Bad Sex With Monica Drake
Splatter art with Painter Boy.
March 26, 2007
So I met this guy at school — or maybe it was at a punk-rock show, some kind of music, I don't remember — but I know I'd seen him around long before we ever talked and the thing was, he was great. He had light-brown skin and an easy smile, strong arms and paint on his clothes. He painted on big canvases in a warehouse in an illegal squatters' space downtown. He looked into my eyes when he talked. He was hard in all the right ways but I guessed he'd be secretly adoring, maybe up for adventure.
We drank cheap beer together because that's what spoke to the Bohemian in us. Why go for frou-frou and fancy drinks? We were not of the bourgeoisie, not yet, not then. I lived in a studio apartment. He — let's call him Kerouac, for the hell of it — might not have lived anywhere. Maybe he slept in his painter's squat. Maybe he walked the streets.
Let's call him Basquiat, or Pollack, or Henry Miller. Why not? You get my point: old-school romanticism, the wild-man artist. It was all over him. Kurt Cobain? No, it wasn't like that. He wasn't so troubled, at least not in any obvious way.
One day in my studio, we were drinking beer and stacking bottles into pyramids. We were drawing together, in the light of my big open windows. Other people came and went, dropping in to share their stash, their company, their aimless ways. I had a pack of oil pastels. Basquiat and I, Kerouac and I, we had almost as much paper as we had time on our hands. We drew and we drank, and before the sun even moved below the mid-afternoon roofline of the city outside the windows, we were smashed.
He leaned over and used the side of an oil pastel to run a long, broad line of red down the thigh of my worn jeans. I felt the heat of his hand as it followed that line, from my crotch to my knee, over the curve of muscles and bones.
What could I do?
I wrapped an arm over his shoulders, pulled him close. I drew a blue smiley on his shirt. Basquiat's shirt was thin and slid over his skin, his body, his pecs.
Oil pastel is smeary and thick. It stays put and travels, both. The day was warm, the apartment sweltering, and the pastels were soft under our hands. He, this man of mine, drew long eyelashes down my cheek, made the oil pastel into makeup, but it wasn't good makeup, wasn't willing, it was erratic. I drew on his face too, and when he pulled off his shirt I drew on his shoulder, down over his hairless brown chest. The pastel crayon tugged at his skin. It snapped in half. We squirreled around backward to look in my broken mirror and laughed, because we were turning ourselves into clowns, into art, into a perfectly matched pair. When we knocked over a beer bottle pyramid, it would've been better if we weren't sitting on the floor, because not all the bottles were empty and beer ran like a river over the warped wooden floor boards. It ran fast under my leg, over our drawings. I laughed and screamed, jumped up and peeled off my soaked, pastel-smeared jeans.
He took off his pants. Then his boxers, and his cock, first hanging, edged its way up, up, stiffening, to say hello. I pulled off my T-shirt, bra-less. The windows were open, light pouring in. It was our first time naked together and I had his drawings on my face and he had mine on his body and we saw ourselves in the slice of broken, green-tinged mirror: Adam and Eve, with a pack of crayons.
I pushed the open apartment door closed. Goodbye, neighbors! Catch you later!
And he fell on my bed, only a few feet away. I followed.
He climbed on me, skin on skin, warm and ready. Too ready. Right away I felt a splash against my thigh. I looked down, started to ask, "Was that . . . ah?"
He laughed, he apologized, then I laughed too, and he rolled over me, kissed my neck, ran a hand through my long hair. But it was only a few minutes before another sploosh hit my leg, this time on my hip. Surprised, I had to stop again, and look at him.
He whispered, "Don't worry, don't worry," and rubbed his cock on my thigh. I thought, okay, now we're getting things going on. But within minutes, there it was — the gush, the geyser. Spew hit my elbow. For this man, there was no build-up, no way to hold back and no delay for reloading. He didn't give up. His cock touched my belly, and there was the splash, the sploosh, another pool of splooge. He shot his load like a blind man duck hunting, wildly and at random.
I was a target in some kind of pie-throwing contest, only the pies were more like raw eggs. He couldn't hold his stuff — he tossed come everywhere.
If it's true sperm is good for the skin, I was at a day spa. If it's really packed with antidepressants, the way some doctors say, then this guy was a walking pharmacy. Once a virgin in Brazil died of anaphylactic shock the first time she had sex, allergic to semen. Thank God I didn't have that problem.
I reached for Kleenex to put on the wet spots, then lay back on the bed. When the speweypuddles got heavy around us, we rolled to the other side of the bed. Too soon we had to move again, to the very edge.
Before I was even aroused, we had to move down near the bottom of the bed, the only dry spot left, then over to the floor. And I hadn't even gotten started. It was all him — just shooting, and shooting. He tried to go down on me, but his body crumpled, bent in half, as he let his load fly again. He was a sprinter, a wild hose, a fire extinguisher, and the only fire going out was mine. I couldn't quit counting, quit watching, until I was an observer, not a part of the act. His act. After a while, I got up, left him in his swimming pool, what had been my bed. I went to take a shower.
That might've been the end of our entanglements. He wasn't the man for me. But right away he hooked up with one of my closest friends. There was a night we were all out on the town, drinking big drinks. It was early morning when the three of us crashed out in my bed. It wasn't about sex, it was about sleeping. That's what my friend and I thought, anyway.
I woke up to a familiar sploosh against my thigh. I woke up to a tongue on my clit, a hand on my hip, another splash against my fingers. I reached down, felt his head. Then I sat up fast. I yelled his name. My friend woke up, too. What the fuck?
My friend and I, we have our code of ethics. He was her man, now. And she was right there, in bed, beside us.
Kerouac, Basquiat, Pollack — what this lovely puppy dog of an artist, this sweet over excitable man said was, "I thought she was you! I thought you were her!"
My friend and I, we had to send him packing, to kick him out, together. n°
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