Imperfect

Just as I got home, the phone rang. It was Guy form the art gallery, telling me he wanted to show several more of my works if I had any available. This time he was doing a reception show which would feature more works from fewer artists, and the artists themselves would each say a few words and be available for questions as well as mingling with those in attendance.

It was an invitation only thing, so there would be critiques, collectors and many important society people in attendance. These shows, Guy informed me, tended to yield a better than average sale rate and the pieces all went for rather hefty prices. The people who attended these events would be insulted if any painting at the show was going for less than a thousand dollars. And even that was fairly low ball. Plus, he said, a reception was just about the best way to network in the art world.

I told him I was sold. "You had me at hello," I said quoting Jerry McGuire.

Guy laughed. "Oh and bring your friend. He's adorable!"

It really seemed my life was on track. My career was taking off, I had a date with a guy who'd already slept with me on the first date and seen my freaky side, and the girl I was in love with was also in love with me, in a totally non-possessive sort of way.

It was working for me, but there wasn't a whole lot in there that I could tell my mom. Who called me the very next day."

"Seeing anyone?" she opened with.

"As a matter of fact, I'm meeting a really great guy for dinner this weekend."

"What's he do?" again- straight to the point.

"He's a bartender."

"Oh dear lord, haven't I taught you anything Nikki? A bartender? Your really asking for trouble. And the money- they don't make the kind of money you need to keep you up in style." I looked around my apartment, knowing that this was definitely not what she would have considered 'in style' and realizing that I loved it, just the way it was. "Does he have some kind of goal? Is he saving his tips for night classes? Tell me Nikki, please tell me he's got more ambition that to stay a bar tender for the rest of his life!"

"Mom! How should I know?! It's a first date for crying out loud. Slow down. It's a dinner date not a quickie wedding in Vegas."

"Well, you make sure he comes to the door to pick you up. If he's one of those guys who just beeps the horn, you just stay put until he gets the picture, you got it?"

"Chase is definitely not a horn blower," I told my mom, feeling relieved that I could report something positive. "He'll probably bring me flowers and the whole bit." I didn't know about that last part, but it didn't hurt to throw her a bone.

"That's wonderful! I'm so happy for you. I can't wait to tell Aunt Gracie, my baby is dating a real gentleman. Not like that biker your cousin Angela is seeing. Oh! He would curl your hair. He's dirty, he's rude, he's disrespectful. I don't know what she sees in him."

"Probably that he's dirty, rude and disrespectful," I deadpanned. Angela never dated a guy unless he had massive potential to piss off at least one of her parents. If they only realized this and showed every guy she brought home massive love and support, they could have guaranteed her lifelong celibacy. I know Uncle John would have liked that. They would never figure it out though, they were too obsessed with the fact that they couldn't control her- although they never seemed to give up. And reverse psychology was- well let's just say that even if they could have understood the concept, it never would have occurred to them anyway.

"Fresh, you always were fresh."

My mother is in her early 50's with shoulder length hair that she still dies blond. She refuses to cut it, thinking that it would make her look like an 'old lady.' She actually looks about fifteen to twenty years younger than her age, but I can kind of identify with the hair thing. I keep mine longer than shoulder length for fear of having that 'mom' look, or looking like I'm- oh no!- thirty! My mother is particularly obsessed with not looking like a grandma at least until she is one- and preferably not then either.

I consider making a citrus joke, but instead decide to go with a simple, "Yep."

"Have you found a job?" she inquires.

"Mom! I have a job." This is my thousandth attempt to get her to understand that my painting is not just a self indulgent hobby since I graduated from college.

"Sure, but you know- a paying job."

"Well, I'll have you know that someone just bought two of my paintings. And the owner of the gallery wants to show some more of them."

"You know, I always said you had talent. My father was a painter too you know."

"Of course I know that mom." My grandfather Tully Lester was my inspiration. He was the reason that I started to paint, the reason why I love to paint. Growing up one of my fondest memories was seeing my grandfather sitting at his easel. It always seemed to make him happy. I always thought that someday he would be a world famous artist. Little did I know that painting was his passion, construction was his job. He never sold a single painting or made a penny off of it his whole life. He kept most of his paintings, and gave a few away as gifts to special friends and family members. I think he felt that accepting money would taint his work. Not like it would make him less of an artist, but that it would make him stop enjoying it if it became something he had to do to pay the bills.

