Any guest visiting my home forms a clear idea of my character. I have done my bit to showcase my perversion by hanging a nude on the wall. Perhaps the piece of art is so real that the visitors get turned on whereas I find nothing smutty in the depiction, nothing to make me feel horny-porny. Some honourable types try to look in the other direction to avoid the gaze but I have caught them casting furtive glances at the well-endowed beauty on the wall.

Living with a nude has broadened the artistic vision as I am exposed to beauty beyond the obvious every day. I find others remaining stuck in the curves, struggling to look at the portrait with a new pair of eyes. The general refrain is that I should avoid such vulgar pieces since the home is not an art gallery. When there are so many nice paintings to display, I should pick up images of cities, monuments, and nature, of kings, cult gurus, and leaders. Such lessons in morality cut no ice with me as I reject their missionary position of preaching values and following nothing in life.

I admit my day begins with a studied look at the nude in the wee hours – when people usually look at divine images for good luck. I am supercharged with artistic energy to execute my creative chores related to writing. So, it is nothing less than a muse for me.

Whenever I am accused of offering lame excuses to justify obscenity, I prefer to stay quiet instead of arguing there is nothing vulgar in nature including the female form in all its natural splendour. The level of hypocrisy is more transparent than a diaphanous dress. It comes across clearly when you encounter people raising objections to a painting while they cast lecherous glances at other women - including the domestic help in their lives every day.

Getting defamed for putting up a nude painting is perfectly acceptable. There are relatives who directly object to the nude and advise me that it is a source of negativity in the house. Some people also think I am obsessively fond of such shapes and the classic figure has been mounted on the wall because the idea of perfect beauty is captured so well.

Some women visitors feel envious that I spend so much time looking at the portrait instead of focusing on them. The bold ones admire the image and even ask me what I like so much in it. I avoid candid replies and always prattle about some esoteric aspect of art. They soon get fed up with my mini-lecture and bend low to test whether they can divert my attention. With decades of experience in averting cleavages in offices, I am quite comfortable looking ferociously at women – directly in the eye instead of letting my vision wander here and there. This reaction goes against what they feel the portrait is supposed to convey. Perhaps I should be brutal in expressing the truth that I do not seek help from a painting to garner female attention in real life.

While they are free to interpret it whichever way they like, or call me a fantasy guy who does not grab the exciting offers, they can never fail me in the litmus test of fidelity. They have to conclude the painting is no indicator of my lasciviousness or debauchery. Also, they infer my tastes are vastly different or I am hellbent to project a misleading view of my character and make them misjudge me for fun. Women who are so proud of reading men accurately seem to flounder in my case and it is definitely much more pleasurable than all the orgasms in the world.  

During a recent clean-up exercise, the glass on the painting broke. I do not suspect foul play by a jealous mind.  When I took it to the photo-framer, he refused to fix it and chased me away for approaching him with a naked painting because he made frames only for deities and dead people. There was no point explaining myself to him or the painting to him so I went away in the hope to finding an artistically-inclined framer soon.  

During the days it was missing from the wall, a neighbourhood lady came and was thrilled to find it gone. It was some kind of victory for her – as if there was space for another lady now and she could probably fit in. She emulated the same look and pose the lady in the portrait had, and hoped her adipose would have the same magical effect on me. When it did not work out as per estimate, she left the place with a heavy heart. I made it unbearable for her with the solemn promise that the lady on the wall would be back within a few days. So difficult to explain why a guy who adores a nude on the wall is also the one who irritates women inspired and emboldened by art to pose like that.