Saturday, January 3, 2009

Brush Strokes

I dated an artist once named Robert who had a very unusual method of applying paint to the canvas. I must admit I don't know too much about art, especially modern art. So when Robert took me to a museum one time on a date and raved about the textures in a Kandinsky work or how lush a Marc Roth painting vibrated, I merely nodded and flashed a simple smile. Crap. A bunch of smudges were all I saw. Anyhoo, I kept asking Robert to show me some of his work and each time he’d reply; ‘Soon Jilly. All in good time.” I was beginning to think he was embarrassed or perhaps he wasn’t really an artist after all. That is until he asked me to pose for him in his studio. Nude? Yes, he responded. We had gone out on three dates and Robert still hadn’t made a move on me. Sure we kissed and all, and he felt me up but every time I went for his crotch he’d pulled away. “Not tonight” or apologetically, “I have a lot on my mind” he’d say. Well, I figured he planned on seducing me in his studio as I stretched out in the raw and he eyeballed my shaved love muffin. This could be fun and quite romantic I remember thinking. When I got to his studio and saw some of his work, I was enthralled. Exquisite details and delicate brush strokes capitalized each canvas. I was very impressed and also very turned on by seeing Robert in his white smock and little black beret. He handed me a maroon linen shawl and told me I could disrobe in the bathroom. There was a white alabaster pedestal he wanted me to lean upon. The sunlight through the window warmed my skin and Robert stepped behind his easel to begin. I couldn't see him work, but imagined his cock straining against his smock as he painted my motionless form. I kept waiting for him to move towards me overpowered by lust. After about an hour, he told me I could take a break. This is it! Surely, his libido had skyrocketed and he was ready to fuck my brains out right there on the pedestal. I waited for a moment thinking he'd approach but he didn't. So once again, making the first move, I asked to see how the painting was coming along. He stammered out a few 'ums' then mustering up a somewhat coherent phrase blurting out; "Jilly, hold on". But it was too late. I came around the easel and noticed there was blood all over his crotch. Well, I thought it was blood at first. It was actually maroon paint. He was painting with his penis! It was the smallest thing I’d ever seen; thin as a toothbrush and about half the size. No longer than four-inches with the head tapering off into a point like a blunt pencil. I gasped as Robert quickly covered himself with his smock. "Are you painting me with your dick?" I asked in utter mortification. Angrily, his face grew as red as the maroon shawl I had left behind on the pedestal. Then, as he dipped his dick into a jar of turpentine, he winched and said quite haughtily; “This is how I paint and I use my balls for shading” Robert adjusted his beret and added; “It’s a masterpiece... is it not?’ Well, we broke up soon afterwards. If only his brush was as big as his ego, I may have learned a thing or two about fine art.

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