2 comments/ 37588 views/ 3 favorites Imperfect Beauty By: Amy Sweet Author's Note: This very short novel is a result of a writing challenge called NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. It is currently a hot topic on the Author's Hangout, if you'd like to learn more. Please remember that the point of this challenge was word count and not quality. Read at your own peril:) The phone rang. It was my mother. "So are you seeing anyone?" "Well, hello to you to." "Well?" "No mom. No one seriously." "What does that mean? You aren't giving the milk away for free are you?" I groan. I can't believe that my mother really talks like this. I know for a fact that she wasn't a virgin when she married, because I was born two years before that date. She knows I know too, but mom has a very selective memory when it comes to these things. She wants grandchildren, and she wants them yesterday. Ever since I passed 25, she's been breathing down my neck to get settle down, get married and start popping out babies. The more the merrier! She figures that if I make the guy wait, he'll buy my the ring. "You're a beautiful girl, Nicole. Any man is going to want to marry you if he knows it's the only way to get into your pants." "Mother!!!" Why must our mothers embarrass us like this? Why must they always say what seems like the most inappropriate thing that they could possibly say in any given situation? Why? Why? Why? And do I really want to put myself on a crash course on becoming like this? Of course not! But will my mother listen? Of course not! "I'm just saying," she sniffed defensively. "Well don't. Your going to give me a complex." "Try not to be so dramatic dear. Your not seeing some kind of therapist and talking about what a bad parent I was are you?" "Of course not, ma. I always defend you to my therapist." "Hardy har- your mighty fresh Nicole. You know that?" "Yes mom, you've been telling me that since I was eleven." "Try four." "Listen mom. I hate to break up this funfest, but I've gotta go. I'm late for work." "I thought you were a freelancer?" she asked suspiciously. "I am, mom. But I've got an appointment with a gallery owner." I hoped she would fall for the lie. It seemed innocent enough. "Fantastic! I can't wait to tell everybody. My little girl is meeting with gallery owners! I'm so proud of you honey. Maybe you'll meet some single men at one of those openings or whatever they call them. I hear that it's a hot spot for wealthy art connoisseurs! Just the guy for you. Someone who can take care of you, so you can work on your hobby." I start to say, ‘Mom! It's not a hobby! How many times do I have to tell you this?' But I already know that if I do that, I'll be in the phone all day. So instead I take a deep sigh and say. "Ok, ma. I'm going to be late." "No time for your old ma. I understand. knock ‘em dead honey. I love you-" "I love you to mom." Click. This is not a story about my relationship with my mother. It just happens to be a great place to start. It might explain to you a little bit of my craziness. My mother lives half way across the state, but with one phone call she always manages to get me worked up over my life choices. And when I hang up, I feel like I need a nap. I have no time for a nap today however. Although I lied to my dear sweet mother about having a meeting, I do need to get some productive work done. The problem is, I finished my most recent painting two days ago, and can't quite seem to get inspired for the next one. I know that I can't just sit around waiting for inspiration to strike, however so every day no matter how I feel, I make a point to go into my studio (more about that in a minute) and set up my supplies. Sometimes when the blank canvas becomes too intimidating, I just dip my brush into my paint and streak a swash of color across the white board. It doesn't always inspire me, but it makes me feel better. It's sort of like giving the demons of self doubt a big middle finger. Now about my studio. I live alone in a one bedroom apartment in a college town a few blocks from the campus were I used to attend. It's by far the arts capital of the world, or even the country but it's nice here and there are plenty of opportunities for a talented artists who's willing to try. Of course it's the talented part that always hangs me up. I mean, I know that I'm good. My pictures usually look like what they are supposed to be and all that- but do I really have talent? Of course that's a subjective question and my artistic need for creating my own agony keeps me from being able to firmly settle on any sort of definitive answer to it. Some days I'm convinced of my own genius, while others I cower in fear that I'll be found out for the hack I really am. So anyway, this studio of mine is in the bedroom. I myself sleep on a loft bed in my living room. I tried the futon thing, but it just didn't make me feel like I was at home in my own home. So I traded it in for one of those beds with a seating bench were the ‘first bunk' would be and a nice firm mattress up by the ceiling. At night when I can't sleep, I like to reach up and trace designs with my finger on the stucco. I think it's good practice and it helps me focus my subconscious mind on creative things. Then again, it could be just that I can't sit or lie still. Ok, the studio. Well, as I said, I sleep in my living room in order that I can turn the one bedroom in this apartment into a studio. I keep my easel, my supplies and my art books in this room. I have a window with a view of the street, so I use white curtains to let in the natural light when I want to block out distractions. But just as often I like to look out at the business below me. It helps me to get energized, it makes me feel less lonely, sometimes it inspires me or sets me off into a daydream. I'll admit it, sometimes it's just a technique to procrastinate. I