by A. Lee Halo
(12/20/00)

I have produced neither painting nor orgasm in two months. Mourning for my fecund phase, I stare at the ten foot by ten foot empty canvas lying on the floor like a festering corpse. Still seeing it blank after so long is revolting and discouraging, and since the air conditioner's stopped, so has my urgency to create even a single mural.

Naked except for my shiny blue panties, I cross the studio to the open window, hoping to feel even a small breeze. It's an especially sultry afternoon in August with the kind of humidity that leaves you feeling sticky even after a shower. Drops of perspiration crawl their way down the side of my face, neck and between my breasts. I tie my blonde frizzy curls in a knot, keeping it in place with a skinny paintbrush.

Painting and fucking are similar pursuits, at least to me. Both begin with the creator, the artist or the hornier one who initiates. Both end with the desire to please the audience and ultimately yourself. That, to me, is the ruling passion. To derive pleasure from pleasing. Whether someone is admiring my blending of color, or gets a boner admiring the bounce of my naked tits, I enjoy the power of gripping their eye and attention. For a moment, they suspend effects from all other stimuli, submitting their conscience to me. God, does that turn me on.

It turns me on like the landlord, whom I've had a crush on forever. He keeps promising to get someone to repair the AC. I think that if Joel was still around, he'd fix the damn thing in a second. He was so good with his hands. How I miss those hands.

I break down and call Joel for the first time on his cell phone. He answers. I’m not surprised.

"Haven’t heard from you in awhile."

"How’d you know it was me?"

"I'm a very smart man. And I have caller ID." I hear seagulls in the background. His voice is calm and gravelly, as if he was out late the night before.

"What are you doing?" I forage in the kitchen for something cold to drink.

"Lying on the beach. Getting tons of attention. Looking at the beautiful tanned bodies on the towel next to me. Trying to get you jealous."

"Yeah, that’s nice," I say distractedly. I’m trying to open a bottle of water. "I have a show opening next week and still haven’t done anything. It’s too hot to be creative."

"The air conditioner’s broken again?" he laughs. "Is that why you called me? To come and fix it?"

"Maybe I'll just explain to Raul that my AC's broken, so I can't work."

"What? You really think a gallery owner would be sympathetic to that excuse? Why don’t you tell him that you haven't gotten a lay since you dumped your handsome, charming boyfriend." Whenever Joel acts like an asshole, I get horny. I touch myself and feel the moisture through my panties. I need to cool off.

"Tell him how fucking repressed you are," Joel continues, his tone becoming more sarcastic, "and that your mind is constipated. Maybe then he'd understand."

"You know what Raul would say? 'Girlfriend, why don’t you get a mental enema and go get laid.' He’s such a bitch!" I open the freezer, only to find that I forgot to fill the ice tray.

"Aw, shit! I don't even have any ice cubes. Just this goddamned lime popsicle." I slam the freezer shut. Desperate for some relief, I take it out, throw the wrapper on the floor in disgust, placing the popsicle on the back of my neck.

"Mmmm. It’s good. Good n’ cold." I reclaim my seat on the window ledge.

"What are you doing, Alison?"

"Rubbing it up and down my body. Oooh -- it’s on my stomach. Remember how you’d lick my stomach?" I drag the ice up to my neck and hold my breath from the jarring cold. Making a chilly lime trail, I drag it back down to my stomach, to the heat between my inner thighs. It’s so cold it’s nearly painful. I like it.

"I have it right between my legs."

"You’re trying to get me all randied. That’s why you called me, isn't it? Fuck you!"

"That’s what I'm doing, Joel. Fucking myself. Right now." Like an iceberg sailing slowly on its path, the ice makes its way slowly up between my breasts, its course becoming a spiral towards my proud pierced left nipple. When the ice gets there, I make small circles again and again until my nipple becomes numb and hard like a marble. I close my eyes, and with my free hand, finger my swelling pussy.