Grandpa Lester painted a lot country scenes, rolling hills, fields of wheat or corn, mountains. He painted animals in his pictures, but never people. Many of his paintings involved homes, small cottages that seemed to be an escape from every day life. I always felt like he was inside the houses in those paintings, maybe smoking a pipe or drinking coffee, or painting another picture. I loved those pictures. I would stand in front of them and imagine that I could hop right inside- to the serenity of the isolated cottage located in some pristine landscape.

His home was adorned with his pictures, and it was my defining memory of him. That and the fact that he would always either take us for ice-cream or give my mother money and tell her to take us for ice-cream. Painting and ice-cream. Two good memories to associate with my beloved grandparent.

And now, here was my mother reminding me, who followed quite consciously in his footsteps- not that I could have stopped myself- that her father was a painter, that artistic talent runs in her family. Now, right after nagging me to get a job. Sure, before it was just a self indulgent hobby. But now that I've made money on it, I have talent. Well- ain't that the way that it always goes.

I decided not to remind her that I was just wasting my time and avoiding the real world. Why not just take the praise while I could get it. Unfortunately, I also had to listen to a long list of everybody down through the family tree who had ever shown artistic promise, from the uncle who started a band down to her own childhood dreams of becoming a singer. The problem wasn't hearing the stories that I had heard so many times over the years, the problem was simply this. The stories did not call for interaction or interruption. Sitting there holding the phone and basically not able to do anything else. I was getting restless.

"Well mom, the muse calls."

"What?"

"That means I gotta go finish this painting I've been working on. Listen, I'll send you some newspaper clippings ok? I gotta go. Love you."

"I love you too, bye."

I quickly hung up before she could think of anything else to add.

The weekend came around and I had made plans with Chase. I was so exited to see him and get to know him on a one on one basis. He was taking me to a nice Italian restaurant, so I dressed in what I considered to be a classy and yet at the same time sexy dress. It was deep green, form fitting, with a long silhouette that touched off just above the ankle. It had a slit in the side nearly all the way up to mid-thigh and had a plunging V neckline, with plenty of lift and cleavage. Besides some leg and cleavage however, I was practically covered from head to toe. The outfit reminded me of the fabled femme fatale from the old mystery movies with the hardboiled detective and the sexy bombshell. I defiantly felt like the sexy bombshell.

My confidence was further boosted when Chase came up to the door (gentlemanly, as my mother had insisted that he should be) and let out a low appreciative whistle. "I can't wait to go out with you on my arm," he commented, making me blush all kinds of red.

There was a long wait at the restaurant but luckily Chase had made reservations for us, so we got a table right away. They brought us rolls and water, even before we looked at our menus. The butter was seasoned giving the bread a very special flare.

I scanned the menu quickly and ordered a fettuccini dish with a rich creamy sauce. Chase ordered lasagna. We had time for conversation while we waited for our food. We talked about our hobbies, our jobs, our fiends and other interests. He seemed really eager to get to know me. I told him about my philosophy on dating and friends and he agreed with me on all the major points. We really clicked.

The food finally came, and it was delicious. Mouth watering. The atmosphere of the place was so warm and friendly that we just couldn't help but have a good time. We gorged ourselves on good food and then at the end of the mean we splurged and ordered a chocolate torte and coffee.

"What's life without a little chocolate?" Chase said, and I laughed agreeably.

"I love a man who loves chocolate," I said.

"I love a woman who loves a man who loves chocolate!" And then we both laughed as we dived into our rich and decadent desert. After dinner, we were having such a good time we decided to go an catch a late movie. The movie was a comedy and it provided plenty of laughs for the two of us. I really love to laugh and find that it raises the passions about as much as a scary horror flick.

By the time the movie ended, we defiantly were ready to head home. He drove me to my door and I invited him up. This time there was no small talk, as I locked the door and turned to him, his lips dipped down to meet mine and clothes were quickly flung to the floor.