also have a radio that plays CD's, tapes and records. Yes, records! I have a bunch of them from my childhood and I love to listen to them while I paint. Especially Leslie Gore, and my best of the sixties and seventies collection. I like that I can shut the door, play my music and enter into a new world. Then I can take that world and put it on canvas to share with the rest of the world. Is this talent? Bringing my vision, my world out were others can see it? I don't know. But it keeps me sane. Or relatively so, I should say. After a conversation like this with my mother, it defiantly helps to listen to the tunes. Nothing distresses me like bopping around to "sugar, da da dada da da, ah, honey, honey; you are my candy girl… and ya got me wanting you…" Yeah, that shakes the cobwebs out. Well, I'm still stuck here facing this mocking white canvas, so I guess I better just splash some goldenrod across it. Yeah, that looks good. How ‘bout some more? Now I'll blend in some white and give it a little bit of an ethereal feeling. I like this already. You just gotta put that brush down and move it. It's the only way to start, to get something good. To get anything at all. Who cares if it's good? As long as at the end of the day I can say I did something, I painted something- I feel better than if I painted nothing. And I've got a lot better chance of painting something brilliant, something wonderful, something passable if I do something than I do if I do nothing at all. Sure it seems obvious. But I have to remind myself every day. Swash! More color. It's bright and soft at the same time. It's the perfect background for something with wings. An angel? A fairy? A butterfly? I think a pixie it will have to be. Something mischievous, slightly naughty like I'm feeling now. About to start some trouble, splash some water in a cat's face. That's it! That's my painting, my inspiration. Thank the muses! I've got my subject- and now the work begins. I've got a file box of clippings and I start to dig through it. I find a cat who's eying a goldfish. It's perfect. This cat is being bad, the pixie is being bad, wonder what this fish could do that would be naughty too?! I'm going to call it Misbehaving. I think it's a good sign. Sometimes I don't think of a title until my piece is done, and it's always more difficult this way. The sooner in the process I know what to call it, the more I feel like my work will be successful. I guess it's superstitious, but I think most artistic people are. Besides, it provides a focus, it really let's me know in a concrete way, what the painting is all about. I flip through some pictures, culled from magazines, catalogues and other sources looking through a variety of fantasy creatures. There are pixies and other fairies in this section, but nothing really strikes me as right for this picture. I think back to my original idea of painting a butterfly, and I realize that those are the kind of wings I want to pain. I have nothing in my file box, but I have a few books that showcase many beautiful butterfly species so I look through those and find just the right one. Irreverently, I rip out the entire page so that I can tape it up by my work station. Now what to do about this mischievous pixie? She needs a body and a face. This is the easy part, because I know that I really am the naughty little fairy in this painting. Not surprisingly, I do a lot of self-portraits of this sort. It seems I'm always putting a lot more than a little bit of myself into my work. So of course I have a few mirrors in my studio. I drag my easel over to the full length mirror. Now standing in front of the mirror, the light from the window comes in over my left shoulder and from behind. This is perfect. Now, I tape the large butterfly picture on the wall next to the mirror, and set the smaller cat picture right on my canvas. It's time for pencils. I've got to draw my vision. Interstingly, this is the time when I start thinking of reason's to procrastinate. I should get a drink, or fix something to eat. I think I have to go to the bathroom, but realize that I really don't. I run my tongue over my teeth though, and realize that they could use a good brushing. And I should change this shirt, it's really to nice to be working in. I know that all of this is just a way to avoid potentially spoiling the beautiful golden background I've created by putting down my pencil and what? Finding that it won't yield under my hand, won't turn the way that I want it to or dray the lines that I see in my mind. Sometimes this happens, The pencil draws, but it bears no resemblance to the thing I wanted to create. When I was a kid, I used to think that artists were people who could just put down there brush and beautiful masterpieces would flow right out, without fail. Perfect every time. Well, there may be some body out there who can do that, but I've never met them. Most of the artists I know throw away at least twice as many canvases as they keep. Of course, I never really throw away a canvas. That would be silly. I just paint over it with white paint, or some other color and begin again. Canvas is to expensive for a starving artist to just throw out. Again, there may be some wealthy painters who just throw them out the window, but I've never met any. I went to work sketching out my vision, integrating the features of each picture and making it my own. In a couple of hours I was finally finished with stage one and I really did need to eat, use the bathroom and get something to drink. My throat was dry from all of my thoughtful and slow breathing, usually from my mouth despite the hazards that this presents. Its ok, I've gotten enough done now that I can cut myself some slack, stretch out a little rest my eyes and fill my tummy. Besides, this book really isn't about my painting career either, although that too is a big part of who