Pinkish Sort of Reddish Hue

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“I wanna paint a picture of you,” I tell her, “a picture of your secret place.”

“Not happening,” she says emphatically.

Finding my cigarettes, I smoke one even though I know it’ll play havoc on my guts.

“If you let me, I’ll be doing something no man has ever attempted with you. Think of how beautiful it will be to have me do that for you. It’ll be an act of intimacy unlike any other. Only the great artists of this world have ever done such a thing, and we can be the same as them, for we’re artists too, are we not?”

Sucking down a lungful of smoke, I hold my belly knowing I’ll soon be needing the toilet. As she eyes me with suspicion, I study her body making copious mental notes on the different types of paint I might need for the varying tones of her vaginal lips and the areas where her shaved stubble irritates her milky skin producing a pinkish sort of reddish hue that stimulates me as much as the sight of her pussy itself. If she lets me, I’ll show her sheer poetry. If she gives me a chance, I’ll make her see how beautiful my mind can be, and as if reading that mind, she crosses her legs with a snort.

“Why did you do that for?”

“Because I can see the cogs in your brain stirring to life, and whenever that happens, it’s never a good thing, at least not for me.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” I say.

“It’s true. The only things that interest you in this life are devious. You’re a pervert, and while I don’t mind you being perverted with my body in the confines of our bed, I won’t have you reducing my secrets to that of a crude painting or photograph you can use to jack off to when I’m not around. My secrets are my own—I’m not having you tread all over them just so you can feel empowered.”

Shaking my head, I suck down another lungful of smoke, feeling my guts rumble and groan as I go.

“Okay, I see how it is. If you let me take a photo of you with your legs spread, I’ll both clean the apartment and buy the groceries for an entire month. Anything you want, I shall buy you—within reason, of course.”

“And what do I get for a painting?” she asks.

“Umm, if you let me paint you in the same manner, I’ll clean the apartment for a month and take you to that Indian restaurant you like, the expensive one.”

Doing the calculations, she flicks the ash of her cigarette out the window without looking.

“So a photo is worth more than a painting to you? One minute you’re this great artist wishing to capture my inner spirit for some profound reason or other, and then the next you just wanna take a snap of my pussy on your cellphone? You really are nothing more than a sleaze.”

“No, no…,” I stammer, “if you let me take a photo, I can make as many paintings from that as I choose, which is why that option is of higher value. If I get the painting, I’m limited to just that one experience. The photo will be a never-ending source of creative goodness for me—for us—I mean.”

Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, she looks at me disapprovingly, and yet the offer is too good to refuse, and as she’s about to admit defeat, I can’t help but grin.

“Okay, one photo in exchange for a month’s cleaning and groceries, AND, a trip to my favourite Indian restaurant on a day of my choosing, and you buy my drinks like the gentleman you so obviously are not. Deal?”

Wincing at how much it’s going to cost me, my grin can’t help but grow from ear to ear.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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