I felt a deep hunger for the manly sexiness that Chase exuded. He was good looking yes, but rugged with big hands and a well muscled body. His arms were sculpted to perfection and even his back felt strong and muscular under my hands. I had my arms wrapped around him, pulling him close to me kissing his chest and flicking at his nipples. He was very responsive to my touch, and it was complimentary to see such a big strong manly man shudder with pleasure at the slight brush of my hand, or my lips.

His arms held me close as well, reaching out to stroke and caress my every curve. He let his hands trail down the small of my back and later he toyed with the nape of my neck. He filled his hands up with my hair and released it, he cupped my face and kissed me with great feeling. He searched the inside of my thighs for erogenous zones and found them there, he trailed down my stomach with his tongue and sent shivers up and down both sides of me.

Chase explored every part of my body, thrilling me with his touch and strumming my body like a musical instrament, making it sing along with him. He pressed his hard cock down between my thighs were it was wet and slippery and receptive. I took him into me, feeling the warmth travel from my core and radiate through my body. He kept a slow and steady pace, never neglecting me with his lips and tongue.

Fianally, I began to feel the coil of my pleasure tighten, and whimpered out beneath him to move faster. He stroked in and out of me with speed and deep penetrating thrusts. At last, the culmination of our passion over took us and we called out together into the night.

Now spent, he lay next to me, stroking my hair and looking over me with an expression of satisfaction. We talked for a while, gentle sweet whispers to preserve the moment, and to our mutual agreement he rose, and went home for the night. I lay alone, yet content, hoping we would see each other again soon.

My summer progressed well steadily from there. My career seemed to take off. I even became something of a local celebrity. I'm not anywhere close to rich, but my paintings are always in demand, and I seem to have a steady stream of income to match my steady outgo. My cupboards are quite full, and I volunteer to be designated driver less often. Occasionally I even spring for a cab, so that no one has to drive. I've found that it's a lot more fun that way, although possibly a little more dangerous. It's good to have one clear headed individual among each group of drunken fools to keep them from doing things that any sane and sober fool knows better than to participate in.

Chase and I went out a few times and he quickly became on of the gang, another friend with occasional benefits. Zoë and I spent a lot more time connecting, once we realized all that we had been missing out on. We added a few more people to our group. Glen continued not seeing his closeted cop friend, and we were there for a shoulder to cry on when Glen's feelings were inevitably hurt over and over again because Officer Macho refused to acknowledge their relationship in public. This of course happened on a regular basis.

Guy continued to pursue Glen, who seemed to encourage it. I think it was a distraction from the gymnastics his heart was performing going through the flips and flops of dating this cop. Besides, he couldn't tell Guy the truth, so he just told him nothing, remaining illusive while still appearing to be attainable.

Zoë had a few lovers, and we had a few together. But she too was focused on her career. Simone dated no one, but continued to complain about the unsuitability of all the guys who wouldn't give up on her. Lin's wife seemed to be at home more often or else he found himself a more willing playmate, because I didn't hear from him at all for the longest time.

By September, my life was on a personal high that I thought would never come to an end. But we know, that nothing good- and nothing bad- lasts forever.

By Autumn my mother's calls had become blessedly infrequent. In fact, it was getting to the point were I actually looked forward to hearing from her instead of dreading it. She was satisfied that my career was a success and it was just a matter of weeks before I met a rich art collector who would solve all my problems and hers. She didn't understand of course, that as far as I was concerned, I didn't have a problem. Because until she had grandchildren, as far as she was concerned I had a problem.

The leaves were beginning to change, the college students were heading back to class. Art supplies went on sale. There was anticipation and excitement in the air. Even those of us who had finished school in what seemed so long ago could feel it.

I was spending nearly every day at the gallery now, doing whatever needed to be done- helping with arrangements, cleaning cataloging whatever I could do to stay in the thick of things. That was how I met Kale Masterson. I first saw him in his pressed white pants and crisp three button shirt, also white. His blond hair was slicked back and he held himself with absolute confidence, or many would say arrogance. He approached me with no sign of insecurity. He made small talk, but quickly got to the point of asking me to dinner.

I accepted, and soon found out -from the grapevine- that the restaurant that he was taking me to was one of seven that he owned. The first thing that I thought was that he was my mother's dream man for me. That almost caused me to back out, but I thought he was cute and I felt that I was too old to be making decisions so reactively and rebelliously.