have a friend here. And so do you."

I wanted to tell her that I could be more than her friend, much more; but
there was no way to say it without sounding foolish. I sipped the last of my
tea as the Debussy faded into silence, and said nothing. I hoped that I
would, someday, have the opportunity to go "beyond friends" with this
beautiful, voluptous woman.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The posing proceeded without incident that day; I undressed and draped the
sheet over me once more, sat in the wingback chair and managed to duplicate
the slouched position that Phoebe had required. I watched Phoebe
surreptitiously as she painted; again I was able to see her substantial
breasts moving against the paint- stained shirt as she worked, and although
I found this sight gratifying, I didn't suffer the obvious arousal that had
plagued me before.

At least at first I didn't.