"My clit is so hot. I'm so wet, Joel," I whisper. I anchor one foot high up on the window frame and drape my other leg outside. The humid air licks the wet fire of my cunt. "I’m spreading my slit wide open now."

"I love the smell of your pussy. I love sucking on your swollen lips. Baby, when you’d sit on my face, I’d put my tongue in so far. I love how you taste."

Joel is a pig for pussy. He’d bury his face in my pubes, like a pig burrowing for truffles in my labia, inhale deeply and eat himself into oblivion. I swear he’d climb inside if I let him. Sometimes he’d moan with more pleasure than me. When he’d come up for air, his face would shine from my sex gloss. Then he’d go back down, and suck and lick until I’d come a couple of times. But even getting head can be too much of a good thing, and I’d have to pry him off, desperate for his dick to satisfy me.

I move my panties aside and put the ice right against the hottest part of my body. It sizzles. I lightly stroke between my swelling pussy lips. As if cross-hatching a shadow with a pencil, I make small vibrating strokes. Whisper-light, rapid strokes, back and forth until I’m happy with the effect. The pleasure mounts.

"What are you doing?" Joel whispers. "Put it in, put it in."

I hold my breath and thrust the whole thing in up to where I can barely hold the stick. Cold, heat, pain -- comingling all at once. It’s as exhilarating as jumping into a freezing lake. It’s too much. I pull it out. Inhale. I put it back in. My body temperature rises still. In, out, faster and faster. I grasp the wall behind me and grit my teeth. The freezing friction intensifies. My cunt throbs. I arch my back and cry out. I hear Joel do the same.

"Alison? Hello?" Who the hell is knocking?

"Who’s there?" I call to the door.

"It’s Lance to repair your air conditioner." The landlord!

"Bye, Joel!" I hang up and yank the phone cord from the wall.

Between the melted stickiness and my own wetness, my panties are soaked. I roll them off and toss them behind some paintings propped against a wall. On the way to the door, I throw on my splattered cut-offs, a tank top and start sucking on my now much thinner popsicle.

"Lance! What are you doing here?" I’ve never seen the landlord in jeans and a T-shirt. He looks incredible.

A human being is much like a painting, with so many layers. The final piece of work is a mere covering that hides all the fumbles, ugly smudges and false starts. The artist only allows you to see what she wants you to see. The same goes for people, only allowing each other to see what they want to be seen. The latent personality is a scribbly mess of insecurities, neuroses and ugly wreckage. Me, I consider myself perfect from the start. Honey, what you see, is what you get -- I hide nothing. As for Lance, I have always wanted to strip off the translucent glaze that covered his macho self. I don’t think it’d be too difficult.

"No suit, no tie. Jeans. You look so different. So...alpha male." He keeps staring at my still orgasm-hard nipples showing through. I slowly put the ice in my mouth, sliding in and out suggestively.

"On a hot day like this, that actually looks kinda good." His blue eyes widen.

"It is!" Let me show you how good.

He follows me to the broken unit and I feel his eyes on my ass. I turn around abruptly to find that’s right where his eyes are. He notices I notice and blushes, dropping his tool box.

"So why are you here? Where’s the repairman?" I ask. "Not that I’m not happy to see you." Not that I don’t want to fuck your brains out.

"I only found out this morning that he just up and left two weeks ago. I’m real sorry you’ve been so uncomfortable." Yeah, baby, make me feel better. As he removes the heavy metal panel, his biceps flex. He gets down on his knees and begins loosening some screws. I imagine him on his knees and me naked standing over him, straddling his face, looking down on his black curly hair. His head bobs as his tongue explores my folds, hungrily lapping up all of my sweet nectar, unable to get enough of me.

Before l can sweat any more, the familiar rattle of the AC starts.

"Ahh, I feel a difference already! What was wrong?" As he talks about connectors, I drift off. The current that’s generating in my pussy pulses throughout my nervous system. I think of how I want our naked bodies to press together, how I’d like to ride his cock, feel him spew inside me a hundred times. I want to smell his musky armpits. I want his bites, his tongue, his sweat to cover me. I’m lost in a swirl of thoughts, fucking him until he wakens me.

