Bulletin Board of Bad Behavior

21!

Janis leaves. I wait until I hear the door shut.

“I'm gonna paint.â€￾ I yell down the hall. Alice will like the fact we are making art.

“What was that?â€￾

“Paint. I'm gonna paint,â€￾ I repeat.

“Good for you kid.â€￾

I wait for more but it's not forthcoming. I gather my supplies and carry them down to Janis's room. I arrange a chair in the corner. I take out my brushes and paints and set them up on a small table. I position a new canvas.

I've never done anything this cool in my life. Painting a live nude girl: a very hot live nude girl! My girl. This is like a French film Mike and I saw, La Belle Noiseuse, where this old painter guy gets to drink wine and paint this beautiful girl. And in the film the painter's wife doesn't really care, until he starts screwing the model. But she is his muse, and so in an artistic way it was sorta socially expectable for painters to be old horny guys like that. You don't get that mentality in America.

Maybe Janis is my muse.

There is still some paint in the brushes making the bristles stiff. I soak them in solution. I never clean my brushes as well as I should. I also don't stay within the outlines. I'm a sloppy painter, which could be a metaphor for my life. I don't give a fuck. I'm living in the moment.

Janis returns with a grocery bag filled with wine and foodstuffs perfect for a picnic- a loaf of crusty bread, two hunks of cheese, deli cold cuts, fruit and cashews.

“You want to eat now?â€￾ I ask. I pop a few of the salty nuts into my mouth. It wets my appetite and increases my thirst.

“No, let's work first,â€￾ she says. “I don't want my stomach sticking out.â€￾

“Well, I'm going to have some wine.â€￾

“Okay, me too.â€￾

I open the first bottle with the Swiss army knife that Mike gave me for last Christmas. I remember I still need to buy presents for this Christmas. Janis and I drink out of teacups. We sip in silence, we lock eyes, and then we both put our cups down. Janis takes off her clothes. She sits in a compromising position. I start to get hard. I clear my thoughts. I vigorously work on her figure. Janis stays still and stoic. She is very good at this. I wonder if she has modeled before.

I finish my wine and loosen up. The brush strokes take on a contextual meaning. The painting is taking shape. I am starting to orchestrate the color schemes. I use a noir background and contrast that with eggshell white for her pale winter flesh. Dashes of avocado go into the green eyes and cobalt blue into the pubic hair.

I have another glass of wine. I don't want to finish the painting all in one sitting. My work is always better when I do it in stages and besides, it will be another chance to get Janis to pose nude for me. I hold the teacup of wine to my pursed lips and look at the creation with proud satisfaction. Janis clears her throat.

“Um, Monet,â€￾ Janis says. “Can I move now, are you finished?â€￾

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that.â€￾

“It's not easy staying so still.â€￾

Janis starts to move, and does a few yoga stretches to get the kinks out of her body. I find it kinky. When my hard-on returns I don't ignore it. I'm turned on again. All artistic endeavors are forgotten. I take a brush and make a stroke from her neck down to her belly button. It leaves a blue mark between her breasts down to her tummy. I kiss her breasts, sucking on her candy raisin nipples like the sweet confectionery they resemble. Janis groans. I pull back and take the brush and make another stroke. I start covering her in smiley faces and hearts and peace signs.

“What are you doing?â€￾ she asks.

“I'm making you into a lovely flower power child.â€￾

“I'm not a hippy,â€￾ she smiles. “But I do like Devendra Banhart.â€￾

I write 'yummy' on her lower back.

“Let me do you,â€￾ Janis says.

“Me?â€￾

“Yeah, you.â€￾

I take my clothes off and Janis starts to paint me. She doesn't draw much of anything but covers me in all colors. Soon we are kissing and on top of each other. The paints start to blend into a mucky brown. We are getting paint over the carpet of her room but I'm too turned on to tell Janis what a mess we are making. I don't want to stop. We start getting into it heavy. I find a condom and put it on making sure to avoid the paint. I don't want anything toxic to enter her body but I sure want to be inside there myself. I penetrate her and it's tight but wet and full of pleasure. I push forward on her and our bodies move against each other, we create a new design of swirls.

This is primal, sloppy fun. I'm a fucking artist fucking. Janis contracts against me and her breath becomes labored. I know girls fake orgasms and I have my share of performance anxiety but this is too good, feels like a vise grip massaging my dick. I look into her eyes and they are wide and wild. Her pupils are dilated like she's on psychedelics and I know this is the real thing. I want to tell her I love her. Instead, I just keep making love to her.

When we are fucked out Janis and I have a hell of a chore cleaning up all the paint. Then we eat the food and drink the wine.

We are in her bed, in the spoon position, our limbs wrapped around each other. I think of Rachael. It was real fun fucking Rachael and I wonder if I'll ever be able to have sex with her again. My thoughts feel like cheating.

“What are you thinking about?â€￾ Janis asks.

I turn to look at her. I look into her eyes and hold her gaze.

“I'm thinking about how lucky I am to have met you.â€￾

“Mmmm,â€￾ Janis purrs. “Me too.â€￾

She gives me a squeeze and I squeeze her, then she touches me where it feels good, and I touch her where it feels good, and we start it all over again, this time without the paints.