I am. If my relationship with my mother explains why I‘m nearly insane, my painting explains why I'm not. Sure, as an artist I'm a little loopy as a rule. Sure I hop around to my oldies records like a six year old on a sugar high, sure it's my craziness that fuels my need to paint- but it's the actual act of painting that keeps me sane. It's a paradox for sure. But painting is my meditation. I don't know where I'd be without it. At this point, you're probably wondering,- Nicole, what is your book about anyway? You've already told us it wasn't about your relationship with your mother, and it isn't about your painting career. Does it have a point, and are you ever going to get to it? The answer, my friend is likely as not, no. If there is a point, I may never get around to telling you just what it is because I'm kind of like that. I'm not really good at getting to the point, as you may have already noticed. And by the time I get done explaining to you how unlikely it is that I will plainly state the point of my story I will probably have forgotten exactly what that point is. But don't worry, I do have one and it will reveal itself on the pages ahead. I suppose I could summarize and say that it's about me and my life as a single woman, but that wouldn't be quite right. Or I could say it's about my constant battle with my own insecure, even though deep down I know that I'm pretty I'm talented and I'm a decent person, but that wouldn't be quite right either. I could tell you that if you are accepting this to be some kind of Bridget Jones rip off, you should probably go read something else. That wouldn't quite explain what this book is about, but it would give you some idea what it isn't about. It's not about looking for love. It's not about finding a husband. And it's certainly not about oh-woe-is-me I'm nearly thirty and still single. Or about clicking biological clocks. Although it is about the fact that my single friends and my mother don't quite understand why I'm so happy being single- even though I'm not completely satisfied with everything in my life. Yeah, a lot of my single friends seem to think that 'finding the one' will solve all of there problems, despite the fact that we know plenty of married people and none of them seem to have it all figured out. If anything, they have twice the number of problems as the rest of us. Maybe my mother didn't tell me the story of Cinderella enough times as a child. I just never picked up that starry eyed romanticism of happily ever after and then fade to black. It actually sounds kind of boring to me. Oh I like romance. Flowers and music and being made to feel special. I just don't have this overall view that romance is the beginning and the end of happiness or even love. Or for that matter sex. That's right. I said sex. Just as my mother suspects, I'm giving it away for free. Not like I'm just this slut who puts out to anybody who turns my way- and not to be immodest, but there are quite a few of those. But I'm what I like to label sexually liberated. I'm not above a booty call, or any other kind of mutually enjoyable activity among consenting adults. Hey, why spend the night alone if you know somebody who wants it as bad as you do? I suppose that there are plenty of people who would say this does make me a slut, and to them I would say- absolutely nothing. I don't give a damn what they think, and don't give it a second thought. Except of course when that self doubt kicks in and you wonder if the guy your having dinner with would freak if he know how many guys you've been with. Not that I'd ever tell. I never tell. Any guy who asks will get a very polite, it's none of your business, I don't discuss that. If he asks again, it's over. Ya gotta have boundaries. And besides, if a guy can't take a hint, that's no guy I want to be with. Even as a friend with benefits, any man I'm with needs to be able to appreciate the subtleties of a woman. He has to know when to stop and when to go, when to slow down and when to back up and try again later. He's gotta know all this without me having to know it, because I'll admit it, sometimes I don't know my own mind. I don't suppose it's politically correct to admit such a thing, and my friends in the local NOW chapter probably wouldn't appreciate me saying so but I have this bad habit. Sometimes I can be honest to a fault. Of course, I'm not above being dishonest to a fault either, as you've already seen. I'm a bundle of contradictions. If a guy can't handle subtlety, she sure as hell can't handle me. Did you catch that last bit? Yeah, I have friends in NOW. I'm a member myself, although I don't go to meetings and gatherings as often as I should. I pay my dues and I get involved when I have time, or when the issue is particularly important to me. Some of my friends get pissed off when the issues that they think are important are not the one's that I think are worth hallin' my tail around for, but they usually get over it. I wouldn't be friends with them if they didn't. My friends are all pretty cool people. They have to be to put up with me. They gotta put up with a lot. I can be moody, I can be temperamental, I can lock myself away for days on end and then call them up one day like no time has ever passed. But they get a lot in return to. I'd walk to the end of the earth for a friend in need, and it's probably a cliché to say so but I'm a painter not an English major so I'm not afraid to say it because it's true. My friends know that they can count on me and that's the bottom line. In fact, this same night that I wiggled away from maternal confrontation and started on my rebellious little painting was also the night Glen and Zoë and I had plans for some serious bar hopping. Remembering this, I decided to give Zoë a call while I made myself a sandwich. "Simone is coming with us," she informed me as I spread a thick layer