The Plight Of Gregory

When I was 20, I worked as an oil paint instructor at a painting school. Sort of a dump in a plaza that only sounded like a prestigious painting school. I wore an apron and walked around a studio helping student oil painters, most of them women. One brunette in her mid 30's was beautiful and looked like the lady from Last of the Mohicans. She painted abstract craziness. It turned me on. Her work was delightful and fucked up: Trees spiraled out into diamond shaped skulls; people had heads growing out their kneecaps. Dogs roamed with nine tails.

"You paint too brilliant to be a trophy wife," I said.

"Sorry hon, what?" she said. "Is it Fred?"

"Yes."

When she called me hon, I had blue balls in seconds. My boss stared at me. He had zero painting talent and always wanted to go golfing. He scowled upon my blue balled consciousness making me near vomit. I kneeled behind her easel.

"How long you been painting, Nancy?" I said.

"I lost my dad last month and started in his memory," she said.

I imagined her dad in the ceiling staring down at the top of my brown crewcut head that managed my own blue balls inches from his daughter's creative outlet. With him and my boss still given me the stink eye. This talentless ghoul and rookie ghost pressurizing my sexual escapade killed my blue balls. I watched her paint until she stopped.

"Am I painting correct?" Nancy said.

Before I had the chance to answer, Stan hovered the both of us. Stan graduated with a bachelor's in fine art from UMASS that summer. I loved the fact that I went to an art school that cost about 20 percent of his tuition and we both landed the same shit job.

"I would start with something simple, like a peach on a table," Stand said.

Stan was a typical asshole artist. They grew on trees in art school. I think every profession has its dose of assholes that know everything. There is no talking to them. You just agree and look distracted until they go. We mutually ignored Stan until some other poor soul called him.

"Just ignore him," I said.

"He is just trying to be helpful I guess," she said.

"He is an asshole," I said.

"Do you teach watercolor, Fred?" Nancy said.

"That is my favorite medium," I said. "Sure."

"Here is my business card, I would like to get private lessons in watercolor," she said.

She handed me the card and I felt like a two-bit whore. It was awesome.

"Cool," I said.

"How about this Saturday?" she said.

"Yes."

I was waiting for the ceiling to collapse or Stan to chase me with a wood stool over his head, or my boss to say, "today is your last day." But none of that happened and I went home.

I remember the sky being so fucking blue on Saturday it was ridiculous. Nancy lived in a townhouse not far from me. And what I am about to tell you is a very true story.

I pulled up in my piece of shit Dodge Shadow. I could hear all my art supplies shift around in the trunk. I felt like a loser. I saw Nancy from behind her closed-in porch fence. She was trimming shrubs with garden clippers.

"Hey Nancy."

"Fred! You found it."

I opened the trunk and looked at the cracked easel, ripped and wrinkled paper, and a tacklebox with dried fish guts on it. Underneath, a hundred empty Budweiser cans and a folded pizza box. I felt like a fraud. I did not feel like I knew shit about watercolors. I walked to her gate.

"It's unlocked," she said.

I walked in. Nancy wore a Spud McKenzie t-shirt tied tight at the waste. Underneath was nothing on her but a black thong that could fit in a matchbox. I dropped all of my shit.

"Oops," she said.

"Yes." I said. "Oops." And she did not hear the boing!

I have not been laid in a long time. When I first saw her bare ass, I thought about strategic games like Crossword, Tic-Tac-Toe, and even Monopoly. How does one get in position behind that wearing nothing? I picked up my stuff and placed it on the patio table. I knew in a nanosecond. A sliding glass door could be a mirror. I scanned and found her ass. It lost its warm saturation, but the grayscale version held her shape and bubble fine.

"Where did you want to do a lesson?" I asked.

Of course, I wanted to throw out my art supplies and jump her bones. And say something in James Bond, "You just want to fuck, right?"

When she came down from the five-step ladder, each step shimmied her ass cheek to the opposite direction of her body. I studied it in the window and that is when I saw Greg. Her psychopathic miniature poodle. He knew exactly what I was doing. He lined up his face with her ass reflection and growled.

"Want a beer?" Nancy said.

"Yes," I said. "Cute dog, what is its name?"

The poodle was the ugliest bitch. And it hated my guts too. Terms we both settled on quick.

"Oh Greg. I think he likes you."

Don't count on it. Greg would rip out my throat if he was bigger. Fuck. I can see her ass with warm saturation bent over inside the other slider. This time no reflection for Greg to taunt me. I studied it for three seconds. This further agitated Gregory who locked his eyes on my balls.

I won't bore you with details. I had four beers on the living room recliner. We talked about life. I watched her white bubble ass shimmy up a stair case several times. The last time she spoke: "Want a tour?"

I remember being under her quilt. Both of us nude. My left palm supporting my torso. My right palm held her thigh. Our lips an inch apart, good for the tongues. I remember not thinking much. Starting to sweat. Greg watching us like some strange person. Her dad in the popcorn ceiling. Stan painting in the parent's basement. My boss wherever. And my watercolor hot as hell in the tacklebox.

"Oh Fred," she said.

Then about 15 seconds of the best fun.