As one who had babysat Nelson, I have to say I'm very sorry.

I've been watching loads of 9/11 stuff on TV, like last night there was a movie made by two French documentary filmmakers who were with these fire fighters on September 11th. Their film was going to be about how a rookie becomes a man in the NYPD. When the call went out for the World Trade Centers the brothers went with the truck and caught the whole day on film. They were in the towers, only a block away when the first one collapsed- their footage went all surreal white, images the whole world has seen many times- and they also caught the aftermath. And what resulted was these two French brothers really now belong to part of the NYPD. Let's never forget the French gave us the Statute of Liberty. And let's never forget we deserved it. We fought the good war. And that war, like all wars, was hell. But this war we fight now is another thing. Like double-double hell, or something.

Anyway all the 9/11 reflection in this city is giving me anxiety and also making me really sad. And on the 5th year of remembrance there is still nothing built on the 16-acre New York City expanse where the World Trade Center used to be. I'm gonna give my moment of silence…and get back to Scribbles. Keep on keepin' on.

Doing time at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center: Over twelve hours a day at the US Open.

Due to copyright reasons, copycat reasons, I can't post most of what I wrote about this years' US Open. I can give you the scribbles that I came up with after staring at the sun too long. Trust me, it is brighter than the corporate bullshit.

When you immerse yourself into a tournament you are gonna see it all, the blood, sweat and tears. The Draw eventually goes down to one. For that one lucky skilled person it is 'Miller Time'. But they should probably rename it 'Federer Time.' I was in the stands screaming my lungs out the night Mighty Mighty James Blake took on The Rog, but Federer was just too good. He doesn't hit it the hardest, he doesn't move the fastest, but he is total tennis.

James had his chances, oh how I wet my pants when in the tie-break, in the first set he went from 4-1 down to 6-4 up. You only need seven to win!!!!! But like in public park tennis when the levels don't always match up, one player can always take a match whenever he wants. And that is what Federer did.

Andy Roddick had a great run at the Open, and like James, he even managed to get the second set off Federer in the final. But not even Jimmy Conors could advance the cause for the American. (I missed this because I chose to instead spend my time at the Kettle of Fish Packer Bar in the West Village where we were shoved in like fat greased sardines and I had to sit next to three obese Bears fans with bad breath. We lost 26-0 at home. To Da Bears. With my misery complete I turned to Kyle and said in a voice everyone could hear, “If they are gonna let big fat ugly women in here, than they better at least be from Wisconsin!â€￾

Back to tennis. I never should have left it.

On the Women's side Sharapova proved good and beat hard nosed little Justine.I was a great fan of Maria's around the time she won Wimbledon, and than I wasn't so much a fan of Maria's- sorta hated her dad and his whole antics but still loved those oh so long lovely legs of hers. I do give her props for the Audrey Hepburn inspired little black dress/tennis outfit.

But there is another side to this life. One not for the winners. For the HUMANS in the US Open, when it comes to crunch time and the tournament 'gets tough' and most players in the Men's and Women's draw are sent home, the play on the outer courts is left to the Juniors, the Champions (the now Seniors who were probably once Junior Champions) and Wheel Chair tennis. So on days when the Grandstand isn't even used, the side courts are bustling and also bursting (keep reading) with activity.

After the great movie Murder Ball I was intrigued to witness Wheel Chair tennis. Knowing if I ever suffered a fate of paraplegic proportions I wouldn't want to live, I wanted to see people presumably much better at living than me serve and volley.

Unfortunately, time restraints kept me from catching a match. I did watch some practice, and there isn't much more in the way of motivation (or to make you feel like a lazy ass) than seeing these people so focused and determined. Like in the movie Murder Ball, the Wheel Chair athletes come across as more sincere. They seem to be more mentally tough and dedicated to victory than some of their able bodied peers.

I did watch some Juniors because discovering the next Federer, or at least the next Vincent Spadea, is more plausible than finding a Van Gogh at a stoop sale. There is a chance to see up and coming greatness, or at least in Vince's case, up and coming professional ok-ness. I saw more than I bargained for. From a ball boy.

On court 13 there was a Jr. Girls' doubles match that featured four very fit, lean and long legged teen girls whose nipples were poking out of their sweaty tops. Even though the competition wasn't stiff, this didn't keep one of the ball boys from getting an erection. After it became apparent his issued Polo apparel couldn't conceal the young man's hard-on the chair umpire had to stop the match and excuse the kid, who made it worse by throwing up while leaving the court in tears. Puke on a hot tennis court is never a good thing. Oh, what's a shy wallflower boy with raging hormones to do? If you think about it, the situation is almost a sick joke. Luckily, I don't think about it. That can be a debate between Health Class and Phys Ed.

The future of American Men's tennis has been dropped on the not so broad, and now not so young, Donald Young. Two years ago this left-hander from Atlanta, Georgia was as hot as Outkat's 'Hey Ya.' He was the number one seeded Boy's Junior in Wimbledon, but lost early. Since then the development hasn't been there and what was once so much promise is now seen as mediocrity. That is a lot of pressure on a kid who is still not even eighteen. Don was upset in the semis.

