Chapter 2
Sette
No matter the form of artistic expression, there was one common enemy: the blank page. A sign from the art gods that someone was a useless piece of shit who didn’t deserve to create anything, let alone something profound and meaningful.
This is what I gave up medicine for. Sette Christie sat at an outdoor café, staring down at a large sheet of blank drawing paper.
She held a pencil in her hand, but no matter what seat she sat in or whom she gazed upon, she was trapped with a blank mind that refused to conjure up an image worthy of her hand.
What a cruel joke. For three years, Sette had been a full-time artist, whatever that meant.
When a woman had built a sizable fortune being “the gynecologist of the stars,” as well as living off the established fortunes of her extended family, she could spend her days drawing pictures if she damn well pleased.
God knew Sette had been miserable in her previous profession.
Somehow, she was not enthused about staring up wealthy vaginas all day.
Half the time, there was a head coming out of them.
I thought I would find meaning in bringing life into the world.
Such a noble profession, delivering babies was.
Too bad Sette went back to her townhouse every night thinking of nothing but getting drunk and hooking up with freaks on internet apps.
Retiring to become a full-time artist was supposed to be fulfilling.
Indeed, it was, in many ways. Since then, she had five shows, the last three being all hers.
Whether she was drawing portraits or still life, plenty of people commended her efforts and even bought the occasional print.
Sette would never be famous, probably, but she was already rich as shit and didn’t care about fame.
It was supposed to be about artistic expression. Whatever that meant by now.
Artistic expression didn’t mean shit when she had a blank piece of paper mocking her.
“Still fighting with your muse, I see.” Her best friend sat next to her at the table.
Zara hadn’t brought her art book with her today, but she had that look on her face that said she shot a three-pointer elsewhere in the café.
Playgirl. Sette wouldn’t dare tell another woman what to do with her sex life, but Zara was the type of woman who could use “Hi, I’m an artist,” to her eternal advantage.
For one thing, she was a woman of many mediums. Drawing, painting, pottery, sculpting, knitting…
there wasn’t anything that Zara wasn’t willing to try, whereas Sette was firmly entrenched with pen, paper, and paints.
(Sometimes she went wild and used watercolors instead of oils.) “Would you at least let me buy you a beer? You’re depressing me. Or maybe it’s your muse depressing me.”
Sette flipped her book shut and slammed it on top of her duffel bag. “I didn’t give up medicine to sit here and watch you flirt with half the women in a café.”
“Sure you did. Because you didn’t ‘give up’ shit. I’ve known you since you were pissing and moaning about delivering yet another baby when all you wanted to do was use amniotic fluids to paint your next great masterpiece.”
“I’ll pretend that made sense, and then further pretend I didn’t hear that.
” Zara loved to speak without thinking. Somehow, it endeared women to her.
If I did that, I’d get slapped.She could get any woman she wanted if she played her cards right.
Like being rich. An angsty artist. The fact that she knew her way around another woman’s body.
The one good thing to come from my education.
Lots and lots and lots of anatomical experience.
Yet she quickly became bored with whatever woman she was with.
They were either well below her intelligence level, only interested in what she could give them, or…
well, she couldn’t put her finger on it.
She blamed her artistic mind, which often argued with the more logical, doctoral side.
Women were beautiful. The way they moved, laughed, and made love.
Except that magic quickly wore off once Sette got to know them.
She’d say it was the type of women she dated, but they came from all sorts of backgrounds.
Medical women. Socialites. The waitress at the corner café…
oh, wait, Zara had dibs on that one this week.
The way they traded winks when she walked by said as much.
“I’ve fired my muse,” Sette said. “I need to find a new one. Something to get me out of this funk.”
Zara was distracted by the waitress again.
What was it? Her casual clothes, even though she and her family were worth a collective billion dollars?
The shaggy cut of her hair? Oh, it was probably the most expensive thing about her – the perfume, which she swore could get any woman wet between the legs.
Sette wasn’t sure about that, not that she had extensively tested it.
Then again, her education had rather destroyed the romantic notion of women and “getting wet.”
Besides, it’s never worked on me. Part of the reason these sorority sisters were still friends was because they never got farther than changing clothes in front of each other.
From the moment they met while rushing their sorority, they were fast friends.
Like sisters, all right. Sette was the slightly older and more curmudgeonly one, while Zara was the slightly younger, friskier kid who got into trouble more times than she liked to admit.
They had both known they were gay when they met, but it was a cudgel for what the sorority called “true sisterhood” and nothing more.
Honestly, the thought of dating her makes me want to scream.
They didn’t even have the same tastes in women!
“You need to loosen up, that's what you need to do.” As soon as she had a round of cool beers ordered, Zara turned her full attention to her friend. “You’ve been in this so-called funk for months now. It’s amazing I even got you out of your house, you fucking introvert.”
Ah, yes, the introvert and extrovert, such great best friends. “I haven’t been really inspired to do much of anything lately.”