of full fat mayonnaise over thick crusty slices of wheat bread. I groan, but only to myself and only silently. Simone Webster is tall slender with a beauty to rival Whitney Houston in her heyday. She has smooth brown skin, sexy long black hair, and full sensual lips. Her eyes are wide and sincere, and it's not an act. She really is one of the nicest people I know. There's really nothing to dislike about Simone. Except that when you stand next to Simone you feel like a slob. Regardless of how well you've dressed, she's dressed better. And she's probably spent about half as much to do it. She has amazing style and her body is a perfect fashion plate. Everywhere you go, people are guaranteed to look at her, and look past you. When you stand next to Simone Webster, you are invisible. Simone is Zoë's friend from way back and my friend too, but mostly through Zoë. It's not that I don't like her, as I said I do. Especially on those days when I'm not to susceptible to negative thoughts and insecurities. But on a day like this, after having the cow-and-milk discussion with my mother I just wasn't sure if it was one of those days. "Great," I said out loud. "What are the driving arrangements?" "We're taking my car. Simone is going to drive to my place then we are going to pick up you and Glen and you get to drive everybody home. Your still our designated right?" I layer ham, roast beef and cheese onto my sandwich and nod. Then I remember she can't hear my head shaking over the phone so I nod and say, "If I don't sell a painting soon, I may take the next two times too." "Hey we'll take you up on that!" she joked. I was one of the few of the gang that really enjoyed being the designated driver. For one thing, it's a great excuse to try all of the interesting non-alcoholic cocktails that the bars have to offer. And for another, the designated driver doesn't have to pay for drinks. Each round, one of the other members of the group buys a drink for the unlucky slob who gets to stay sober all night. And for a girl of limited funds such as myself, it allows me to go out and enjoy myself far more than I would be able to otherwise. Imperfect Beauty "I don't think things are that desperate yet." I replied with a hopeful chuckle. Hey, I like the virgin mixes, but I like my liquor too. I'm twenty-nine, not fifty-nine. Might as well live it up while I've got the chance. I like to drink tequila and get a little wild, let loose and howl at the moon. But tequila doesn't like me, another reason why I don't mind abstaining for the night. My stomach will thank me in the morning. Zoë and I chat while I continue to pile every vegetable known to man on my sandwich- lettuce, tomatoes, onions, cucumbers and green peppers. It's not good to go to the bar on an empty stomach, even if you're not going to get sloshed. Woman can not live by overly salted popcorn alone, or something like that. Zoë fills me in on the gossip as I chew and occasionally mumble "mm-hm." A good thing about that girl is that she can talk! She has no trouble filling in the spaces I might have left in the conversation by trying to eat while on the phone. And it's a good thing, because my sandwich was by far to good too put down. Turns out that Glen is single again and ‘on the prowl' as she put it. Great, just what we need to liven things up; our town's most flamboyant gay man over 30 hitting on anybody with three legs. Glen- he's a good looking guy. Clean cut, tall and blond with a baby soft face that looks like he's never shaved a day in his life. Physically he kind of reminds me of that guy from What Not to Wear, Personality wise though, he's sort of a ringer for that weird uncle from the old TV show Bewitched; smirky, quirky and flamboyantly eccentric. We love him though, naturally. It's true that he's pretty stereotypical of what a lot of people think a gay man is, but we know him well enough to know that he's a true one of a kind, in all the best ways. You'll learn more about that as the story progresses. We had our transportation plans worked out and all the vital facts were on the table. I myself had nothing to add, so I told Zoë I'd see her soon and we hung up the phone. I had time, I made another sandwich and puttered around my small kitchen looking through my nearly empty cupboards. Thank god it was designated-drink-for-free tonight. *********** The good thing about being single is that when you go out, you can find another person to be single with together. Zoë, Glen and I were definitely all looking for a hook-up that night, although Simone was her usual friendly but slightly aloof self. She was single, but gawd was she picky. I suppose she could afford to be, considering she can usually have her pick from any man in the room. The problem is, she never picks any of them. Her standards are so high, she usually ends up alone. And she never seems to mind either. On the other hand, unlike the rest of us, Simone is looking for more than a good time. She's one of those people who doesn't feel that a relationship is worth her time unless it's ‘going somewhere,' presumably, down the aisle. For myself, I prefer relationships that are defiantly not heading in that direction. I like a relationship that's going toward the bedroom. I'm not afraid to admit it- I like sex! I like it a lot. And I'm not the least bit interested in settling down. Some of my single friends don't understand this, they say ‘Don't you want to find somebody special to grow old with, to be there everyday, to be a life partner?" Most of my married friends think I've got the right idea. When I look at them, I usually think that marriage has made them grow old much too soon. Even the ones with happy marriages are just not in a place where I want to be. For most of my friends, it's true what they say- the grass is greener on the other side. But in my case, the grass is greener right where