The # 3 Boys Junior seed Nicolas Santos from Brasil was also upset, and even if he doesn't have all the firepower yet needed to be a pro he has enough fire in his guts to be a top twenty player some day. The desire is already there, and the strength will come. Of course, in tennis, no one gives a shit about you unless you are in the top ten in the world. That is less than one single teams fielded side in football.

If you are like me and can fake your way into the tournament I say good for you. Some people might even think you are some sort of journalist- but hey, I did see in the hospitality tent a young dude wearing an orange t-shirt with a big B on it with 'Blogger' underneath. I approached him and asked, “Hey are you a blogger covering the Open?â€￾ He said, “No. I write for the Christian Science Monitor.â€￾

Down with whitey! For those who can afford the tournament they get most things free, like corporate box seating, drinks, and cake. I have never been given cake. I was once given a pot brownie, but never cake. Because when I'm not faking that I write for Tennis Daily, I'm mostly living an underground Bohemian lifestyle. Which means I'm surrounded by good music, fine cheap wine and sexy girls who walk around my apartment naked while reciting Anis Nin poetry, who sometimes spontaneously (can it be spontaneous if they are already naked?) jump into my bed and exclaim, “Ravish Me!â€￾ Yes, living the underground Bohemian lifestyle has its perks. But living the underground Bohemian lifestyle I'm not privy to the preppy contingent that views tennis not so much as a sport, but a social event. I don't get anywhere near perky Buffy's pert breasts, and Buffy comes from the kind of money that is mostly running the show when not doing lunch on the streets between Park Ave. and the Park.

Down with whitey. So, here are some secrets for the 'real' tennis freaks. The art of the sneak-in. Though my moral character won't allow me to actually do this myself, my sense of justice cannot help me but to share this information.

Send one person through the gate. Have that person buy two 'collector' beers and guzzle the first one down. Then tuck one cup into the other and leave the grounds with a full beer making sure to get stamped. The stamp is not water resistant, so meet the friend, lick the stamp and rub it onto the friends hand. Take the two beer cups and pour half the beer into the other cup so you each have a beer. Walk back in and have the beer cup in the hand with the stamp. Even if the stamp is a little smudged they will see the beer cup and presume that you were both already in. Two for the price of one.

God Bless America.

Fashion week is about to hit New York once again. Which is lucky for me, because I can always find some waif at bar time who has drunk her weight in vodka. And having the luxury of living alone in Manhattan I'm never more than a short cab ride away from gettin' some of that fine blacked out mannequin fucking.

I'm joking! Of course I don't like sex with models. Gross.

Along with fashion week comes all the assholes with opinions on the society that shapes us, or shapes society. It always brings up the issue of weight. Models too thin. Americans too fat. Let's make that Americans too obese. Being too obese is like saying, “I love you sooo much.â€￾ When just saying, “I love you,â€￾ should be enough. The average model is 5'9 and 110. The average American woman is 5'4 and 154. In America, there is just more to love. (And hate.)

The Albert Hall is not in Mancherster.

http://www.royalalberthall.com/flash/in ... fo,getting

Do you have Spiritualized live at the Royal Albert Hall? I do on double double good vinyl. Yes, I do do.

On what might be one of the last warm sunny weekends of the summer I was walking through Central Park. I was enjoying myself. The Flaming Lips' Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots always reminds me of long summer days and I was softly humming the songs. When I whispered-sung 'Do You Realize?' I realized that in my fleeting happiness I had momentarily forgotten that everyone I know will die. A huge melancholy gripped me and I needed to sit down. I pondered it all. Life and Death.

I needed to keep walking. I thought about small beginnings. I thought of birth. I had a hard time getting my mind around the fact that we all come from women. Every single person alive came out of a vagina. I was walking through Sheep Meadow and people were everywhere, sunbathing and playing and just all around. All those people, POP POP POP, came out of a vagina.

It was staggering.

All those people.

All those vaginas.

POP POP POP.

I grabbed a guy by the arm and said, “You came out of a vagina!â€￾

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“No,â€￾ he said. “I was a cesarean.â€￾

“Huh?â€￾

“I was a C-Section,â€￾ he repeated and hurried away from me.

Oh, I thought. Here comes the fall.

Lyrics - Flaming Lips—Do You Realize

Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face

Do You Realize - we're floating in space -

Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry

Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know

You realize that life goes fast

It's hard to make the good things last

You realize the sun doesn't go down

It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round

Do You Realize - Oh - Oh - Oh

Do You Realize - that everyone you know

Someday will die -

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know

You realize that life goes fast

It's hard to make the good things last

You realize the sun doesn't go down

It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round

Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face

Do You Realize

send them to me. tracklisting looks great

We should turn Pax Acidus into a My Space place but keep the people OFF THE BUS out. Join our Club? It might be about time. Or I might need to join those fuckers. Ugh! LOS ANGELES (AP) - MySpace.com will soon enable members of the popular online social networking hub to sell downloads of their origi...

We need more heartbeats.

Andre Agassi should retire. Right now. After his last two matches he hasn't even been able to stand up. After the first match Andre needed two cortisone injections.

