Floodgates And Pollack

Floodgates and Pollack

I haven't left my apartment in a week. I need to get out. I need some stuff. I need to start a new project. This sense of longing and foreboding has managed to open the floodgates of emotions and I need to redirect them into something constructive. I need to paint.

I get dressed, in something other than flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt. I'm such a mess. I throw on my favorite jeans, they're a bit loose now, I can't remember the last time I've eaten. The intermittent fasting has now become intentional starvation. It helps fuel the persistent dread and angst, that I'll use to be creative. I put on a clean sweatshirt, one with a snarky saying. "Play Stupid Games. Win Stupid Prizes." Slip on my boots, a pair of finger less gloves to keep my hands from aching in the chilly air and a slouchy beanie to cover my head.

I drive to the art supply store with my list in hand. I can't remember shit without a list these days. I love shopping here, I am totally in my element. I head to the paint aisle. I have a vision and start to pick colors. I try to stay away from red and black, those two colors just fuck with my head. Bad vibes, bad memories, bad dreams. I settle for several different shades of ochre, umber and sienna, burnt sienna, terracotta, moss green, khaki...I have an autumn theme in mind. I pick a large stretched canvas, 36"x48" should do it. I grab several new brushes and head to the counter to pay. The girl behind the counter informs me that that canvas is "Buy One Get One", if I want to grab another. "Score!" I say. As I go back to grab another one. All my items purchased I walk to my car.

I notice a small coffee shop a few doors down and decide to grab a cup. Usually these places only manage to piss me off, so many choices, latte, cappuccino, macchiato, WHATEVER! Can't I just get a normal cup of coffee? I walk in and it smells phenomenal! I breathe it in and walk over to see a very young barista dude working around the bar. He stands up and smiles.

He can't be over 25, so young and cute. His smile so bright, blue eyes, blonde hair, a little long. "Hey! How's it going? What looks good?" he says. I can't keep from laughing. I won't say what I really want to say. I'm sure it would embarrass him coming from an old lady like me.

"Well," I stammer "I just need a plain ol' coffee, something hot, a little strong, a little sweet, nothing too fancy. Surprise me,"

He smirks and squints at me, turns around and proceeds to go to work. I hear glass clinking, a mixer going. He hands it to me and says, "Here ya go. It's called a dalgona, you'll love it." He winks and steps away.

I've never heard of this type of coffee. I'm a little out of the coffee loop. It's tall and foamy, whipped, hot and delicious. This may just be my new favorite way of drinking coffee. I sit for a while, check my phone, sip my drink and try to organize the thoughts in my head. I finish my drink, thank him and tell him, I'll definitely be back for another one of those in the near future. I leave him a big tip and head out.

My brain is a little scrambled. Brainstorming, deciding on a concept, figuring out what message I want to convey. I know what feelings are going on internally but figuring out how to put those to canvas can be tricky. I think about the flow, the movement the balance to the piece. I need warmth and comfort. I don't know, it's hard to put into words, which is why I paint instead. I tell myself it doesn't matter. If I am not happy with it, I can shove it in the pile of other unfinished pieces that I will eventually paint over. No harm, no foul.

I get back to my apartment, arms loaded with all my supplies. I drop them inside my studio and kick my boots off. I check the fridge, two cold bottles of wine, cheap, sweet, white, great. Yeah, yeah, I know, the wine doesn't help but it does take the edge off, as long as I don't overdo it. I shake my head, of course I'll over do it. Recently, I always do. I've never been much of a drinker. I tend to do stupid things when I drink, which ultimately opens more emotional wounds. Baggage. I pour a glass, I haven't yet turned the clock back in my living room and convince myself it's five o'clock somewhere. I return to my studio and lay out my drop-cloth, which is actually just an old sheet, covered in paint.

I need to change. I slip into my paint clothes. A pair of old, distressed, ripped up jeans, covered in many different layers of paint, and an old plaid shirt, also covered in paint, no socks, no shoes.

I unwrap my new canvas and lay it on the drop-cloth. I dump the bag of paints, I'm using acrylics. I can't deal with the smells associated with oils and the cleaning solutions. Certain things trigger migraines for me, and I am not in the mood to fight that demon today. I pour gesso onto my new white canvas and start to spread it over the surface as I envision the scene. I allow the gesso to dry and grab my palette, which is not really a palette at all but rather a large plastic lid from an old tub of coffee. Hey, you use what you have and what is comfortable. I don't use an easel either. I prefer my pieces to be done laying on a flat surface.

I'm ready to start painting. I squeeze extra thick gel medium into the paints to give them more of an oil look, give them the body to make peaks and stroke marks as well as keeping the paint from drying too quickly. I lay down the base color, a fairly dark terracotta giving it the appearance of hard clay soil. I use my bare hands to spread the color into free form striated designs. The feel of the paint between my fingers is cool and slippery. I add more colors, they blend and move as my fingers slide through them. I imagine a ground covered in dried fall leaves and start to recall times we spent enjoying the changes of the seasons.