I am. A lot of people look at dating as a chore, a kind of job interview for a future mate. No wonder they don't like it! For me, dating is about having a good time and getting to know someone, getting to see if you like the same things or if the only thing you have in common is a mutual desire to bump uglies. I don't know why they call it that- I think that the human body is a beautiful thing, especially all those interesting parts that we keep covered up most of the time. But if I said ‘bumping beauties' I just don't think any one would know what I was talking about. Anyway, I enjoy dating because for me, it's not about anything but the moment. Sure, I'm deciding if I want to spend any more time with this person. But I'm not planning out our future. I'm not looking for faults that would eliminate them from being ‘the one.' The only fault that turns me away is someone who I don't enjoy or somebody who's a lot more serious than I am. That's not a problem with most guys, but believe me- it does happen. Usually, I date a guy, we have fun for a while and then we either move on to someone else or melt into a sort of friendship. Very rarely do I get involved in a long term exclusive relationship, although it's been known to happen. But I just don't feel comfortable being half of a couple. I much prefer to just be myself and enjoy all that life has to offer. Like I said, a lot of guys that I date become my friends- sometimes with benefits and sometimes not. Eventually, even most guys want to settle down, and I don't mind at all, fixing two of my friends up with each other. Of course, once a guy is dating another friend of mine, any and all benefits stop. Like I said, I like sex, but I'm not desperate and I'm not a bad friend. There's plenty more fish in the sea, as they say. I guess some people wouldn't want to date a friends ex, or someone they know she's slept with but my friends understand how I am and they know that the guys they are dating have a history. With me, they know that they are getting a recommendation. I never fix up two friends who aren't looking for the same thing or who aren't going to match up- in bed or otherwise. Of course, it probably doesn't hurt that I sleep with a lot of my girlfriends too. I guess some people would call me bisexual, but I don't necessarily label myself that way. I'm just open to new experiences, and I enjoy a whole range of pleasures of the flesh. Most of my friends are either bisexual, sexual open like me, or just extremely open-minded. Those are just the kind of people I hang out with. Some of the guys that come and go in my life, but don't stick around aren't so open minded, but then that's why they don't last in my pantheon of friends. You'd be surprised in this day and age how many guys have the most medieval of attitudes about women or sex or both. They don't think that men and woman can be friends or they still think that the man has to be dominant or that women shouldn't work after they marry. Oh and they are very vocal about there beliefs. They are not hard to spot. Guys like that can be fun for a while, but they just don't mesh with the rest of my friends who tend to be pretty alternative. I've been told that I'm not really open minded- that I‘m a hypocrite, because I'm not accepting of people with different values than me. I just roll my eyes at people who say that. I have no problem with people with different values, but I don't have the patience for those with different values who have no tolerance for mine or others who are different. I don't agree that we should be tolerant of intolerance. That's completely contradictory, and I think that would be the true hypocrisy. I have to stand by my own values and standards, not somebody else's. Here I am going on and on about who I sleep with and what I believe instead of getting to the point, which is the club and who we all hooked up with. Because, as I said, we were all looking to hook up, accept for Simone of course. The first thing that happened after we found our tables was that our waiter stared at Simone the whole time he was taking our orders and of course, mixed them all up. Simone paid no attention to him whatsoever, but for some reason that just sort of encouraged him. While he was off messing up our order, I couldn't help but point out the obvious to her. "Did you notice him, he was all over you!" "Who- oh him! He's way to young for me." "Well it wouldn't hurt just to look at him would it?" I ask, thinking about what an idiot this guy was going to be, trying to get her attention. "I saw him," she said dismissively. I turned to Zoë and rolled my eyes. "So did I," Glen chirped up. "What a fine piece of grade A sirloin." Zoë laughed. "You know, for a gay man, Glen, you can be a real pig," I admonished. "Even if he's bi, I doubt you can get his attention away from Miss America over here," Zoë said, nodding in Simone's direction. In typical Simone fashion, she ignored the comment. "Well, I can try," said Glen lecherously. This should be fun, I thought. Our waiter trying to get Simone's attention, Simone ignoring him and gossiping with Zoë, and Glen hitting on our waiter, who's just as oblivious to him, as Simone was to him. It was almost a relief when the young buck brought me a tequila sunrise instead of the two shots I had ordered. When the circus began, I just slipped away, shooting a sympathetic look toward Zoë and found my way up to the bar. I could straighten out this drink situation on my own. The bar tender was turned, with his head down mixing something for another patron when I got up to the bar. I hopped up on a stool and waited, picking up a napkin to fold and unfold. I told you I couldn't sit still. When the bartender turned around, he saw me and motioned that he'd be with me in a minute. It was almost surreal as everything slowed down and the sound disappeared. This guy was