Andre said he didn't want to go out hobbling off the court. Now here is his chance. Why not withdrawal after beating the up and coming star and current top 10 player Marcos Baghdatis? Go out with a victory.

I want Andre to keep playing. I want Andre to win. But I don't want Andre to be in so much pain.

Andre Agassi should do whatever he wants. I just hope he knows that no matter who plays in the final, Andre is already the only champion of this US Open.

NEW YORK (AP) -As bad as his back has been, Andre Agassi never resorted to taking injections during a tournament. This U.S. Open is hardly any event, though: It's his final one, and Agassi now has received two types of shots to deal with the pain.

Agassi was given an injection of anti-inflammatory medication Friday, his trainer, Gil Reyes, said in a telephone interview. Unlike Tuesday, when Agassi went to a hospital for a cortisone shot, this procedure was done at Agassi's hotel, because his back hurt too much for a car ride.

The eight-time Grand Slam title winner didn't practice at all Friday, the day before his third-round match against German qualifier Benjamin Becker.

Agassi was examined by the U.S. Open's chief medical officer, Brian Hainline, following his theatrical five-set, 3-hour, 48-minute second-round victory over eighth-seeded Marcos Baghdatis, a match that stretched from Thursday night into Friday.

A hobbling Agassi appeared to have trouble swatting autographed balls into the stands when his victory was complete and shifted in his chair as he tried to find a comfortable position during the postmatch news conference. Reyes said the 36-year-old Agassi needed to lie on the ground outside the players' lounge in Arthur Ashe Stadium while waiting to be driven to his hotel.

“Andre's back was stiffening up. Pretty excruciating,â€￾ Reyes said. “The inflammation was causing tremendous pain and an obvious lack of mobility.â€￾

Agassi has dealt with a painful sciatic nerve for some time now; it's why he played only 15 matches in 2006 before the Open.

Because of you Marky, I'm gonna get me some more Zep.

It was a crowded day at the US Open. I had to wait in line for two hours before I got in, but who better to queue with than British tourists. We were talking football and all things were honky dory until I mentioned that Andy Murray is Scottish and doesn't like the English.

I almost missed Nicole Vaidisova, who at the age of seventeen has the body of Wonder Woman. Luckily she was pushed to three sets so I caught the last of her match on Court 4. Nicole has the natural bodily talent to be a number one, but rumors persist that she also has a messed up head that sits on top of statuesque perfection to end up a could-a-been, should-a-been, Marat Safin.

I saw Serena Williams practicing with both her mom and dad. At first I thought, that has got to be one of the Williams sisters, and I didn't mean the svelte Venus In Furs. But it was Serena, who seems to have broadened her sporting events from not only tennis, but also competitive eating. Someone should tell Serena that in the fashion business it pays to be thin.

I grabbed a few over priced beers and soon drank more than the price of admission. (That's not true, I stayed sober, but I like that sentence. And besides, I've been pissed enough in the past to deserve it.) I decided to be patriotic and support Justin Gimelstob vs. the second best Spaniard in the world David Ferrer, even though it meant missing Elena Dementieva.

I clapped my hands and didn't drink beer, and shouted, “Come On Justin!â€￾ like a teenybopper crying for Justin Timberlake. I needn't have bothered. Justin got his ass kicked in three quick sets. And I also don't like his game. A few Wimbledon's ago, Justin really gave it a go, jumping around getting grass stains, and pounding his body to win. Yesterday was a disaster and Gimelstob was a non-starter.

A side note: There was a very beautiful, and fakely stacked girl in a green top who Justin kept staring at, and she kept moving around not really caring who won or lost. I wondered if Justin was distracted. I mean I was watching her too, but I didn't have a match to play. As it turns out I ran into Justin today at the Union Sq. Virgin Megastore. I asked him, “What the fuck happened, it was like you didn't even try. I missed Elena Dementieva in the Grandstand for you.â€￾ He just mumbled something. Then I asked about the girl. He said way to eagerly, “What, have you seen her?â€￾

Chump.

I saw Justine Henin-Hardenne's husband Pierre-Yves, who bites his nails even when he isn't watching Justine in Arthur Ashe Stadium. He seemed a little slow-witted but I'm sure Pierre-Yves is a very agreeable fellow.

Later I watched Youlia Fedossova, a qualifier ranked way up there at 264, who upset the number 25th seed Anabel Medina Garrigues of Spain, 7-5, 6-1 in the 1st round. She was playing against Estonian Kaia Kanepi and her little entourage of face painters and flag wavers. Youlia, who despite her last name ending in the Russian hottie 'VA' is actually French. She was up in the 1st 4-2 but lost 6-4. She won the second set, only to repeat the 1st, going up 4-2, but losing 6-4. I ran into her coming off the court. I'm in love. But then I thought, she is probably fifteen. I looked her up on the US Open website but there was no info, not even her picture. But take my word for it, take these words, she is to die for.

NIGHT TIME. ANDRE TIME.

Andre has to keep getting injections to even stand up, but he fights on in the last Open of his career. It was another brilliant 5 setter, to rival last years James Blake marathon. If you didn't see it I can't describe it. But don't worry. It will soon be a rain delay favorite.

