Naked in School Homer
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Going Home Ch. 04 free porn video
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Ginny takes Jerry home to Boston
At 7:45 pm Ginny proceeded to walk down Clarendon Street from the YWCA to Newbury Street in the heart of the Back Bay of Boston. Even though Boston was a big city, the city felt small. She walked half the length of Clarendon Street nearly from the South End to three blocks within the Charles River. Within sight of the Western Hotel and the Copley Square library on her left, she walked by the Copley Square Hotel and saw the 60th story John Hancock tower on her right.
Looking as if one or the other didn’t belong there, with one building so old and the other so modern, the mirrored Hancock building dwarfed the historic Trinity Church on her right. With her having bought a book of Boston before her bus trip, she was already familiar with a few of the points of interest. It was one thing to see the sights pictured in a book and quite another thing to see, hear, and experience Boston in person.
Then, when she rounded the corner to Newbury Street, even at this late hour, the street was crowded with people and bustling with outdoor cafés, restaurants, wall to wall boutiques, and hair salons. As if floating down a river, she moved along with a sea of people all seemingly going in the same direction on one side of the sidewalk and moving in the opposite direction on the other side of the street. There were some who didn’t understand the proper protocol of negotiating Newbury Street and as if fighting the current by elbowing their way through the crowd, they were at odds with the crowd.
With luxury cars double parked and meter maids ticketing everyone parked illegally, a fleet of tow trucks waited at the ready around the corner to tow cars away. Yet, being this was Newbury Street, the Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills version in Boston, this street was resplendent with expensive and exclusive shops and high end stores. Being that this was Newbury Street, a street that was frequented by people with money, most patrons were polite when negotiating their way through the crowded sidewalk. If only Ginny knew what it meant to own a business on Newbury Street, she may have had more of an inkling of what was in store for her.
With her living in one of the most depressed parts of Detroit, she’s never seen as many businesses congregated in one spot. Stores, shops, and boutiques were everywhere. Too much to see and with every business alive with people, Newbury Street was a videogame of activity. As if watching a tennis match, she looked from one side of the street to the other and back again. Then, when she looked up, just short elevator rides away, there were even more businesses looking out over Newbury Street on the second, third, and fourth floors. Enjoying the sights and the sounds, she slowed her pace to look in the window of some of the shops. When she walked a block closer, and was within view of 38 Newbury Street, as if she was seeing her reflection in a mirror, she saw full size portraits of her face in color decorating the windows of Saunder’s Art Gallery.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said standing still while staring. ‘I don’t believe it. That’s me. Jerry painted those of me,’ she said totally stunned seeing herself in life sized, living color instead of in black and white pencil sketches.
* * * * *
Shocked that it was her image staring back at her, she couldn’t believe it was her portrait. Having never seen full sized portraits of herself in color, only the pencil sketches that Jerry made, she couldn’t believe her eyes by how very many portraits there were of her. She opened the door and there were even more portraits of her on every wall. Her eyes went from the portraits to the dozens of art patrons milling around the gallery. By invitation only, the gallery was closed to the general, walk-in public for Jerry’s showing. Recognizing her immediately and giving her a smile, a guard at the door motioned her to check-in at the front desk.
‘Hi, I’m looking for Joyce,’ she said to the person sitting behind the counter. ‘I’m looking for Joyce, um Joyce Saunders,’ said Ginny pulling out her business card from her pocket to read from it when all she needed to do was to look at the sign on the wall, Joyce Saunder’s Art Gallery.
Ginny looked at the woman sitting behind the counter. She was very pretty. With her long, lush, blonde hair and big, blue eyes, she could have been a model. Even though the woman was small breasted, Ginny wished she looked more like her than she did her portrait.
Just once, she’d love to be happy with her looks instead of thinking of herself as being so plain. Just once she wished her pretty face instead of her big tits was the focal point of men’s attention. Yet, getting her wish, Jerry had painted her portrait over and again. Getting her wish, her face was now the focal point of not only men but also women too.
‘And you are?’
