Daddy Fucked My Ass At The Art Studio

My art studio was my sanctuary. Canvases stacked against exposed brick. Turpentine in the air. When my father Arthur visited for the first time, he found me barefoot and covered in paint. He watched from the doorway. He circled my work like a critic. And when he stepped behind me to correct my brushstroke, his chest against my back, his hand over mine, the masterpiece we created wasnt on canvas. It was on my skin.