“That’s why we need to get out of here, woman. I don’t know how much you care, but I’m thinking about heading up to the mountains in a couple of days.”
“The mountains?” That was not like Zara at all.
Sette could not imagine her friend hiking, camping, or doing anything that would require that kind of grit.
To be fair, it wasn’t Sette’s bag, either.
She loved the views, though. In fact, that may be what she needed to get out of her funk.
I need to see some real views. A sunset.
A valley. Anything. Perhaps her next phase would be scenes.
Those were big right now, right? “I could be game for that. My cousin has a lodge we could stay in.”
“Hell no, I’m not talking about shacking up in some underused ski lodge and wearing sweaters around the fireplace. You didn’t let me finish.”
Their beers arrived. Sette had to refocus her attention from her work to the conversation at hand, which was not easy when a million other conversations were going on around them that fine spring day.
Traffic noise. Birds. The clatter of utensils and plates.
Sette hated such cacophonies. This was the woman who couldn’t even listen to music while she worked. Absolute silence. It was a necessity.
“All right. So finish.”
“I’m talking about going to that brothel.”
Sette barely had beer on her lips before she was prompted to spit it out.
“Calm down. It’s not a real brothel. That’s what everyone calls it. You’ve heard of the Manoir, right?”
Sette couldn’t believe they were having this conversation in public.
She sat back in her seat, crossing her legs and her arms in the hopes that nobody around them would think she was actually a part of this conversation.
“I’ve heard about it in passing.” Anyone with enough money and the right connections heard of all sorts of things.
Like that one BDSM club right beneath their feet that catered to every depraved taste a rich enough bitch had.
I don’t think I’m depraved. Others may beg to differ.
“Basically, it’s this ‘house of pleasure,’ or whatever they call it. My friend Brianna went a month ago and said she had a blast. The girls there are really hot and know their stuff, if you know what I mean.” What a stupid grin. Too bad it was infectious.
“Not sure how I feel about paying for sex.” Especially one that might not even be sapphic, since nothing killed Sette’s desires more than knowing her partner wasn’t there for her.
“You don’t technically, you pay for their ‘time.’ They’ll hang out with you, wait on you, let you see their tits…”
“I’m failing to see the difference here.
” She may not be talking about red light districts around the world, but Zara was definitely close to saying, “Tickle your pussy, lick your pussy, and make your pussy scream.” Sette tightened her legs.
Been a while since she went out looking for some pussy licking. “Sounds like a brothel to me.”
“Brianna called it a courtesan house. Does that sound better?”
“Courtesans, hm?” That did sound better.
Paying for sex was tasteless. Some people who could have any woman they wanted still paid for escorts and sugar babies because it was a display of their wealth and power.
Sette was too careful with her money to care about that.
She still lived in the same townhouse she bought ten years ago when she originally started her practice.
Worth a good few mil, though. “Do they perform?”
“With their tits, yeah.”
Sette rolled her eyes, not that Zara could see it between their pairs of sunglasses. “I see. I was hoping for something… more. Like artistry.”
“Woman, have you ever seen a pro? That is artistry!”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Come on, I’ll treat you. You obviously don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do there.
We’re getting away for a day or two.” Zara chuckled.
“Who knows? Maybe it will help jar that brain of yours. Get you out of this art funk. I know it will work for me.” Zara perched her chin upon her hand and watched that waitress go by again.
Her eyes were absolutely entranced by that ass.
“I’m going to sculpt this woman right here, for instance. ”
“Fine. I’ll go, but only to shut you up and to get away from this city.”
“Girl, you are such a whiner.”
“Whiner? Must be easy to say when you’re putting out one piece a week.
” Zara had a different name she displayed her works under, and she was quite popular.
Galleries all over the world called her for this and that.
Buyers stopped by her studio to peruse her newest wares.
Zara didn’t have to make a living off her work, but she made a lot of change, anyway.
Then again, she sold them for less than Sette did.
Things must even out somehow. Sette wasn’t letting go of her pieces unless she was well and sure the buyer would appreciate them.
“Come off it, girl. Sheesh. Maybe you should get laid while we’re there. Having a pro do you over? If that doesn’t shake you up, I don’t know what will.”
“Let me guess… you’ll pay for that too.”
“God knows you won’t.”
“I already said that I would go. Don’t make me regret it before we even get in your car.”
“In my car?”
“Of course.” Sette resumed drinking her beer. “Mine only has ten-thousand miles on it. You think I’m going to jeopardize that?”
Zara continued to shake her head in disbelief. “You are ridiculous. If you don’t get laid while we’re there, I’m not sure we can be friends anymore.”
“Piss off, Felton.” It was so satisfying calling her by her last name. Simple pleasures in life. Like art. And sex. Not that Sette would ever call them simple out loud. The bigger deal Zara thought it was, the better. Sette had a reputation to maintain.
That reputation apparently now included the patronization of courtesans. There was something romantic about that.