A couple of nights ago, right after I barely had a chance to catch my breath from the orgasm I’d just enjoyed while riding him, he slid his hands up my back and pulled me down toward him. We were chest to chest and eye to eye as he started talking.
“I’m taking you out this week. Dinner and a movie, or something like that. I don’t care, as long as it’s the two of us out in public, with all of our clothes on, going on a date like regular people.”
My first reaction was to tell him that he didn’t need to do that. We aren't dating; we're hooking up and keeping things casual. That means that all date-like activities are either off-limits or pointless. The only problem was, at that point JT hadn’t come yet, so he was still buried inside me and all I got as a response to my protests was him thrusting his hips up. Over and over and over again. Another orgasm later, I was feeling very agreeable. The only issue is, he’s two hours early for the date I agreed to.
I switch off my mic and give JT a wave, gesturing for him to follow me to the side of the platform. He blinks and then scans the room, as if he just realized there are thirty other women in the room, all of whom are staring at him. His face pales a little as he makes his way over to my side, lowering his voice to a near whisper.
“Am I early? I thought you said six.”
I shake my head. “I said the class starts at six. We won’t be done until around seven thirty, and then I need to close up. I probably won’t be out of here until eight.”
He sighs. “Remind me never to make plans with you when you’re naked. It’s too distracting.” He glances around the room again. “I guess I’ll run home and change clothes. I testified in a court case today and it ran long, so I didn’t think I’d have time, but now I do. I’ll just shower, change, then come back and pick you up.”
He barely has a chance to finish his thought before my hands are at his lapels, grasping the fabric in loose fists and giving a tug. “Don’t you dare.”
His eyes drop my possessive grip. “Because you like the suit?”
“Yes.” I must sound as breathy as I feel, because one side of his mouth hitches up into a lazy smirk. “I like it a lot. As does every woman in this room.”
The smirk disappears and he grimaces. “Okay, so I’m not imagining things? Because I feel a little like… ”
His words trail off and I let out a snort.
“Like you’re being pictured naked? Naked, but slathered in chocolate frosting while holding a DVD of The Notebook in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, and a red rose between your teeth?”
A look of horrified embarrassment takes over his face.
“Christ. I swear, women have the filthiest minds,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair self-consciously. “There’s has to be a Home Depot or something around here, right? I’ll just go wander around in there until you text me saying it’s safe for me to come back. There are tools and plumbing supplies there. And lawn mowers. All sorts of shit that I can’t afford and don’t need, but—”
While he’s babbling about tools, I start to formulate a plan. A plan that he may not like at first, but one that I think would be good for him.
I cut him off by tapping my index finger against his mouth. His eyes fix on me as I flip my mic back on.
“Ladies, I’d like to introduce JT,” I announce, still keeping my gaze on JT. His eyes widen to saucers. Gently, I take his hand in mine and turn us to face the group. “JT and I had a date tonight, but he showed up a tiny bit too early. Apparently, he just couldn’t wait to see me.”
The class giggles when I shoot them all a wink, and I make a point of glancing in the bride squad’s direction specifically. I figure there’s no harm in staking my claim here, especially when some of those ladies still look like they might be tempted to ask JT for a private show later.
His hand is still wrapped in mine—a little like a sweaty vise grip—as I walk us both to the center of the platform.
“He’s actually thinking about leaving, can you believe that? But I have a better idea. I think he should stay and join us. What do you guys think? Who wants JT to stay?”
The room erupts in cheers, and even over the din of all those voices, I can hear JT cursing under his breath. I ignore it. Because I know something he doesn’t.
JT needs this.
Painting has a way of quieting everything else that’s going on, until there’s nothing but the canvas to focus on. All your fears and anxieties—both big and small—will eventually disappear into the background because at some point, the only thing that matters is the next brushstroke. For as long as a brush is in your hand, all the other bullshit in your life can be set aside.
And I suspect no one needs that more than JT. He may be beautiful and principled, hardworking and demanding—but he’s also a little too good at being good. To the point that he’s a little bad at just being human.
Art, though, is an excellent teacher when it comes to failure. It’s a constant reminder that with a little more paint, flaws can be fixed. And if that doesn’t work, then with a lot of paint, you can just start over entirely. What matters more than technique or talent is simply to show up and try… even when you’re bound to fail.
With that in mind, I give JT’s hand a squeeze and lead him over to a free station at the far end of the front row. He’s a safe distance away from the chardonnay-guzzling Golden Girls, yet close enough that I’ll easily be able to check in on him throughout the night. He sits down on the stool like a man just sentenced to hard time, and starts to yank his suit jacket off with a grumble. I take the jacket from him, tell him to roll up his sleeves, then head back up front to grab him an apron and a beer.
He pulls the apron on over his head and I hand him the beer. He slips his free hand across the back of my legs and shoots me an uneasy look. Based on that look, I flip my mic off again.
“Anya, this isn’t my thing,” he says hesitantly. “Never has been. If my mom was here, she’d tell you I never did anything artsy as a kid. I wasn’t into finger painting or making drawings for her to put up on the fridge. I liked building forts and playing football, and that’s about it. I’m not… creative.”
I offer up a gentle smile and then hand him a brush.
“Then that's exactly why you belong here.”
By the time the class is over, JT has muttered more than a few colorful words under his breath, declared that he hates penguins, and groped my ass while letting me know that I’m going to pay for all of this later. To that last one, I just mouthed the words I hope so and walked away.
As for the rest of it, I basically told him that it was pathetic to let cute little penguins get the best of him. He seemed to get my point, right up until we were adding the finishing touches to tonight’s piece. That involved adding a coat of clear varnish across the canvas and sprinkling on some fine silver glitter to give the snowy hillsides some shimmer, but JT ended up with more glitter on him than on his painting, all courtesy of a loose cap on the bottle. If he didn’t already look like he should be shirtless and gyrating around under sultry stage lighting before, then he totally does now.
After everyone is done with their painting, I take a seat up at the front counter, then settle up open drink tabs and send them on their way with a smile. Two college-age girls who I’d guess are longtime best friends are the last to leave.