A Stud at Art College

Cole jogged through the campus, clutching a satchel bag and checking his phone for directions.

He was running late… again, and wasn’t it just his luck that the gallery unveiling of his prize-winning canvas was being held on the grounds of some obscure private institute on the far side of town?

How had it come to this?

Cole was serious about his craft—a devoted disciple of the grand masters, both classic and postmodern. His soul was flecked with paint and charcoal dust from years of study put into practice like a much-used mixing board, but somehow, his talent remained unrecognized.

That wasn’t vanity rearing its ugly head, either. Cole was passionate, gifted with a brush or stick of coal, and people were attracted to his portraits when on display at some minor function or public viewing. They would “ooh” and “aah” at the linework or bold use of color, then take one glance at him standing off to the side and frown in confusion.

The same thing had occurred at every entry interview he attended for various art colleges around the state.

Cole’s greatest flaw in his peers' narrow-minded, artsy-fartsy worldview was that he didn’t fit the mold they designated as “artistic.”

Over six feet tall, lean, and athletically built from competing in intermural track and field, he lacked the oddball appeal most artists donned like mantles of honor. His tousled dark hair and broad shoulders earned him looks of suspicion instead of admiration from college admissions officers. One flat-out interrogated him like a thief, asking who actually painted his submissions.

He had taken to wearing skinny black turtlenecks, hung a medallion of St. Catherine of Bologna around his neck, and smoked Virginia Slims, but that only emphasized his muscular physique and gave him an unapproachable mystique.

It was frustrating to the to be pigeonholed by the creative community, shunted aside like some meatheaded hack, so when the invitation came in the mail (the honest-to-god snail mail!) to participate in a regional competition for aspiring hopefuls, Cole had carefully wrapped his best piece in bubble wrap and packing tape, sending it by parcel post with a hope and a prayer.

It was an acrylic portrait of his high-school sweetheart Lisa, daubed on canvas the night they parted ways for college. He had been a heartbroken youth slashing his brush like a blade as he captured her beautiful naked form for the first and final time, standing resolute with tears of loss streaming down her cheeks.

It was intensely personal to Cole and had won him the invitation to this premier event.

He vowed to get it back, whatever the outcome.

“Excuse me, you appear lost. Do you need directions?” A female voice enquired from over his shoulder.

Spinning in place, Cole came face to tits with a heavily tattooed knockout of jaw-dropping proportions.

Standing six foot if she was an inch and richly endowed in the chest and rear, all that inked goodness stuffed into a skimpy leather cami top and a torn tartan miniskirt. Fishnet stockings pinched her thick thighs, and a belt of chains cinched her narrow waist, accenting her flaring hips.

“Yes, please, I’m late for an appointment.” Cole cleared his throat and dragged his gaze up to meet the inquisitive hazel eyes staring at him from under a side-hanging mohawk. “Can you point me towards the auditorium?”

“Head straight down this thoroughfare. Take a left at the phallic-shaped fountain, and it’s the large glass-fronted building with a domed roof. It’s an eyesore of art-deco architecture. You can’t miss it.”

She turned him around, leaned in until a hefty bosom rested on his shoulder, and extended a slender arm to point the way. A dozen yards away, there was indeed a long, girthy water feature with a bulbous crown spewing water over a rockery at its base.

Only as he jogged passed did Cole realize it was a carved stone totem pole with an egg-shaped top. A brass plaque winked in the sunshine from the circular rim, but he didn’t have time to inspect it.

As described, the auditorium loomed large over the small gardens lining the path, a glittering edifice of geometric shapes and abstract patterns in glass and granite with an arching domed roof. Cole trotted through the automatic doors, followed the signs to the main theatre, and slipped inside as inconspicuously as he could.

“Ah, a late arrival!” A jolly voice boomed, making him flinch. “Better late than never, eh? Come down to the front, my boy. We were just finishing introductions.”

The theatre was a dark, cavernous space with tiered seating that led down to a brightly lit stage where the speaker stood behind a lectern. He was tall and gangly, totally bald, with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard, dressed in a stark white suit over a colorful Hawaiian shirt.

“Sorry, am I in the right place?” Cole looked about at the ranks of empty chairs. “I’m here for the art unveiling.”

A quiet snigger carried on the excellent acoustics from a group standing in the shadows outside the ring of light before it was shushed.

“You’re here for more than that, Cole! But I’m getting ahead of myself.” The garishly attired flamingo laughed, flourishing his arms like a circus showman. “Introductions first, yes? I am Viktor Von Gloot, founder and Dean of Von Gloot’s Private Academy of Fine Arts! Welcome, welcome. Please, join your fellow aspirants in the first row and allow me to elucidate.”

Stepping cautiously down the aisle, Cole’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, spotting six unmistakably female forms sitting where indicated. Hardly more than shadowy shapes against the blinding brightness of the stage, their extravagant figures left no room for doubt even if the rest of their features remained cloaked in darkness.