Suddenly feeling that she was in the wrong place already by the casual way she was dressed, the woman made her feel that she was in the wrong place even though she knew differently by all of the portraits of her that decorated the walls. Ready to walk out, she wanted to hide from all of the attention that the portraits of her garnered. Ready to flee, she didn’t even know what she was doing here. With all the portraits of her so proudly displayed, and especially with the woman at the front desk not even knowing who she was, she wondered if this was some sort of sick, elaborate joke at her expense. Yet, before she could even answer the woman and before she could turn and run out the front door and disappear back in the crowd on Newbury Street again, she turned to her name being called.
‘Ginny!’ Her voice echoed against the tiled floor and stark white walls but for her colorful portraits. ‘It’s so very nice to meet finally you,’ said Joyce recognizing her immediately, walking briskly towards her, and giving her a hug.
Joyce was a stylish woman in her late 40’s or early 50’s.
‘Hi,’ said Ginny feeling her personal space being invaded by her hug, a woman she didn’t know and only talked to once on the phone.
Something she never did in Detroit and perhaps that they always did in Boston but when Joyce talked to her, invading her personal space, she was standing so very close. Standing so close to her, Ginny could smell her expensive perfume and nearly taste the breath mint she was sucking on in her mouth. Joyce acted as if she was her best friend about to whisper secrets. When Ginny took a step back to regain control of her space, Joyce took half a step forward.
‘After having studied all of the portraits to decide which portraits are the best to show on which wall, if only by Jerry’s paintings of you, I feel as if I already know you,’ she said turning to give her employee sitting at the reception desk a disapproving look for not recognizing the star of the art show.
Joyce returned her focus to her guest of honor.
‘There’re all so amazing,’ said Ginny stunned by the pure number of her portraits that decorated every white, blank space of every wall.
Seemingly and as it should be, Joyce was more interested in Ginny than in the portraits.
‘Let me look at you,’ said Joyce. ‘Allow me to take your coat.’
Joyce called one of her assistants over to take Ginny’s coat to her office. Then, Joyce took a step back and looked at Ginny no doubt in the same way that she looked at her portraits. If Ginny knew she was going to be so inspected, she would have worn something fancier, a dress perhaps, instead of slacks, a blouse, and a sweater beneath her raggedy, old coat.
‘If I had known I’d be the center of attention, I would have worn a dress,’ said Ginny folding her arms across her abundant breasts.
She acted as if she was ashamed of her breasts and was trying to hide her huge bosoms.
‘Come with me,’ said Joyce taking Ginny by the arm.
She escorted Ginny to the middle of the main ro
om where a waiter carrying a try of carrying a tray of champagne approached them. Joyce took a glass for herself and handed a glass of champagne to Ginny.
‘Everyone,’ said Joyce tapping on her champagne glass with her huge, sparkling, diamond ring. ‘Everyone. Please, everyone. May I have your attention please?’
With portraits of her everywhere, with her the unwanted, center of attention, and with her not thinking of herself as a very pretty woman, whether notoriety and/or celebrity, she felt unworthy of either just the same. With the paintings all making her look prettier than she was, Ginny wanted to hide in shame and embarrassment. Even though her portraits looked like her but with her portraits hiding some of her imperfections and concealing some of her flaws, the paintings looked so much better than she did in person. She couldn’t help but feel that by making a personal appearance that she was disappointing those who were ready to buy her portrait.
‘Oh God,’ said Ginny under her breath. ‘I’m so embarrassed. Had I known this is what you meant by you having a showing, I would have worn a bag over my head,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’m so nervous.’
She looked around the room and with everyone staring at her, she felt so uncomfortably invaded by the portraits that decorated every wall of the art gallery. With him capturing the essence of her, the portraits revealed every facial expression she’s ever had in Jerry’s presence. There were other portraits of her that she never modeled for him and that were no doubt taken from his imagination of her.
‘Don’t be silly. You’ll be fine,’ said Joyce squeezing her arm. ‘This is Ginny the subject in Jerry Blake’s paintings.’
As if Joyce had just threw water in her face, she turned to her in shock.
‘What?’ She did a double take and stared at Joyce as if she had made a mistake when saying Jerry’s last name. What did she just say? Jerry Blake? ‘Pardon? Jerry Blake?’ Touching her arm, she looked at Joyce with stunned surprise. ‘That’s my name. Blake is my last name. You said Jerry Blake.’