Important note forwarded from Heathers, our favorite bar in the world… This was posted by Dan Selzer, one of my fav DJ's in New York City, on Dan's New York Yahoo Happenings. It was an email he recieved from Heathers. Heathers is where Dan does Dazzle Ships. Subject: You better fight, for your rig...

The clock on the wall say eight-thirty and my first class, painting, is at ten. I should be able to make it back to Jersey on time if I leave right away and don't have a morning masturbation session reminiscing over last night. I get dressed, tucking my erection into my pants.

This is the last week of classes before Christmas break. We go longer than the real schools like Princeton, who are already out. I can't afford to miss any more classes.

In the bathroom I use the free toiletries. I brush my teeth and water down my face, splashing cold water into my eyes. I'm still in a fog. After the drinking and drugs of the last few days I need a weeks sleep.

I leave the room slowly, without wanting to really depart. I take a last look around, trying to recapture the comfort of such an inviting bed in such a fine place. I see a note Rachael taped to the door. It says that I should come to see her and that maybe her sister can help me get a job that will allow me to get to Europe. I leave the luxury behind. In the lobby I get some funny stares from the people who work there. I don't feel as cool leaving as I did arriving.

I catch a cab to Port Authority. Outside it's the usual hustle and hassle of street people and con artists trying to get by. This is the place where the decline happens, a strong convergence of beggars, pimps, prostitutes and lost tourists. I wait at the departure site for the bus that stops only a few blocks from my house. I have to wait fifteen minutes before it comes so I smoke a cigarette and drink some bad coffee. No matter how stuck up those people where in that café Janis took me to at least they knew good coffee. Anything would beat the black hot piss that I'm drinking out of a white Styrofoam cup.

19!

On the bus I fall asleep and miss my stop. I wake up a few stops past mine and get off and run home. Grandpa is sitting, as usual, on the couch looking out the window.

“Hey,â€￾ I say. “Find any new ones?â€￾

“Naw.â€￾

I rush down to my room. I change out of my clothes. I put the poetry books on a shelf near my records. I grab my paints, paintbrushes, and canvases. I run back up stairs. Grandpa turns his head to look at me.

“Where have you been?â€￾ he asks, taking a strange new interest in me.

“Sorry, no time to talk. I'm late for class.â€￾

“That girl stopped by.â€￾

“Who?â€￾

“How the hell do I know, who? The one you like I guess.â€￾

“Oh.â€￾

“She has got nice curves.â€￾

“That's enough of that.â€￾

“Mike talked to her.â€￾

“Oh.â€￾

“What class do you have?â€￾

“Painting.â€￾ I hold up my brushes.

“That the one where you have nude girls sit down and spread their legs?â€￾

“Yeah. I mean no, well yeah there are girls that sit for us but they don't spread their legs.â€￾

“Who cares, you get to see some titties right?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

“When you are my age seein' titties in person, even from a stage, keeps you alive.â€￾

“Sure Grandpa, just don't cause trouble at the supermarket today.â€￾

I run from the house and make it to the bus station as the bus pulls away from the curb. I pound on the side and the guy stops for me. Usually the bus drivers never stop when they are pulling away from the curb. I sit down with my art supplies. I look at the other passengers. A few businessmen, a few old people along for the ride and a young kind who looks like a Tommy-Timmy prototype listening to a iPod so loud the heavy metal is hissing out his cheap headphones filling the bus with a distorted buzz. Even though I can't paint very well I like acting artistic. It's like I'm going to create something worthwhile and everyone else is just riding the bus. I re-shoulder the art bag in a smug earnestness.

I get to class and everyone is already working. I talk to my teacher and tell a lie. I say that my final project, which we were supposed to start three weeks ago but I haven't even started, is going well. I sit down and arrange my water and brushes. I hope the model is hot.

The teacher gives a quick lecture about painting nudes and then the model walks in. The model is beautiful, naked and sexy. He also has a dick. I thought we were getting female models. I'm disappointed but not as much as grandpa is going to be. There is a tap on my shoulder. At first I think it's my teacher because I'm lost in concentration and sometimes he walks around and helps us out with constructive criticisms. When I turn my head I see Janis. She has pulled up a chair and is sitting right behind me.

“What are you doing here?â€￾ I hiss, “Do you just show up for classes? Do you even pay a tuition?â€￾

“Shhh, I want to talk to you.â€￾

“I don't want to talk to you,â€￾ I lie.

“I want to explain. When do you get a break?â€￾

“About a half-hour.â€￾

“I'll wait.â€￾

I turn back to my painting and now feel self-conscious with her watching me. I can't make any fluid strokes.

Janis leans over into my ear again and says,â€￾ I really like your painting.â€￾

This helps. I get back into the groove. I concentrate and try to paint with discipline. We are supposed to be learning to paint, not taking artistic license. I'm here to learn the craft of form and function. Even Picasso had to learn the rules before he went abstract.

The night before the model must have had beans. While I'm working on his muscular buttocks, there is a long wet juicy fart. There is no doubt where that fart came from. It wasn't silent and deadly. It was a loud and deadly fart.

