F5: 50% Inspiration plus 50% Desperation
(Author's note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. Every story for this FAWC begins with the exact same line. Where it goes from there is up to the author.)
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Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife.
As I looked at my little index card again I sighed, What in the hell made me sign up for this class?
Looking past the edge of my blank canvas, I couldn't help but look at her. Ms. Polly Ann Young, without a doubt in this world the hottest art teacher ever to pick up a brush. Okay... not a stretch as to why I signed up, but why in the hell do I continue to torture myself and others with my feeble attempts at art? Why? Do I have some secret sadistic side of me that wants to inflict this level of punishment upon the world?
Glancing around, I saw that the others have already started. With a sigh I grabbed up my pallet and a number ten brush and begin to daub smears of paint in some feeble attempt to look busy.
"I thought we were going to be doing nudes?"
The unwanted interruption of creative energies was noticeable by the dire looks that were directed towards Gary Wells. I hid a smile behind my easel when Ms. Polly Ann walked over to him. As my eyes dropped automatically to her ass I wished we were doing nudes... with her as our model.
"When I believe that you have advanced to that skill level, Mr. Wells I will certainly move to full nude appreciation. But for now I think you need to stick to still life painting. Your work lacks the... maturity... to manage that level of art."
I smirked as I hear her say that. Not that I was much better.
Adjusting her glasses, she gave what he had done so far a grimace. Then to my horror turned towards my side of the room, catching me in mid-gawk from around the edge of my canvas.
Table, book, knife and... what was the other one?
Pulling back out the white card, I checked. Handkerchief! Of course. Okay, well... I guess start with a table.
Dipping into my Van Dyke Brown I proceeded to try and make a table-ish looking object on my big white board. Why, in the hell did this canvas have to be this big? I could have paint all of this on an eight by ten. I looked around the edge again, I really can't help myself. She was giving pointers to a young lady nearby.
"You know, if you had any kind of a spine you would just ask her for a date." Came the soft whisper behind me. "Of course, she will say no, but you might impress her that you had the balls to ask."
Turning to look at Cynthia Corison, with her ebony face already sporting a streak of Phthalo Blue, I blushed and turned back around at her wink.
Great. My table looked crooked.
Dabbing into the Dark Sienna I tried to correct that.
"Ms. Polly Ann?" I heard from behind me. My nonexistent spine tightened at Cynthia's next words. "Can I ask you about something on my card?"
"Of course my dear."
Gliding like Glenda from the Wizard of Oz, Ms. Polly Ann moved past me. I was caught in the hurricane of her scents, that lavender, and sandalwood smell she excluded like a aura of femininity. It trailed after her like the wake of a ship. I couldn't help it that I wanted to surf her wake.
"Yes dear? Oh. No.. no, no! That is not what you're thinking at all," She gave a laugh that is all giggly girlish and I felt myself tighten with desire. "Although, I must say that would make for an interesting painting. If you choose... use it that way."
Paint, must concentrate on painting. Ignore the hardon behind the curtain. Must paint.
"Interesting." The word was soft, right by my shoulder, and it carried with it a bedroom tone that nearly finished me. "I like where you're going with this. Have you been studying the Impressionist?" She asked, her hand on my elbow steadying my brush, as she looked past my arm.
"Ah, yeah. I like her work a lot," I said trying to make it not sound as lame as it came out. I also tried to ignore the snicker-snort from behind me.
"Hum... well" Ms. Young patted my arm,a gesture I might use on a person who can't master patty-cake "A little more detail here and you need a single light source. Not three."
As she moved away I noticeably wilted and in more than one way. I almost didn't even make the effort to take in the view of that fabulous ass. Almost.
"You would be pathetic," said Cynthia, quietly behind me. "But the pathetic people of the world sent a note. They don't want you in their club house."
The young lady next to me, I haven't learned her name yet, had to hide a giggle. When I looked over at her she gave me a sympathetic smile. Just what I needed.
I go back to trying to make my table look like a table. Maybe some titanium White?
"Nope. Not the white."
Glancing back at Cynthia, I saw that she now had a splash of Sap Green by the Phthalo Blue. She was looking past her canvas at my table. "Use a blend. This isn't paint by numbers. Get a bit of several and try to make it look like wood... or wood-ish if you can't manage anything harder."