"Of all your work, I think that’s the best." He grins and nods to the damned white canvas. A white abyss that grows bigger each second, so big that I know I’ll fall in, never to emerge. I’m drowning in white emptiness.

"Fuck you, wise ass!" I know he’s kidding, but his comment hurts. My core thermostat plummets to ice queen levels.

"Aw, Alison. I’m sorry." I take refuge in mixing some white and red paint into an old ice-cream container.

"Thanks again for coming," I say without looking at him, "but you gotta leave. If I don’t get some work done, you don’t get next month’s rent."

He doesn’t move. "Mind if I stay and watch? I’d like to learn more about what you do." I look at him funny. Does he want a show?

"Well, there’s not much going on." Yet. "Maybe you can help me." I have an idea.

Whenever I get a really phenomenal, earth shattering idea I think of Bernini’s "The Ecstasy of St. Theresa." Like a subliminal flash, I can always see the statue of that nun, swooning in delight, basking in a rapturous glow. Her head is back, posture arched, mouth open and eyes shut -- the universal pose of orgasm. Getting orgasms and getting ideas are the same. That utterly ecstatic rush. An uncontrollable flood of emotion overtakes every capillary and corpuscle in the body. When I say I get off on ideas, I mean it.

So, I have an idea. At this epiphanous moment in my studio, with Lance’s hulking muscles basking in sweat, I long for his dick.

I pick up a wooden stirrer and a bucket of cherry red paint.

"Take off your shirt." I say the command softly. He obediently pulls off his T-shirt and drops it beside him. He is a perfect chiseled sculpture with six-pack abs, shapely pecs and big, strong hands. His chiseled features look so noble. A real, live, breathing David.

I let myself stare, lick my lips and take a deep breath. Down, hormones, down girls -- seducing him can’t happen quite yet.

"Just dip the stirrer into the paint and throw." I demonstrate, sending a smatter of red across the huge canvas. A lot of it lands on the floor, and deliberately, on him. His muscles clench from the chill of paint. He laughs, and then I do too.

"Guess I should take these off, too." Our eyes lock as he climbs out of his jeans and tosses them on the ladder against the wall. My instincts are right. No underwear -- behold, the raging, unleashed male.

I step forward to touch his chest, his defined stomach and the muscular contours of his thighs, leaving red prints wherever my hands roam, watching his thick cock rise.

I lick circles on his salty palm, then his fingers, and replay my popsicle performance from before, putting his thumb in my mouth, sucking it in between my teeth. I pull it out, and without taking my eyes from his, take a long, slow lick from his fingertip, to the knuckle, then back to the tip. Mirroring my actions, he begins, kissing my palm and lightly biting my finger tips.

We embrace. His arms are so strong. I feel his shaft hard against my stomach. My breasts flatten against his chest. He finishes sucking on my pointer finger, takes it out and puts my hand on his tight ass. I trace the light trail of fuzz and sweat up and down his lower back, down to his snug little hole. Once he relaxes, I stick in two fingers up to my knuckles and his muscles squeeze them tight. He grips my arm behind him, driving my fingers in further still.

He takes my face in his hands and rubs his thumb over my lips. When he kisses me, I think I’ll melt. I hear nothing but the loud hum of the air conditioner.

I step back to admire Lance’s body again. The shadows of his muscles appear and disappear each time his chest falls and rises to his heavy breathing.

For every step back I take, he takes one forward. Always make them come after you, but never let on that you’re doing the leading. Eventually, my back is against the ladder. I undo my cut-offs, letting them fall to my ankles. Lance presses against me and takes hold of either side of the rungs, caging me in.