I sit on the floor with my legs crossed under me, hands covered in paint. My glass is empty and covered in paint too. I go for a refill and wash my hands. Thoughts drifting as the hot water removes the colors from my hands. I refill my glass and lean against the counter as I sip my wine. I slowly approach the studio to critique what I've managed to put down so far. It's not what envisioned. I stand and stare for a while and finish the wine. Not satisfied, I fill my glass again. I'm a little buzzed now and I begin to feel somewhat emotional. This isn't looking the way I have been seeing it in my head.

I stick my hand into the paint and throw it onto the canvas. I fall to my knees and pound my fists on the painting. The splashing and splatter making a mess of my hair, my face, my feet, my room, and I can no longer control it. The emotions starts to build. I need to release this, this frustration, it feels good to let it go.

I throw more paint. Breathe. I close my eyes and try to remember the last time he touched me. If I had known then that it would be the last time, I would have made it last longer, spent more time enjoying him. I slide my hands into my hair, and hold my head in my hands. Take a deep breath and try not to think. I run my hands down my neck and rub my shoulders. I unbutton my shirt and hug myself. The paint is cool against my skin and I have to touch myself. I rub the paint onto my breasts as I fondle and caress them. My nipples getting hard as I continue rubbing and pinching them. I remove my shirt and press my naked breasts against the canvas. Gliding slowly across the surface. I slip off my jeans and sit directly on the canvas. Slowly spreading my legs and grinding my ass onto the paint. I lay back and continue to cover myself in paint as I imagine his hands all over me. I stand to see the design my body has made on the canvas.

The pattern left behind is a mixture of shapes, forms and colors that represent a the dark autumnal mood I feel inside. The same patterns painted onto my body, an abstract piece, reminiscent of Pollack, although certainly not as impressive, and I get that feeling of the end of summer, the decline of warm sunny days as nature drops it's foliage in preparation of winter, and I feel a hint of seasonal sadness.

I walk first to the kitchen to refill my wine and then make my way to the shower. My hair, my face, my naked body covered in fall colors. The paint has begun to dry and crack on my skin much like the crackling, dried leaves on the lawns. I turn the water on as hot as I can stand and step into the shower. The water immediately turns to brown, orange, gold as it slides off my body and down the drain. I soap up my shower pouf and work up the lather. I need to scrub and slough off the remaining paint. The process leaves my skin pink and tingling, I feel almost scalded by the temperature of the water. I breathe in the moist steamy air as I place the pouf against my pussy and begin to lather it. The pouf is abrasive and rough as it stimulates my sensitive clit. I lay down in the tub and drape one leg over the edge as the water washes over me.

One of my hands spreading my wet soapy lips apart as i insert my fingers inside. My hands, warm and wet feel nice as I apply pressure and begin to fuck myself. My thoughts wander to times when we fucked in the shower, when we fucked and sucked each other in the big garden tub. Fuck, I miss the feeling of him touching my body. I long for his hard cock inside me, fucking me from behind, slapping my ass in the hot bubbling water. Our bodies slipping and sliding against one another. My heart races, my clit throbs as I start to cum. I feel my juices trickle down between the cheeks of my ass and it is even warmer than the water. I breathe in deeply and curl up in the bottom of the tub. The memories flooding my thoughts.

I think to myself, it has taken me moving half way across the country and back, several cross country road trips to places previously unknown, a few plane rides and twenty years to put the past behind me, and yet I can't run far enough to outrun the memories.

I turn off the water, climb out of the shower, wrap myself in my fluffy towel and step out into the chilly air outside the bathroom. I move to my studio and admire the piece I have created lying on the floor. It needs more work. I'll get back to it later. I turn off the light, pour myself another glass of wine, and head to my bedroom. I slide into my cozy bed naked and reach for my vibrator. The water, the thoughts, the warmth has me so aroused. I start to rub my pussy with the big fleshy fake cock. I shopped for just the right one, the one closest to him

I start slowly, gently encircling the lips of my pussy. Slowly making my way to slide it up and down, making me so wet. I slide it in and turn it on. Oh the vibration is so good. I leave the control on low and fuck myself. I push it deeper and deeper. Imaging him inside me. I roll over onto my belly and slam it in. I am fantasizing that it is his big cock inside me. I start to slide it out and turn it to high as the vibration gets stronger. I rub it roughly onto my clit and start to fuck it and it takes no time before I am squirting my juices. Oh shit. My clit, throbbing and squirting, becomes so sensitive, "oh yes" is sigh and "mmmm" I am wet and flushed and smiling to myself, as I remove my big fake cock and catch my breath.

I lay back, get wrapped up in my blankets and turn on some music. It's not as good as the real thing, but I am satisfied after fucking myself. I grin as I begin to drift off...