She looked at Joyce for an explanation.
‘Typical Jerry,’ said Joyce with a kind smile. ‘He didn’t tell you that he was your father, did he?’
* * * * *
As if she had been hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat, she finally got the connection. Duh? How stupid could she be? Jerry’s her father. Now it made sense to her why he spent so much time with her. Joyce gave her a motherly smile.
‘My father? Jerry was my father?’ Ginny stood there shocked beyond belief. ‘He didn’t volunteer his last name and respecting his privacy, I didn’t even think to ask. I never knew his last name. I only knew him as Jerry.’
Joyce put an arm around her back.
‘Well Jerry knew a lot about you,’ said Joyce.
Suddenly Ginny felt used. She suddenly felt deceived. She didn’t understand why Jerry didn’t tell her he was her father. She was saddened that Jerry didn’t feel the need to tell her that he was her Dad.
So glad now that she didn’t flash him her tits, she couldn’t believe he was her biological father, her real Dad. With him no longer around to answer them, she had so many unanswered questions to ask of him. If only she knew he was her father, there were so very many things that she wanted to know. With her having a lifetime of unanswered questions, there were so very many things she wanted to know not only about him but also about her mother too.
It’s not fair that he’s no longer here to answer her questions. It’s not fair that her mother’s dead too. It’s not fair that she’s alone in the world with just her in a new city and with no money and without even a job. Even when her mother was alive, when she wasn’t sleeping off what she did the night before, she was lost in her drunken stupors.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Ginny.
Joyce ushered Ginny to a bench that was beneath a portrait of her against the far wall for some privacy from the crowd of lookers and gawkers. As if the portrait was her mirror image and with the real live subject sitting beneath the painting, a small crowd of curious spectators gathered to study her from afar while, no doubt, comparing her to her portrait.
‘With your father out of control from drugs and alcohol,’ said Joyce whispering. ‘Your mother, Elizabeth, left Jerry after she discovered he was having sex with his models. A common thing that happens with an artist and his models, Jerry was no different. He had money and the models needed work. Sometimes, if models give an agent, an artist, a photographer, and/or sculpture sexual favors, they get more work,’ said Joyce.
Joyce’s shrug that made Ginny wonder if she was once an artist’s model and if she once had sex with artists in exchange for more modeling work. She was certainly pretty enough to be an artist’s model, albeit a bit older now and apparently not needing the money she’d make modeling when she owned an art gallery on Newbury Street. As if she was dreaming all this, Ginny looked at Joyce with disbelief. She was still reeling from the secreted fact that Jerry was her father. Damn him! Why didn’t he tell her?
‘I don’t understand,’ she said calmly and with a face full of confusion. ‘Why now? Why didn’t he contacted me before? Why didn’t he tell me that he was my father?’
Joyce frowned her sympathy for Ginny.
‘Jerry has had private detectives searching for your mother and for you ever since your mother left him and took you with her thirty years ago. It wasn’t until after your mother died that they found you living in Detroit of all places, practically right under their noses,’ said Joyce.
Difficult to believe all of this was happening to her and that Jerry was not only her father but also a famous artist, Ginny looked at Joyce as if she was eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation. With her in Boston, a place she always wanted to visit, all of this was too much to take in and digest all at once.
‘With me growing up rich instead of growing up poor and having the best schools, good friends, and the best clothes, my life could have been so different,’ said Ginny with sadness. ‘I could have had a father. Maybe my mother would have not been the drunken whore that she became,’ she said with sorrow.
Joyce gave Ginny a hug before continuing.
‘I’m so sorry Ginny,’ said Joyce. ‘I wish they would have found you and your mother years ago. With Jerry clean and sober for the past twenty years, things would have been so different for you and your mother.’
Ginny bowed her head as if she was praying or was about to cry.
‘Me too,’ said Ginny.
Joyce too Ginny’s hand in hers.
‘Even though your mother was born in this country and was a United States citizen, when they couldn’t find her after several years of searching, Jerry’s lawyers assumed Elizabeth had fled to Hungary with you and where her mother, your grandmother, was born,’ said Joyce.
