I was teaching watercolor at the local craft store. Most of my students were ladies between forty and eighty. I was twenty-six, tall and thin, and a walking erection. Not an obnoxious erection, but a conservative one, I hadn't been with anyone in over a year. And every patch of lady flesh was like soft butter smeared across hot bread. I hated my job, the arts never pay well, but it had its perks, and a certain Tuesday was one of them.
She looked like a school teacher with short hair. Is it politically incorrect to say a Lesbian-do? I have nothing against Lesbians as I am bisexual myself. I think everyone is if the universe lines up for it on a certain discrete afternoon. Did I mention I hadn't been with anyone in over a year? I think it was closer to five, yes, suicidal thoughts come with that sort of neglect, but I am not that suicidal. I think everyone is though if the universe lines up for it on a certain discrete afternoon. Her name was Shannon, she was a thirty-year-old English High School teacher. And taken her first watercolor class on a summer Tuesday afternoon.
"Welcome Shannon, I am Jasper, like Jasper Johns."
"Hi Jasper like Jasper Johns."
I must confess men have two investigatory boxes that they check when contemplating a lady. The first is her face: Do their eyes give you an erection all by themselves. Is her mouth kissable? Are her ear's cute little things, or elongated vampire ears? And the second, her body: I now will sound like a son of a bitch, but a perfect ass trumps everything that is less than par on its own. Breasts can very well do the same. I seem to be objectifying women, but men are more visual, and ladies are more audible or so they say, somewhere.
Shannon's face was beautiful but slightly masculine maybe in the cheekbones. Her lips and white teeth were perfect. She did have vampire ears that where vertically four inches. Something that I will never forget. One of her brushes got loose and rolled down the table.
She screeched her chair backwards and dug a left knee in the plastic while stretching for her brush. Sharp quick movements unleashed a jiggling of her ass that was wrapped tight in purple spandex. It was phenomenal and all the blood that was swimming around my skull rocketed down to my testicles and I almost passed out.
"How is the class coming along today, Jasper?" Marion said. (Marion which means bitter.)
Marion was a young bald gay sculptor who was always the color of honey. I sensed he saw the entire ass leering event play out. I liked him at first, but he started to get controlling. Like he would never let one opportunity of shared eye contact slide; and give me marching orders over something. Avoiding him in the labyrinth of a craft store was like a daily video game we both played. Although I hated it came to that. My erection sunk like a dehydrated daffodil to Marion's voice.
"It is coming along great, Marion," I said.
"He is a wonderful teacher," Shannon said. Her ballooned breasts snugged inside a black tank top looked like Elvira's. My re-erection bruised my testicles with "blue balls".
"Thank you," Marion said.
A "thank you" that was so short and monotone a fucking robot that shorted out in mid-sentence could not cut it closer with more abruptness and indifference.
"Listen, I have to go," Shannon said. "Do you do private lessons at people's homes?"
Sometimes a woman can speak a sentence and you don't have to worry about anything other than showing up. It is like a real-life porno scheduled as an appointment and you just need to look and dress better then when she said it.
I lied to her. "I have done a few of those, yes."
Her key's jingled like Santa Clauses sleight as she packed up her stuff. The sun beamed off the white linoleum floor and blazed my depression. I watched her ass bounce off into the parking lot. And I looked down to see her sheet of paper folded in my hand. In purple cursive-ness was an address, phone number, and smiley face.
I looked to my left and met Marion's stone blue eyes. "Isle four needs restocking of those fraternity stickers, so after you clean up, Jasper."
I wanted to scream:
You need to get laid you miserable mother fucker.
But I cleaned the classroom in agony instead. And having no patience or discipline. I called Shannon at Six PM from the craft store's parking lot.
"I can come over to your house Saturday at 2PM; if that is okay?"
"That is perfect, I can make lunch too."
My erection nearly punctured my orange corduroy pants. I glanced back and saw Marion's blue-eyed leering from behind the window. I think he was telekinetic because I actually heard.
You need to bring in those shopping carts before you go.
I ignored it whether it was real or not and sped off.
I woke up Saturday morning and thought the more professional I appear, the better. I shaved, even the back of my neck. I sliced cold pressed 300-pound sheets of watercolor paper with a brand-new cutter's blade. I ironed and folded my blue painter's apron. I brought a stack of watercolor painting books on birds and portraits. I soaked my Croc's in the swimming pool and sprayed my belly button with Drakkar. I ingested my leather wallet with three purple Trojans and purchased an aluminum box of spearmint Altoids.
The sky was blue. A perfect blue sky reminded me of a plethora of fine asses hanging out of thongs alongside the local beach road. And is always the case when driving it under a perfect blue sky. The only danger is whiplash. Many times, cars controlled by horny males, bump into each other. It has happened to me several times. There is no road rage because everyone's blood is pooled away from their skulls and into their testicles. We all rather drive to the local restroom and jerk off then fight.
Shannon's home was a townhouse with a fenced in patio square in the front. I could see her top half over the fence squeezing a pair of hedge clippers. I walked around to my trunk and grabbed out two wooden easels, a grey tacklebox, and art books.
The sidewalk was pristine, like just pressure cleaned. I came to her gate and saw her short golden hair and breasts hanging loose in a white half t-shirt tied around her waist. I could see her belly button was an "innie".
"Come on in, hun."
I opened the gate and she was standing on a stepping stool. Her thigh was bare from her hip to her little toe. I figured she was in a bathing suit and the sun slapped me towards a patio table. "Can I put my stuff..."
"Sure, anywhere." she said. "You thirsty?"
"Are you having something?"
"You want a drink or not, hun?"
She carried authority in that question. A mix of school teacher's and subtle flirtation that'd be emphasized by what I was about to see: a beautiful bubble ass in a thong that was so ridiculous in fabric volume that a magic marker scrape would suffice. I fantasized for days about her ass covered in spandex and here it was loose, unwrapped, unleashed, and wobbling in the sunlight encased by a privacy gate. My cock was marble with a heartbeat.
"You like screw drivers?" she said.
My legs gave out and I landed on a cream-colored cushioned wicker chair.
