He likes design but he doesn't like art. He subscribes to websites that send him a new designers work every day. He collects books with various gorgeous jackets. He frames postcards of album covers, frames from graphic novels, illustrations.
I don't like art, he says, theis visually obsessed boy. I open a book and there is a glossy print. I can almost smell the oil paint, a grand adventure in colour and texture. I feel it in my gut, and then, suddenly, lower than this. Art. It is crossing the line. Perhaps design is the kissing and the touching of breasts, but art is where you don't care about polite any more. No colouring within the lines. Art is 'put something inside me', my cunt, my hungry open mouth. Art is 'that gets into me'. An end to foreplay, a coming together of disparate things.
Perhaps that is why my lust for him could never last. He was light petting, an illustrators delight. I would have wanted something other than that in the long term. I would have wanted that time when you are in the moment, swept up into each others bodies. The erotic potential of things without edges. The erotic potential of art.