Hungary? She’s half Hungarian? Guessing that he was English, she wondered what nationality Jerry was. Not knowing much personal information about her mother, Ginny knew even less about her grandmother. The only people she knew from Hungary were gypsies and the Gabor sisters. With her big tits and blonde hair, she imagined herself being related to Zsa Zsa Gabor. Maybe someday if ever she’s rich, she’ll take a trip to Budapest to see where her ancestors lived.
‘I see,’ said Ginny.
Joyce squeezed her hand before telling her more.
‘With Jerry’s money and influence, he could find her and bring her back from wherever she was hiding with you in the United States but not if she was living overseas in Europe. Only, he never figured she’d be hiding in plain sight in Detroit of all places,’ said Joyce. ‘There’s a lot of people with the last name of Blake in this country and throughout the world, he’d have to hire an army of detectives to interview everyone with the last name of Blake.’
At the forefront of her thoughts,
Ginny couldn’t help but think how different her life would have been and could have been if only Jerry had found her years earlier.
‘If only I had known Jerry was my father, I would have asked him so many more things about him and about my mother,’ said Ginny.
Joyce gave Ginny an understanding look.
‘This showing of Jerry’s portraits is all expressly for you. All of these paintings are of you and of your mother. Even though the contract I have is with your father, upon his death, the proceeds of the sale go to you. Once he found you, he’s spent the last three years of his life legally transferring his assets to you. You’re free to keep whichever portraits you want. Just tell me which portraits you’d like to have for yourself and I’ll put a sold sign on them,’ said Joyce.
‘I’m just stunned by all of this,’ said Ginny looking around at the portraits again before turning her attention back to Joyce. ‘It’s a bit much for me to process.’
‘Your father knew that the best time to sell his art was upon his death, which is why he wanted me to show his work and wanted to find you before he died. I have other portraits in my office that aren’t for sale that Jerry thought you may want to have. Perhaps you should look through those first before making your selections. There are other paintings that he’s painted of course, but this show is just about you and your mom. All of his paintings are catalogued and are stored at my warehouse. I can take you there tomorrow,’ said Joyce.
‘I’d like that,’ said Ginny. ‘I’d like to see what else he painted other than my mother and me.’
‘Jerry painted hundreds of portraits but mostly of you and your mother,’ said Joyce. ‘Everything he painted and entrusted with me, now belongs to you. After this art show, you are free to keep whatever portraits are left and/or sell them through me as Jerry has given me the exclusive rights to sell his work.’
Overwhelmed at seeing so many portraits of herself and of her mother so professionally mounted and displayed, Ginny looked around the room at all the portraits of her and of her mother. There were portraits of her that she had never seen before done when she was a baby in her mother’s arms and a toddler walking around their old house in Concord, Massachusetts. She barely remembered that far back and, with her father never home, she never remembered him being there. She was sad that she didn’t even recognize him as her Dad when she saw him. Yet, how could she recognize him and why would she recognize him when she hadn’t seen him in 30-years?
Yet, the creative genius that he was, just as Jerry had captured her, he had captured her mother too. Side by side, with them both about the same age when Jerry painted Elizabeth 30 years ago and recently painted her, they more looked like sisters than they did mother and daughter. Seeing the portraits of her mother made her wish she had known her mother better too but with her drinking and whoring getting in the way of them having a loving mother and daughter relationship, the whole thing was just so sad.
‘I knew he was a good artist but I had no idea he was this good, good enough to have his own art show,’ said Ginny.
Joyce nodded her head in affirmation.
‘He was the best,’ said Joyce. ‘I’ve known your father for thirty years when he hired me as one of his models.’
Ginny figured that Joyce was not only one of her father’s models but also was intimate with her father. Perhaps she the reason for her mother leaving her father. Yet, no matter. All of that was water under the bridge of life now.
‘I don’t even remember him drawing some of these portraits of me,’ she said.
Ginny looked at the paintings as if they were of someone else rather than of her. Even though she recognized herself in the paintings, she looked better. She actually looked pretty. Only, beyond how she looked, it was the expressions and the essence of her that he captured. With every picture telling a different story, every portrait of her haunted her in a different way, some good, some bad, some happy, and some sad.
Madison
- 28.10.2021
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