He laid out for me on the couch. The late morning sun reaching back through the beveled glass window, making broad strokes of light on masculine form, perhaps to suggest where to leave the shadows. It gleamed in the silver and brown of his hair, tracing along the expanse of his back and in a seductive curve of his lower back and buttocks. For it was his turn to offer his body to my artistry. Every so often we would hide away in this secret oasis, aloft in a room that possessed the key dabble in our whims. With my hand resting in the gentlemanly crook of his arm, we would climb the steep stairs and let the ascent transform us.
He had selected the brush in time with a languid, silent beat somewhere between the rise and fall of the birdsong outside. Beside me, he had laid out a set of paint tubes, a canvas bag hosting a variety of brushes and a special container for his water. Trust me, he said, but not with spoken words. It was in the downcast of his eyes, the slight drooping of his shoulders and the quickening of his breath. I shifted my eyes back towards my body, his canvas, in acquiescence, my nipples hardened in anticipation.
I envisioned him gently running his fingertips over each handle before grasping the brush that called to him to deliver the first stroke. The brush traveled in an arch across my vision and in a firm movement along the crease of my inner right breast he traced a bluish path.
The exact color is hidden in his mastery of blending in accordance with the beating of his heart’s wings. Every brush stroke became bolder, surer. The colors leapt forth, vivid and alive. His vision unfolded in bursts of tangerine, with interjections of turquoise and black, in the highlights of the palest shades of corals and yellows. When he interlocked the last thread of color on my inner thigh, he lifted the brush and leaned back with his legs folded underneath him. The sunlight painted one side of his face and with the one eye that channeled beatific fire and fragility of time. He was breathing came in deep waves and his erection twitched. I couldn’t determine if it was in this moment that I became his masterpiece or it metamorphosed into me.
He is now before me with his chin resting on his folded hands. I realized at that moment that he was the true artist. I leaned over and touched my lips to his back in an undefined pattern, one after another. After the last lingering kiss, I seized the brush with a soft, rounded tip. One hand ran down his back and the other dipped and swirled the tip in the wetness of color. I choose watercolor.
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