Everyone stops painting and now really stares at the model. Some obviously seeing a person for the first time. The teacher stops moving for a moment. There is a pregnant pause and then the model embarrassingly scoots from his position on the podium. With a shriek he hightails it out of the classroom naked. I think that this is the last we will be seeing of him. But I'm wrong. The model comes back about a minute later to retrieve his clothes. I think he is crying. Maybe now we can get some cute female models in. The teacher doesn't really know what to say. Since we lost our object he calls the class early. He tells us we should use the extra time to work on our final projects.

The class is dismissed. Janis and I walk outside and have a cigarette. The wintry air sits like an icy barrier between us. I don't know what to say. If she wants to talk to me I'll let her start.

“That was an interesting class,â€￾ she says.

“Yup.â€￾ I'm still mad and am not giving anything away. But I smile.

We look at each other and start to laugh. Our laughing builds slowly but soon gets out of hand. I grab her to keep from falling over. She grabs me back and we lose our balance on the icy sidewalk. We roll over into a snow bank and collapse into each other's arms. My canvas falls into the snow bank. It sticks out like a potato chip stuck in sour cream dip.

We help each other up and then kiss. I brush of the canvas, even though it is ruined. We walk together toward the bus stop. I'm sick of buses. They are not romantic escape routes. Janis tells me she wants to talk.

“So you are bi-sexual?â€￾ I blurt out.

“No. I don't like labels. As soon as you are labeled it seems to strengthen the group but limit the individual. I can understand women's rights and lesbianism but I'm not a fist waver and besides I like who I like and it's not about gender and I don't want to be told that it is.â€￾

“Yeah, I guess,â€￾ I say.

“Don't get me wrong. There are times I wish I was more of a strong powered dyke.â€￾

“Oh.â€￾

“I'm just so sick of women living in the world of derogatory comments and women buying it.â€￾

“What do you mean?â€￾

“Derogatory comments, you know.â€￾

“Not really.â€￾

“Think about it Trevor. Like 'she's a good fuck' or 'has nice tits.' Those are things girls like to hear because we want to be good lovers and have nice bodies but there is no respect behind the words. It's objectifying us as pieces to be used and abused.â€￾

“And that's why you were with that girl?â€￾

“No, that turned out wrong. I was on Ecstasy and it just felt good. If you wouldn't have run off so fast you could have joined us.â€￾

“Really?â€￾

“Yeah, I wanted to do it with you but Shelly came by and we just took it and were waiting for you to go clubbing in the city and it was just fucking bliss. You ever do Ecstasy?â€￾

“No, I mean I took what was supposed to be Ecstasy, but I never got off the way you were. I think I need to find new drug dealers.â€￾

The bus comes and we get on. I get horny thinking about having sex with Janis and her friend the skinny Shelly with the big tattoo on her back and blue hair. At the same time I'm a jealous guy and I really like Janis and don't want to share her with anyone. I wonder if these thoughts make me a male oppressor.

We get off a few blocks from Janis's house.

“You have to work?â€￾ she asks.

“No.â€￾

“What are you doing?â€￾

“I don't know.â€￾

“You want to do something?â€￾

“I don't care.â€￾

“No,â€￾ Janis says a little pissed off. “Either you want to do something with me or you don't. I won't take this lassitude.â€￾

“I want to do something with you,â€￾ I say with sincerity. I figure now is the time for the truth, not wounded pride. “Whatever you want to do.â€￾

Janis shakes her head. “I want to go out for a dinner and a movie. We could use a normal night out. The blah, blah average dating ritual. It's a test, if you can't decide what to order at the restaurant or talk during the film I want to break up.â€￾

“I wouldn't do that. Are we going out?â€￾â€￾

“I didn't think you would, but since you are such a cute boy I let you know in advance, because I'm on your side. And no, don't worry we are not going out.â€￾

“Thanks, I think.â€￾

Janis kisses me. I kiss her back.

“Hey, Janis.â€￾

“What?â€￾

“Why are we not going out?â€￾

“It's too soon?â€￾

20!

We walk into Janis's house. I smell the stale fumes of alcohol lingering.

“My mom's awake,â€￾ says Janis. “I guess you can meet her.â€￾

Her mom is sitting at the kitchen table. She isn't what I expected. Her mother is intensely beautiful. I had pictured a worn out, defeated slug holed up in near poverty, the kind of cliché they show on TV. Sure, she is a little old but I've never seen a woman age so gracefully. People active in the 1960's are now over sixty. Janis's mom looks like a youthful forty odd. Her mom reminds me of one of Purdy's bad jokes; that booze is a preservative. People are living longer and aging better. I have noticed that lately when I meet people and then learn their age what I once thought of as old no longer holds true. Especially as I always get closer to the older age. And now I'm fucking a mother of two up the ass. Rachael has to be over thirty, and it doesn't seem that old anymore. When I was in my teens I thought that people who were thirty were a step away from a wheelchair. I'm not that young myself, and I don't think I look that old. I always get carded. Even in the city. And I don't feel old. The hangovers are bad, but I don't look at the world any differently. I still want my sex, drugs and rock and roll when I can get it.