I look down at our pubes mingling like the bodies of two sheep. Mine look like golden fleece in contrast to his dark wires. He closes his eyes. I put his thick shaft between my legs, moving my slippery snatch back and forth, each rub making me drip more. The long strokes grow shorter and our rhythm quickens. As if suddenly possessed, he tears off my shirt, releasing my breasts. I like catching his surprise at my nipple ring. He takes it in his mouth and loops his tongue through it, tugging lightly while pushing me against the rungs with his strong body.

I wrap a leg around his waist, giving him easy access to my dick-starved oozing cunt. He wiggles his fingers inside. I take them out. I slip in his cock. The air conditioner barely drowns out our moans.

People have another similarity to paintings. Underneath it all we’re the same. Past our painted exteriors, one bare canvas is identical to another. And just like the frame of canvas, we all have skeletons and the same anatomy. We have maps and highways of nerves that relay messages throughout our bodies about pain and pleasure. My pleasure deliveries are running furiously.

"Wait," I murmur. I lie down on that blank canvas. I imagine myself as Venus just having emerged from the ocean, I spread my hair around my head like a fan.

"Use orange." The color of building heat. Lance grabs the cup of orange paint off the table. Standing over me, he pours a cool stream down between my breasts, the center of my torso and into the pool of my navel. I roll over and wipe my body across the canvas, leaving a soft orange trail, loving the abrasive cloth against my skin.

He pours his body on top of mine and runs his hands down my arms, smearing them in a midnight blue. His hardness on my ass puts me in an urgent frenzy and I push myself up on all fours. I guide him in my steamy hole. An electric current jolts every nerve in my body, making my toes curl. I let out an Amazonian scream -- a scream of relief and desire.

I reach for the nearest bucket of paint and splash it over our backs, bathing us in a gold-yellow. Lance groans loudly. His rhythm picks up. Our bodies glide over each other, thoroughly lubricated by sweat and the cool slickness of paint. He cups my tits, kneads them and pinches my nipples. I clutch his sweet bum as hard as I can to get him in me deeper.

We become a giant smear of sex, thrashing in purple, wrestling in magenta, rolling in azure. Our shiny painted bodies writhe over every inch of the canvas that suddenly seems not big enough. We are a tremendous brush creating more splashes than any Pollock, more striking shapes than a Kandinsky and sexier than an O’Keefe.

On my back, my legs are on his shoulders. His body hovers above mine, like a dark rain cloud overtaking and relieving a dry prairie. The beads of sweat on the pallet of his face make clean trails through the blotch of green under an eye and black on a cheek. He plunges in deeper than before. I dig my nails into the canvas. He can’t go in further. I have to give in. My vision is blurry when I feel my walls contract. I assume the pose of St. Terri.

I roll him off of me and sit up. Yellow paint drips off my nipple and mingles with a puddle of teal, making a pea green.

But something is missing. I need one more color that I could never mix on my own. Pearl.

I push Lance down and start sucking on his joint. My tongue is like a finger, strumming the chord on the underside of his cock, and with each stroke, his body tightens. He puts his hands in my now matted hair and I let him guide my head just how he wants to, fucking my mouth. I need him to come hard and copiously. Up and down he dips his dick and balls into the warm, welcoming well of my mouth.

The second I taste his saltiness, I pull him out and aim his thick tube to spray his own beautiful gloss all over my breasts. When the last drop is tapped, I smudge my chest into the center of the canvas, working his hot come into the paint. It shimmers against the deep red.

Some people say there is an art to fucking. The art of the fuck. Fucking art. That’s what "Untitled 3" was all about to me. Fucking art. A week ago I read a review of my show:

Optically mesmerizing, "Untitled 3" feels both vulnerable and secretive, as if it were in the process of coming or going [we know it wasn’t going] all while expressing intense emotion...The focus on emotional color and its application creates a nonrepresentational style that spotlights the act of painting itself. Without further apotheosizing, brilliant.

Like I said, fucking art. All I know, is that it’s an Indian Summer in November, and I’m damn happy that the AC works.

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