amazing. Probably about mid-twenties with a winning smile and a handsome face. He looked so cute in his bar apron , I couldn't help but wonder if he was single. He was so fine, it seemed against the odds, but it happens all the time. It seemed like forever before he returned to talk to me. "How can I help you?" he offered, and all sorts of lewd answers jumped to mind. After what seemed like a beat to long of silence I said, "The waiter mixed up my drink," I say trying not to sound to harsh or accusing. "I ordered two shots of Cuervo." "A tequila girl, huh?" he asked teasingly. "You sure you can handle it?" "Boy, I could drink you under the table any day!" I challenge him. His eyes seem to sparkle. "What's that your going to do to me under the table?" Oh yeah, we're hitting it off. "I guess you'll have to come over to my place after work and I'll show you ," I offer as temptingly as I know how. His elbow on the counter, he rests his hand on his fist and leans toward me. Looking me in the eyes, he says warmly, "I'd like that." Amazingly, there's no hint of lechery in his tone. A guy with manners is a real turn on for me. "If you can handle it," I add. He laughs good naturedly and extends his hand. "Name's Chase," he says by way of introduction. "Nicole." His hand is larger than mine, smooth and warm, well manicured without being too effeminate. "Here," he says remembering my drinks. "Let me take this." I put my hand out to stop him. The accidental touch brings an even greater thrill than the handshake. "That's ok, I'll drink this after I finish my shots." I had forgotten that I was supposed to be the designated driver until I realized that I had to pay for my own drink. "Shit!" I exclaimed as Chase sat my drinks down in front of me. "What?" he asked somewhat startled. "I just realized that I'm supposed to be the designated driver for the night." "So all that talk about drinking me under the table…" "It'll have to wait for another night." He stopped to think. "You know, if your group is staying until we close, I could drive for you. And as long as you order your drinks before last call, you can stay and drink while I close up." "Why Chase, are you trying to get me drunk?" I ask teasingly. He nodded, "Guilty, I admit it." "Well, we're supposed to go a few other places tonight. I'll have to ask my friends if they want to stay here instead. If not, it will be virgin pin-accolades-coladas for me all night." He agreed, and I went to see what the gang thought. Mr. Waiter had moved on to another table at last. "There's a pretty good crowd in here tonight," Glen commented. I'd like to check out the pickin's. I wouldn't mind staying if the rest of you don't." "There's pool tables in the back and a dance floor," Zoë commented. "That should keep me busy. I'm ok with it. But I think I want to talk to him before I let him drive my car." "That's a good idea," I conceded. "Come up to the bar with me. You won't believe how gorgeous this guy is." I looked to Simone. "What?" she asked. "Do you want to stay here the whole night? If that waiter's bugging you, we can go. I'll just meet up with Chase at the end of the night." "Oh no, I can handle him. You do your thing," she said with an encouraging smile. I began to think that she was enjoying the attention even though she would never admit it. She was cool about it, but she had to know the tremendous power she held over men. "It's settled then," I said, "almost. Come with me Zoë." I took her hand and pulled her through the crowd. I realized that I had left my drinks sitting on the bar, I hoped that Chase was keeping an eye on them. Sure enough, they were right were I left them untouched even though Chase was filling drink orders at the other end of the bar. I waved and he nodded. He didn't stay and chat with his other customer, but headed right over to us as quickly as possible. "So what's the word?" "Everyone's ok with it," I told him. "But it's Zoë's car and she wanted to talk to you first before she decided to let you drive her car." "Well, I can hardly blame her for that," Chase said with a chuckle. The more I talked to him, the more I liked him. He was warm and friendly with a wonderful relaxed attitude about everything, as far as I could tell so far. "Is this Zoë?" he asked turning to look at her. Zoë was grinning ear to ear. I could tell that she was agreeing with me about Chase. I could tell his driving record wasn't going to be a factor. "You don't slam a few back after you clock out do you?" she asked him without a hint of seriousness. "No," he told her. "But I can bring a case of something along, if you'd like to have a little after party." his offer was gracious, and seemed to be sincerely offered to both or all of us not just Zoë. He gave no impression that he was hitting on my friend, even though she's very cute and obviously taken with him. "I'd like that," Zoë said, practically drooling on the counter. "But how are you going to get home?" I was surprised that she was worried about that, the way she was looking at him. "I‘ll just take a cab after everybody is at there destination. Then I'll take the cab back here tomorrow for work, or sooner if I need my car for anything." "Attention to details," I interject. "I like that." Chase flashes me a warm smile. Of course I'll have to leave your car," he nodded toward Zoë, "at Nicole's." he turned back to me. If there was a test, he passed it. What the hell, why not leave the door open. "That's ok, we're room-mate's." I worry that I'm getting too good at this lying thing. Zoë looked at me questioningly. "We're all set then." Chase said. "I've got to take care of some of my other customers, but I hope you'll come back and talk to me later," he said putting his hand gently over mine. "You can count on it," I promise him, wishing that he could leave work now, imagining the feeling of his lips on mine, wondering if I