Janis's mom wears her hair straight and shoulder length. Her pale skin is wrinkle free except for a little around her almond shaped eyes. She is wearing black Levi pants and a red sweater. The clothes are loose and comfortable and she moves freely, yet there is a sultry sexiness to all her actions. Janis's mom has the kind of refined aura that's austere in its style. Some women are born with it and others try buying it at a Swiss finishing school. It's the look girls try to fake by smoking a cigarette. The aloof coolness hangs heavy on Janis's mom, there is no pretending, it drapes her like velvet. In her day she must have been one of the most gorgeous women in the world. She is full of that Grace Kelly grace.

“Mom,â€￾ says Janis. “This is Trevor. Trevor this is my mom.â€￾

“Hi,â€￾ I say.

“Hello Trevor,â€￾ says Janis's mom. “I'm Alice.â€￾

She gets a bottle of Vodka out of the freezer and a sharp crystal goblet from the almost bare and broken shelf.

“You kids want a drink?â€￾

“Uh, sure…â€￾ I start to say.

“No.â€￾ says Janis and that is the end of that. “We're going to the movies.â€￾

“Why don't you make a movie instead of paying to see someone else's sub par project?â€￾

“Mom…â€￾ Janis shakes her head.

“We were always working. We worked through the heroin with Nico and we worked through the coke at Studio 54. There is always time to play after work. You must create to be alive.â€￾

“What did you ever do? Look how you live.â€￾

“I was an actress in my day.â€￾

“No mom, you were beautiful and fabulous and you were just there. You didn't have to act.â€￾

“Honey, just being there was the acting.â€￾

“Just go into your room and drink by yourself.â€￾

“I will. I would rather drink alone than drink in poor company. Good company is tough to come by these days. I wish I never had to grow to be an old woman who would say woe-is-me the youth of today. What a waste.â€￾

“Whatever, where is the paper?â€￾

“In the bathroom.â€￾

Janis goes to get the paper. I'm left alone in the kitchen with Alice. I don't know what to say so I smile. Alice pours herself a drink. I wish I could join her.

“So are you her boyfriend?â€￾

“Yeah, well no, I guess.â€￾

“My daughter the little AC/DC.â€￾

“Huh?â€￾

“Are you a painter?â€￾ she points to my Utrecht bag.

“Not really, I just take a class.â€￾

“What do you do?â€￾

“I'm a pizza guy.â€￾

“What's that?â€￾

“I deliver pizza, you know?â€￾

“You are not Mexican. Are you?â€￾

“No, I'm notâ€￾

“Too bad. It might have given you more depth. Delivering pizza. Good Lord, that doesn't seem like much of a profession.â€￾

“You were a movie actress?â€￾ I need to change the subject.

“If you can call Andy's celluloid masturbation films anything else but wank, than yeah, I was in the flicks.â€￾

"Andy?"

"Andy Warhol."

“Did you know Lou Reed?â€￾

“I met him a few times, before Andy and he fell out.â€￾

“What was he like?â€￾

“A real bastard, in a good way. A real New Yorker.â€￾

“I love the Velvet Underground.â€￾

“Of course you do. All white boys your age do.â€￾

“No, they don't.â€￾ I say defensive. Alice can say what she wants about me delivering pizza. But she stepped over the line with the Velvet Underground. Besides, she is wrong. Most people don't even know the Velvet Underground. I mean they might know the name. And maybe they heard 'Heroin'. But they don't know songs like 'The Gift'. And unlike me, they haven't listened to every album a million times.

“I think the Velvet Underground was as important as the Beatles and Stones.â€￾

“They never sold.â€￾

“So fucking what. The masses are asses.â€￾

“How dime store Nietzsche of you. What didn't kill Lou made him stronger, too, right?â€￾

“What?â€￾

“Nothing, what else do you want to do besides deliver pizza and what's that food I see on TV, Buffalo Wings, to people?â€￾

“I don't deliver Buffalo Wings, that's Domino's I think.â€￾

“Anyway, please say you want more out of life.â€￾

“I want to travel.â€￾

“I highly recommend it. I must say I like your scarf.â€￾

“Thanks. I got it at Goodwill.â€￾

“Learn to steal away a compliment kid.â€￾

“Huh?â€￾

Janis comes back into the kitchen. Alice excuses herself and saunters down the hall with goblet in one hand and bottle in the other. Janis and I sit at the kitchen table and she looks through the movie section.

“Not a lot of options,â€￾ she says. “The movie theatres around here suck.â€￾

“I wish we had a car.â€￾ I say.

“I wish we lived in the city, fuck a car.â€￾

“We have lots of time, it's only the afternoon. We could take the bus in,â€￾ I suggest.

“I'm sick of the bus.â€￾

“Me too.â€￾

20!

Janis gives me her mischievous look. “I'll be your model,â€￾ she says.