Her eyes dropped to indicate my crotch, even though she couldn't see the front of me, then she grinned, winked and went back to painting.
Embarrassed, I stopped, took a deep breath and tried to go back to work. Over the next hour I did manage to get my table to look like a table. Say, one you might would buy at a thrift store, or maybe in a yard sale. Alright, it was a dump find table, are you happy little miss "anything harder"
I was noticeably relieved when I got to roll down the paper cover over my canvas and go clean up. I felt like...
"How about a beer?"
Looking up from rinsing my brush in thinner, I blinked a few times at Cynthia.
"A beer?" I asked, puzzled.
"Yes, it's a yellow adult beverage. They sell it in bars, say like the one two streets over, on Fillmore." She looked at me and slowly shook her head. "Would you like to go with me and get a drink. You, look like you could use one."
I wanted to be angry at the way she said everything so slowly but the fact that the words got through to me that way made it just wrong to be angry. I nodded.
"Yeah, I would like that," I said wiping out my brush, on a clean rag.
"See. Just that easy," she sai.
Looking up at her sharply, I felt a burst of fury to have been made fun of that way. Then that she was trying to make a point came across. Then I got the point and calmed. Nodding, I put my brushes back into their case. Closing up my sketchbook, pencils in their full gradient glory, the little pad I had no idea what it's for, and all the rest in the wooden case they all came in, I looked back at my covered canvas.
"Come on, I really do want that beer." she said, taking hold of my sleeve and giving it a tug. Then she looked over at where out instructor was closing up supply cabinets for the night. "Good night, Ms. Young."
"Oh, good night. Drive carefully." She waved at us with a brush. "See you tomorrow."
I hesitantly lifted a hand to wave but she had already turned around.
"Oh, for pity sake. Come on." Cynthia took my elbow and all but dragged me out the room, down the few steps and out into the street, and then across the parking lot, at which point I started to protest.
"Ah... Ah." I pointing towards my car.
"It's two blocks. We can walk it easier than trying to find two parking spots over there." She hooked my elbow completely. "Don't worry, I protect you from the things that prowl the streets at night."
I had to laugh at that.
"Well, let me put my case in the car." I turned us back a bit.
"Oh, very well, delays, delays." She bumped my hip with her hip, every step till we were beside my car. "What convinced you to buy a Prius?"
"Four dollar gas." I popped the locks and sat my case inside. "It's a lot easier to park than my old car."
"Yeah, but it's too small to have sex in."
Looking to Cynthia, I cannot believe...
"You're almost cute when you blush. Now, come on," she said.
With her at my side, leading us, more often than not, we made our way over to Fillmore Street. She was softly humming a song I don't know. The sudden feeling of tranquility that descended over me as we walked made me reluctant to enter the bar. I would almost rather have just walked with her fro awhile. Just the feeling of a woman on my arm... was nice.
Looking at Cynthia, as we walked through the door, I couldn't help but speculate. Of course she was not at all what I looked for in a woman to take out on a date. With a head full of braids to make Whoopi Goldberg envious, and never dressed in anything nice, those round mirror glasses that make her look like she had two coins over her eyes. Her cheek was still faintly Phthalo Blue, her fingernails bitten to the quick,they had the look of never having been polished.
I watched her as she orders for us at the bar.
Her skin was nice. A soft brown, coffee mocha.
Her body... well.
"Do I have paint still on my face?" she asked, when she noticeed me staring.
"A little," I said quickly to hide that I was checking her out. "Just on your cheek."
She shruged. "I'll get it latter. Now. Oh, thank you." She took the sweating bottle from the waitress. I took mine. "So, what has you all in a dither over Ms. Young? Is it her artistic talent, her ability to teach or the fact she has an ass and a pair of tits?"
I took a slow sip to hide the slight discomfort. I was not use to women talking this frankly about sex.
"I'm not sure." I shrugged "I just like her. She's is very talented, she is a wonderful instructor and yeah she is... smoking hot. I know she's out of my league, but I can't help the way I feel."
Cynthia picked up a napkin and wrapped around her beer. Then, when she looked up at me, she grimaced.
"I hate to be the one to break this to you. She's not just out of your league she doesn't even play that sport." Cynthia took a sip, then seeing my expression smiled around the end of the bottle. "She catches for the other team."