would make the first move or let him. Considering the possibilities ahead. I smiled back, before he went back to an impatient college kid sitting a few stools down from us. I took my drinks with me this time as we headed back to the table. "Why did you tell him we were room-mates. Did that mean what I think it does?" she asked me, barely concealing her eagerness. "Maybe," I say. "We'll see how things go." Zoë and I had a thing going for a while. She's incredibly hot and I don't mind sharing her, or sharing with her under the right circumstances. Or in other words as long as nobody is going to end up getting hurt. I didn't see that happening in this situation, but I wanted to take a wait and see approach until I had a better idea of what I wanted to do, and what Chase might be willing to do. Like I said, Zoë is hot. She is slender and short- about my height, with short blond hair that's layered up the back with longer, slightly spiky bangs in front. Her blue eyes aren't pale at all, but dark and intense and incredibly sexy. Not only that, but she has a great body. She had beautiful C-cup breasts that she's not afraid to show off with low cut blouses, and a nice round backside of just the right size. Her looks are a direct contrast to mine. Although we are both petite, and let's face it, stacked we are definitely not a matched set. My hair is long and striking black in contrast to my snowy complexion. My eyes are a hazel green that change when the light moves across them. People often have a hard time describing them because there seems to be so many colors within them. I'm not too modest to say, I think they are my best feature. I'm quite proud of them. We made it back to the table and let everyone know we were staying here for the night. "Me and Zoë are going to go shoot some pool anyone want to come with?" "I'm gonna check out the dance floor," Glen said, rising. "I'll come over later," Simone said. "I'm waiting for another drink." All of our coats were hanging on our chairs, so we didn't have to worry about loosing our table. Our cash, was smartly in our pockets. "We'll see you in a bit then," we told her heading off to the pool tables. "I think she likes the attention," Zoë said about Simone and the waiter. I laugh, "You read my mind!" There was a line at the pool table, so we put our corners down and sat in the chairs set up near the tables to watch. Two college guys wearing baseball caps with rounded off bills were sparing off. It was obvious that they were friends and that there was some type of bet attached to this game. As we watched, we were able to figure out that the looser had to buy all the drinks for the winner. Not exactly high stakes, but then again depending on how much the winner could pour back, you never know. The guys quickly noticed us watching and went to work showing off. The guy in the green shirt started holding the cue behind his back ever chance he got, and the guy in the red shirt started trying to verbally one-up his friend whenever he had the chance. It was very amusing for the two of us. We quickly decided we both liked the guy green better than the other one who was loud and obnoxious, and decided we'd do what we could to help him win. Whenever the blue shirt guy went to take his turn we started holding hands or touching each other's hair. We were casual about it at first, making it look almost accidental, light and friendly. But as we got more and more into the reaction of both of the guys at the table and the rest of the guys waiting to play, we slowly began turning up the heat. It was hilarious to watch. Red shirt was having so much trouble, a few times his cue stick slipped and didn't even hit the cue-ball. Even Blue was a little nervous and had to stop using show-offy tactics until he was able to find his bearings. It was obvious to the guys in line what we were doing, and they new just when to watch the game and when to watch us. Zoë and I where having a lot of fun, tormenting the boys but we also enjoy being flirtatious with each other just for the sake of it. We don't often do it when we're in the group because it's not all that our friendship is about, but when we are around a bunch of guys like this we just can't help ourselves. When it comes to our bi-curiosity, we are total exhibitionists. Having the guys watch us was as thrilling as what we were doing to each other. It was like a cycle; a very sensuous and exciting cycle. Imperfect Beauty As they neared the end and Blue shirt was far in the lead, we decided that on what would likely be Red's last move, we'd do something really big. So as Red chalked up his cue, the two of us looked soulfully into each others eyes and kissed each other over so lightly, stroking the other's hair as we did so. We noticed it had been quite a while since Red had had anything smart alecky to say to Blue. Now we could sense him standing speechless, watching the two of us with interest. As we broke apart, we could hear all of the men around us who had been collectively holding their breaths, exhale. Red made his shot without much care or attention and Blue went on to win. The game was over, we had been the biggest influence on it's outcome. We reveled in our own power, but we also felt kind of bad for Red shirt. I took Zoë's hand and walked over next to him. "We're sorry for distracting you," I said sweetly. "We just felt bad for your friend because you were trash-talking him." "That's ok, I really didn't mind that much," he said with a slight smirk. "Well, we want to make it up to you anyway," I said. He stood there grinning, ready for whatever it was we were going to do. "Well, I guess this is for all of you. And it's not to distract anyone, or to help anyone win or loose, but just because. Here goes." We turned to look at each other. She ran her hand over a strand of my hair that fell over my breast. I could feel the