“Model for what?â€￾

“The painting. You have to do your final project right?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

“And did you start it?â€￾

“No.â€￾

“Don't you think you better?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

“Well don't you want to use me?â€￾

“Yeah, I do…nude?â€￾

“Of course.â€￾

“Okay.â€￾

“Set up down in my room,â€￾ she says. “ I'm going to get some wine and fruit.â€￾

“Don't you think it will be corny to have wine and fruit in the painting?â€￾

“It's not for the painting, it's for us to eat and drink.â€￾

“Get two bottles.â€￾

“I'll get three.â€￾

We exit the bistro arm in arm and hail a cab. Rachael kisses me in the back of the taxi. I open an eye and peek out the window. We zoom through midtown Manhattan traffic. I have always wondered where all the people go. What they do. I sometimes feel very lonely in Manhattan with all these people around. Not now of course, Rachael has her tongue in my mouth.

When we get to the hotel we walk hand-in-hand through the revolving door. Rachael checks us in. I look up at the dazzling chandelier. It makes me dizzy. Rachael gets a bottle of champagne sent up to the room. We make out in the elevator. Rachael rubs her hand over my crotch. I start to get hard.

“You do have a big thingy,â€￾ she laughs.

The room is huge and covered with dark green velvet. There is a king-size bed and a whirlpool bath. A lot of pleasure can be had here.

“How can you afford this,â€￾ I ask.

“Oh, I can't. Not on what Jack makes, but Raquel can. She lets me have her credit cards for these excursions into the city.â€￾

The champagne arrives. Rachael signs while I pop the cork. We start fooling around. Rachael undressed me so I'm naked before she is. She fills her mouth with champagne and then kisses me, spilling the sparkling liquid from her mouth to mine. She pours more champagne on my body and licks it off.

“I wish we had some coke,â€￾ she says.

“I have some.â€￾

“Really?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

“God, I haven't done coke in years.â€￾

I chop up the rest of my supply and we do it until it is gone.

“Let's get sexy,â€￾ she says.

I take off her nice tight Sunday outfit. Her body is small and tight. She doesn't have any cellulite or stretch marks. I would never have guessed she had given birth to two kids. She reclines on her back and arches her hips. She spreads her legs and leniently lowers my head to her. I have never gone down on a pussy that has gone through the torture of childbirth. I can't tell any difference in her vagina than that of other girls I've been with that weren't mothers. I thought she might be stretched out, but she isn't. Her body seems to defy nature. I move my tongue and suck with my lips judging her response and repeating the movements that cause her to moan. She wraps her skinny legs around my shoulders and her nails scratch my back. When I bring her to climax she settles down and heaves deep breathes, concentrating on the enjoyment.

“Fuck that was nice,â€￾ she says. “You are good at that.â€￾

I never knew if I was good at that or not. But her compliment makes me want to do it some more. The cocaine gives me an oral fixation. I want to feast on pussy.

“I could do it again,â€￾ I say.

“No, I have something else in mind.â€￾

Rachael fills the large bath with hot water. Then she sits back down on the bed and sucks my semi soft dick until it stands up stiff. She takes a condom out of her purse and rolls it down the shaft leaving a little room at the tip. She reaches over into her purse again and brings out a little tube of KY Jelly. She rubs it over the condom. Her pussy is very wet and the jelly won't be needed. She gets in the doggy style position and looks over her shoulder at me with a playful smile.

“I want sodomy,â€￾ she says in a scratchy voice.

“You mean…â€￾

“I mean I want you to fuck me up the ass.â€￾

“Won't that hurt?â€￾ I ask.

“Yes, but I like it,â€￾ she says irritated.

I pull her ass to me and slowly work the tip of my cock around the rim of her anus. Then I thrust forward.

“Gentle,â€￾ she grunts.

“Sorry.â€￾

“Trevor, I like it for fucks sake. Just be a little gentle until you get it in.â€￾

I slide into her slowly. She grunts again. She is tight. I can feel the veins of my penis pulsating with every heartbeat. As I ream her up the ass I catch our reflection in the massive mirror on the opposite wall. We look primal. I thrust harder like an angry animal.

“Fuck me with swagger,â€￾ she shouts. “Do me, do me with swagger.â€￾

I wrap my hand around her and put some fingers up her cunt. With my fingertips I can feel my dick moving back and forth through the thin line of flesh between her vagina and asshole. I keep pumping back and forth giving it all the swagger I got. Rachael keeps grunting. Her arms are out stretched in front of her and I can see her long fingers gripping the pillow. I come and keep thrusting. I only stop when I lose my erection.

She turns over and grabs my face with her hands. She looks directly into my eyes.

“I really like that but don't really like to talk about it, do you understand?â€￾

“Yeah, I…â€￾

She kisses me on the mouth to shut me up before I say anything we both might regret.

“Good, now let's get in the tub.â€￾ She leaps off the bed and practically jumps in. I take off the dirty condom and plunge in as well. We splash around and rub each other's backs and necks. She sucks my toes, taking them into her mouth individually one at a time.

After a while the fatigue of fucking and the French wine take their toll. Rachael calls down to set a wake up for eleven p.m. She tells me I can sleep here until morning but I tell her I'll leave when she does.

We lay on the bed. Rachael reads my poetry books out loud. She recites with perfect cadence and I like the poems better than when I read them to myself. It lulls me to sleep. I don't hear Rachael leaving and don't wake up until morning.