Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,42

enough,” Lilith said. “You need to make one of those Cake Boss–type confections of a giant pile of presents and then a picture of you in a fifties getup frosting him or something kitschy like that.”

“I’m not including a nude picture of Jonathan,” I said flatly. Fortunately, the other baking bachelorettes were out for a night on the town, and we were alone in the shared kitchen.

“Um, I’m sorry, I thought we were friends,” Emma retorted. “Maybe your friend needs a picture of him nude.”

“Are you that hard up?”

“It’s been a three-year dry spell,” Emma admitted. “Can I have some gingerbread?”

I sighed. “The kit only has the exact number of pieces you need for a house.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t bake your own gingerbread,” Lilith said, wrinkling her nose.

“I’m just photographing it, and I wanted the super plastic-looking one. This isn’t for eating, it’s for art.”

“I’m disappointed,” my twin stated, stealing one of the gumdrop decorations. “What kind of baker are you?”

“Oh, for the love of—Emma!” I shrieked. My friend was eating part of the chimney.

“What?” she protested. “I have a problem, okay? Just use some extra icing.”

I had had to fill in the chimney with candy. Then it turned out I didn’t like the way the gingerbread house looked anyway, so I ended up baking my own gingerbread, much to Emma’s delight.

Now I was out in the cold, the sleet, and the snow, taking pictures of my new and improved super-duper-fancy gingerbread house. The photos were missing a little something though.

“You need a man!” Dorothy shouted over the wind. She was bundled in a huge, sparkly green-and-white parka. A number of geese in their Christmas best strained against the cold.

“I don’t need a man; I just need to finish my art piece.”

“No,” Dorothy said, “take it from a fellow artist. You look like you’re making a piece that you’re trying to get money for in some form or fashion, no?”

“Yes,” I said grudgingly. I didn’t like to air my private business, but even though I had a direction for my art piece, the vision still wasn’t coming together.

“It’s a funny thing about art,” Dorothy continued. “There’s this idea among younger artists today that no one wants to pay for art and that back in the good old days, art was appreciated. The reality is no one has ever wanted to pay for art.” She made air quotes. “They always wanted it for free. Churches would pay for it to market their message, and wealthy people had portraits made, yes, but you want to know how most artists made a living?”

I shrugged.

“Porn,” Dorothy stated. “Sex sells. Sex has always sold.” She pointed to the “beginning of the universe” sculpture. “I’ve been trying to sell that thing for decades. It won awards and all that, but no museum wanted to buy. Guess what? It had a companion piece I made the same month. The sculpture didn’t have a fancy title; it was basically just a woman with big tits getting her freak on with a centaur. Dontcha know, I sold that thing for a million dollars to a Saudi oil prince.”

She tapped her forehead. “Sex sells. Whoever you’re trying to sell that piece to, slap a picture of a good-looking man on it, and everyone’s going to want to buy it.” She saluted me. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here. You better go in before you freeze your clit off.”

“I have a few more photos to take.”

But as I tried to get a better angle, I could see that Dorothy was right. I needed something electrifying. Maybe not at the level of centaur sex, but I definitely needed more than some pictures of baked goods and the occasional photo of Jonathan.

I bet this picture would spice up a lot better if it was of Jonathan, shirtless, taking a bite of the gingerbread with those bedroom eyes looking over the top of it.

“Nice gingerbread house!”

As if he had materialized like magic from my thoughts, there was Jonathan.

“You know,” he said, ambling over to me and standing close but not touching, “I was here looking for some inspiration, and I found you.”

“Funny,” I said, “because I actually need a little inspiration from you.”

“What are you making? Is that for the Instagram account?” he asked.

“Er…”

I couldn’t tell him about my art project. How would I even explain it? Hey, I’m just going to take indecent photos of you as a commentary on Christmas consumerism because I’m broke and don’t want to live