He scooted into a chair beside what turned out to be a gorgeous brunette in a slinky black designer dress that probably cost more than a month's rent with a trove of glittering jewelry adorning her slender neck, fingers, and wrists. A diamond pendant dipped down into cleavage so ripe and swollen a boatload of sailors could drown in its pillowy depths, and a sneer twisted her ruby lips.

“What did you paint, musclebrain?” She snarked, contemptuously flipping her dense chestnut ponytail. “Let me guess, a still-life of fruit in grandma’s watercolors?”

Seething at the slight, Cole was about to snarl a biting response, but the Dean’s amplified voice cut short their impending argument.

“Now we are all present; it is my great pleasure to induct you all as the newest students of our esteemed academy. Here we nurture the most promising minds and creative talents of your generation.” Von Gloot boasted into the lectern microphone, gesticulating wildly with his bony hands. “Our holistic self-directed learning philosophy is tailored to draw out your fullest potential as artists and individuals with no expense spared in the extensive facilities and studios that were custom designed for…”

His flurry of words became a background drone as reality struck Cole like a cold fish to the face.

Had there been a mistake? Some kind of mix-up or clerical error? He had arrived expecting a modest exhibition of local artwork that might grant a modicum of exposure but stumbled into something else entirely.

But the Dean had addressed him by name and then welcomed the small group to his academy. There were no piles of paperwork or lengthy admittance processes, simply a proclamation from the founder themself that they were chosen as the latest inductees to whatever the heck this place was.

Apparently, it was a private art college, one that reeked of wealth and prestige and, presumably, had the tutorial fees to match. Sky-high fees that Cole did not have the means to pay.

A complete fucking waste of time.

He resolved to wait until the end of the presentation, collect his prized portrait, then politely excuse himself.

Von Gloot prattled on, extolling the academy's many advantages and benefits, citing names of prominent alumni, and generally preening for his captive audience. Eventually, his gaze fell on Cole’s frustrated expression, and he paused.

“Ah, I believe that at least one of you requires, nay, deserves further clarification. I shall turn the podium over to our Head of Curriculum, Miss Laurier, for a brief Q&A and group assignments.” The Dean said with a sheepish grin. “Cole, would you kindly join me in the office to discuss the particulars of your enrollment.”

Six inquisitive sets of eyes swiveled his way. Still, Cole followed the older man to the rear of the auditorium after a bespectacled woman in a long skirt and thick cardigan took the stage with professional aplomb.

He was led past stacks of sound and lighting equipment to the theatre manager’s office, which Von Gloot unlocked with a key before ushering him in.

Waiting inside was his portrait of Lisa, displayed on an easel in the center of the room where a desk should have sat. Otherwise, the office had been emptied of all furniture but two simple wooden chairs positioned to view the canvas.

Cole was struck dumb by the reverence shown to his piece.

“Astounding, isn’t it?” The Dean’s voice was quiet, as though in a chapel. “The way each brush stroke captures the sorrow of the subject in acrylic. Classic realism with daubs of impressionism to accentuate the emotion. Incredibly moving, I wept for the young lady upon first viewing.”

“She’s not for sale,” Cole stated emphatically, fists trembling at his sides. “Since the competition was clearly a sham, why don’t you tell me why I’m really here, sir.”

He spat the honorific like a mouthful of venom. Von Gloot nodded in understanding and took one of the seats, producing an embroidered handkerchief to mop his bald pate.

“Sham is a harsh term. The competition was, in fact, genuine in the beginning—a means to support and promote local talent. Then we received your submission, my boy.” He gestured at the remaining chair. Cole reluctantly sat. “After that, the whole endeavor felt pointless. May I ask who she was to you?”

“The first girl I ever loved.”

It was a blunt admission, and like all blunt things, it left painful bruises. The Dean inclined his head in respect and turned to inspect the portrait again.

“The passion of youth—I am not so old that I have forgotten how hot those fires burn. They scorch our souls and seek escape through expression. Some men rage and scream; others crumble under the pressure; we artists harness that pain to create great works. This is one such creation—a masterpiece of beauty trapped in mourning.”

They sat in contemplative silence for a moment, then Cole stood.

“You didn’t answer my question, Mister Von Gloot. So if we’re done here, I’d sooner not waste time–”

“Such dramatics! Sit back down, my boy, and call me Viktor. I lured you here under false pretenses to extend you a full-ride scholarship at my illustrious academy.” Viktor chortled as though enjoying a private joke. “You must forgive the subterfuge and allow this old man his whimseys. My offer is legitimate—all expenses paid, including tuition, housing, and a generous stipend.”

Cole dropped back into the chair, harpooned by the unexpected proposition.

“Truly?” He asked in disbelief.

“Certainly! But answer me one last question.” The older man exclaimed before leaning in with a waggle of bushy brows to whisper lecherously. “Was your young lady's butt really that firm and juicy?”

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A big thank you to the anonymous supporter who commissioned this fun tale. You know who you are. Advanced chapters can be found on my BuyMeACoffee page. Cheers for reading!