Paints

Sunday, Apr. 28, 2002 - 2:30 pm
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

The Fiend is painting my ass.

(No, not with cum. But that's a nice thought, anyway.)

Right now, at this very moment, the Fiend is dabbing a dab of paint on my ass with a paintbrush. And now he's contemplating that dab of paint on my ass. And now he's wiping it off with a damp rag. And now he's contemplating his palette. And now he's stirring a teeny-tiny tinge of Naphthamide Maroon into a big off-white glob of paint that's a mixture of Titanium White and Titanium Buff, with traces of Yellow Ochre Light, Quinacridone Gold, Indian Red, and Red Oxide. I know this because I am reading the colors off the tubes of paint.

The Fiend is trying to match the color of my bum.

He's doing another dab. He's contemplating it. His normally smooth brow is meditatively crinkled. He's biting the end of his paintbrush. (I wonder if he knows how cute he looks when he does that? He always chews on his paintbrushes when he paints. He's so oral.)

Is it a match?

Nope. Back to the palette.

I am lying on my bed with books: The Doors of San Miguel de Allende by Robert de Gast, Fludd by Hilary Mantel, The Hours by Michael Cunningham, Still Life With Woodpecker by Tom Robbins. I chose The Hours, after I looked at all the pretty pictures in the de Gast book. I am lying on my stomach, with my ass exposed for the Fiend's scrutiny. I am dressed in typical Sunday-at-home garb: plaid flannel jammie bottoms and a long-sleeved t-shirt. I put aside my book when the Fiend joined me, rolled over on my back, lifted one knee (letting my cock flop around in a hopefully alluring manner), and tried to look wanton. The Fiend said, no, get back on your stomach, I want to look at your butt. That sounded encouraging. Anticipation arose when he pulled down my pants. But the Fiend had brought his paints. And he started painting my ass.

Naturally, I asked for an explanation.

(Hang on a sec. Another dab.)

Any good?

Gettin' there, sez the Fiend, digging another tube of paint out of his paintbox.

Wait a minute. Olive Green? Exactly what part of my ass are you looking at?

I need just a smidgen, sez the Fiend. You have a faint olivine tint to your skin, sez he.

Ah. Maybe that explains why I turn a vibrant glaucous hue just before I puke, sez I.

Maybe, sez the Fiend, in such a vague tone of voice that I know he's not interested in hearing one of my puke stories.

(I am scribbling this on my ever-faithful quad pad, with many abbreviations, and horrendous penmanship. I hope I can read it later when I type it up for the diary.)

Why (you're panting to ask) is the Fiend trying to mix a paint that matches the color of the pure, untanned skin of my buttocks? (You were panting to ask that question, weren't you?) How 'bout I give you the short answer first?

The Fiend wants to paint a desk the color of my ass.

It's all so clear now, isn't it?

That's too greenish, I tell the Fiend.

I know, he sez. Shut up and read your book.

How did we come to this? Well, not surprisingly, it's the fault of the Public Broadcasting Service. I think we can blame almost anything on PBS, don't you agree? But their culpability in this instance is very specific. Specifically, it was an episode of Antiques Roadshow that the Fiend was watching when he saw the Chinese ivory desk.

Are you hard? the Fiend asks.

I look at him with, I hope, an expression on my face that will convey to him my astonishment that he would ask such a dumb question.

What do you think? I ask him.

Well, I don't know, he sez. You're laying on your stomach.

(Can you believe this guy?)

I get hard just looking at you, I sez. I get hard just hearing your voice on the phone. I get hard when I ask you what kind of toppings you want on your pizza. I get hard in the grocery store wondering what kind of toothpaste you like. Right now, you're fiddling around with my naked bum. You better believe I'm hard.

Oh. Okay.

Do you want to see? I ask, with what I think is a certain plaintive charm.

Uh, not right now. I want to get this color. Try not to get too excited, I don't want your ass to get flushed.

You would think the Fiend, being an artist, would know his anatomy better than that. To my ass is not where my blood is flowing.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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