I took the subway from the Village uptown. Sandy and I lived in an Upper West Side co-op on W. 67th. My mood was a bit more subdued than it had been when I had taken the same ride downtown earlier in the day. In the morning I had just made love to my wife for the first time in weeks, and while I would have liked more, I felt really good. Since then I had learned that my wife was having an affair (or at least had been having an affair) with her cousin, Rachel. The same cousin who had just given me a stunning blowjob and I had eaten to a screaming climax. Maybe Bill Clinton could say he never had sex with that woman, but I didn't think I could split hairs quite that far. I had sex with Rachel and it was great, and apparently, so had my wife.
The revelation that she had been screwing Sandy was . . . How can I put it? Not a total surprise, but still something that required thought. The other thing that kept popping into my mind was the recollection of how beautiful Rachel's pussy was and how much I wanted to draw it. I had painted some nudes of Sandy shortly after we were married, but as our lives got busy, hers with debits and credits, and mine with rendering a package of Huggies (or some other mundane product) irresistible, my interest in erotic art faded. Well, not really faded. It just slipped into the background of my busy life. Life does that to you.
I stopped at an Italian place, Il Violino, half a block or so from home to order dinner for the three of us. That was another concern. Just how was our conversation over dinner going to go? I didn't look forward to silently watching the two women argue over who should be able to fuck me—Sandy, who didn't have time, or Rachel who wasn't married to me. I wasn't sure I had the courage to suggest that they share me. That was an idea they were going to have to come up with on their own. I suspected Rachel would be fine with such an idea, but I wasn't so sure about Sandy. To be fair to it, I had already suggested exactly that once today.
The restaurant's delivery guy was sick, so it was going to have to be takeout. I told them that was fine. I would pick up the food at 8:30. Rachel was coming at 8:00 and I fired off a text to Sandy telling her I was planning dinner for 8:00. That meant cocktails at 8:00 of course. Booze was definitely going to be required for this dinner. I didn't now about the girls, but I didn't want to do this sober.
It was only 4:30, so I stopped in a neighborhood bar. I was a regular there, so the bartender brought my usual drink as soon as I pulled up a seat at the bar. She set the single malt in front of me. "You know me too well, Lisa," I said to her.
She laughed. "You're a very consistent customer. It's always McCallum 12 neat. If you ordered a Piña Colada I would be shocked."
Now it was my turn to laugh. That was what I called a frou-frou drink. I can't stand them.
"If you had waited, I might have asked for a double today."
"Whoa. That's getting pretty racy for you, Steve."
"Well, it's been that kinda day," I said.
"Double it is," she said as she reached for the Scotch bottle on the counter behind her. I made a gesture similar to a blackjack player saying "hit me," when he wanted another card, and Lisa added another generous shot to my glass.
"Need to talk?" she said leaning forward on the bar, showing me a lot of cleavage. Her tits weren't as big as Rachel's, but they were quite a bit bigger than Sandy's and plenty big enough to be distracting.
It was still early and the rest of the bar was empty with only a couple of customers at tables. Lisa had time to talk and, like most good barkeepers, she loved to talk, or more accurately, listen to her customers.
I took a sip of my Scotch and stared at her tits over the top of my glass, but nice as they were, they just couldn't drag me away from my other thoughts.
"I don't think talking is going to solve my problems."
"Sorry, but that is the only kind of therapy we provide here. You sound like a guy with women problems. I can't see how a gal could turn down someone as handsome as you."
"It's not that kind of problem. No one is turning me down. I have two women who appear to be in love with me, and maybe with each other."
"Oh." She paused for a moment as I took another sip from my Scotch. "I agree," she said. "That's not the everyday kind of woman problem I hear from guys across this bar."
She turned and picked up a bar towel and began polishing the bar, not because it needed it, but because that is what bartenders do when they don't know what to do. Finally her curiosity got the better of her. "So what're you gonna do about it?"
"Don't know."
"Oh."
"I need to think about it."
"Yeah, I would too. Not sure what I would do in your shoes."
"You better go take care of the guy at the other end of the bar," I said, gesturing at a customer who had just pulled up a stool. "But before you go, have you got a piece of paper and a pencil I could have? Doodling helps me think."
"Ah . . . sure. Let me get this guy's order and I'll be right back with something. You're strange, you know."
"How?"
"Most people say the booze helps them think."
"No. It's the drawing that helps me think. The Scotch helps me draw."
She walked away shaking her head. A few minutes latter she handed me a note pad and a pencil. "Go to it, Steve."
"Thanks."
It would have been better if the paper hadn't been lined, but that is the way note pads come, so it would have to do. The pencil was a nice soft #2, not recently sharpened. Just what I like for this kind of exploratory drawing. It wasn't going to be real art. At this point I just wanted to stop thinking about the Sandy/Rachel problem and draw something while I sipped my Scotch.
As usual, I stared at a blank sheet for a sip or two of the Scotch before I put pencil to paper. Then some subconscious level of my brain kicked in, and I began too draw. It wasn't a Huggies package this time. It was Rachel's pussy.
I made two or three sketches before I got one that was right—well, right to me. As I looked at my drawing I realized I had been so absorbed in the drawing I had ignored my Scotch. I took a couple of sips and then began a different drawing. This one was Rachel's breast. Nothing more. Just a breast—a big breast with swollen areolas and engorged nipples that stuck out like Christmas trees. It was apparent that this was the breast of a woman who was sexually aroused, very aroused.
I got that one right on the first try. It took two sips of Scotch to get to the next inspiration. This time it was all of Rachel lying nude in the chair after her climax, her legs spread and her still swollen pussy readily apparent through her tangled hair. Her head was laid back, her eyes closed, and a smile on her lips that said, "Oh fuck that was good." Her hair was a tangle around her head and face.
I tore all three drawings out of the note pad and spread them out on the bar before me. As I finished my drink, I studied the drawings with a critical eye. I was really was lost in them when I heard Lisa say, "Need another?"
"What? Oh yes, I guess my glass is empty. I wasn't paying attention."
Lisa was staring at my drawings of the nude Rachel. Oops, I didn't really plan them for public consumption. Too late now, I thought as I looked up at Lisa.
"You're really good," she said. "But that's not what most of my customer's do when they doodle."
I smiled. "No I guess not. I used to draw for a living."
"Nudes?" she asked.
"No, Huggies," I responded.
"Huggies? You mean diapers?"
"Yup. I was a commercial artist."
"So if I pour you another will you draw the rest of the girl?"
"What did I leave out?"
"Not much, but maybe her backside, or maybe with clothes on."