excitement building within me as her hand touched my nipple. All these people watching us, waiting. I touched her cheek and felt her shiver. She wanted it as bad as I did. It had been a long time since we had been together in this way. I found myself holding my breath as I moved toward her lips. When we touched, it was like fire. We both exploded, sharing a kiss full of thunderstorms, crashing waves, and fireworks. All the old cliques, and some of the new ones. This was a kiss to end all kiss, with a full on body grope to go with it. I ran my hands down her back, over the curve of her ass and pulled her in toward me. Through our skimpy club clothes I could feel the outline of her body pressing against mine. My sex was hot and damp and I wondered if she could tell that I had no underwear on this night. I humped my mound up and down over hers, creating a friction building a desire. Her hands were on my ass, frantically sharing in the motion, in the hunger of the moment. What had been intended for the pleasure of others was now engulfing the two of us with desire for one another. I had forgotten how her touch made me feel. I longed to shuck of my clothes so she could slide her finger up inside of me. I wanted to pull her head back and trail kisses down from her neck to her breasts and suckle on her nipple. This kiss, this kiss set loose the raging sex monster inside of me. I had to have her tonight, and I didn't want to wait till closing time. Like all good things, the kiss came to an end. I felt flushed, and my hair was seriously tousled. Zoë's tight blue jeans were none the worse for wear, but her low cut top had slid all over the place and a pale pink nipple was dangerously close to peaking out of her exposed white lace bra. My own lycra dress was riding so far up, that I thought that most of the guys within spitting distance could probably tell that I didn't have anything on underneath. As we broke apart and looked at each other, each of us with questions in our eyes that we couldn't ask right here, the men around the pool table broke out into a riotous, appreciative applause. We stood holding each others hand until the clapping finally stopped. Then Zoë said, in her cute, quiet little voice, "We like boys too." And the applause started up all over again. I could feel the warmth rising in my face as I grinned ear to ear myself. I felt on top of the world. I couldn't wait to get Zoë alone so I could talk to her. "Ah hell," said a guy in a cowboy hat when the second wave of applause died down. "Y'all can play the next round, if no one else objects." He looked around while the other men shook there heads approvingly.. "No objection here," said an older man with a beard. Our talk would have to wait. We were up. Zoë is one of my best girlfriends. I first met her when I was twenty, at a house party. Back then, her hair was pink and spiky, and I remember she was wearing these large dangly geometric earrings. The thing is, the 80's had been long over- but I really dug her retro look. She wasn't the first girl I experimented with, but she was the first girl that I really had anything special going with. That night, I had no idea that she was even into girls. Especially since she was hanging on the arm of this lanky dark haired guy with an eyebrow piercing. The two of them were going at it pretty hot and heavy, like some kind of high school make-out session. As it happened, I found out later that she had just graduated, and he had just dropped out of alternative ed. He was joining this local alt/punk band which she thought was totally cool. I could see that they weren't going anywhere- the band or the couple, but I kept my mouth shut. There was really no reason to do otherwise. We didn't hook up that night, but we talked during the time that alternate-boy was hanging with his band-mates. I was in college, studying art and I told her that I would love to paint her sometime. She was kind of shy about that, she didn't feel that she was especially pretty and she felt sort of awkward. I let her know that I thought she had the perfect face for portraits, and that she wouldn't have to do anything other than sit still and keep me company while I painted her. "You mean I don't have to sit perfectly still the whole time?" she asked me. "Of course not, just when I'm sketching out a certain feature, and that's the shortest part of the process." She agreed that it wouldn't be much different than what we were already doing and that she would do it, if I really needed her to help me out. I told her that I really did. What I meant was that I really wanted to, but she didn't seem ready to believe it. In the weeks that followed, we came to know each other pretty well as I rendered her likeness onto the best quality canvas I could afford. She was frustrated by the fact that I wouldn't let her see it until it was finished, but she seemed to enjoy our sessions as much as I did. We found out that we had a lot in common; similar values and politics, interest in the arts- Zoë was into photography and fashion design, similar taste in music (band-boy notwithstanding). One thing that we never discussed was my growing attraction for her. She never hinted at any tendencies toward bi-sexuality and I didn't want to take a chance of damaging our friendship or scaring her off, so I didn't say anything. But I felt the heat in the room whenever she was around. I knew the excitement whenever I thought about her, or the anticipation of seeing her again. Part of me didn't want to finish the painting; part of me had this irrational fear that when the painting was finished, I'd never see her again. But I did finish the painting. I remember the day quite clearly. She came in that day with her pink hair spiked up and those same geometric earrings she wore the first time I had seen her. She was wearing head to toe green and it made me think of a nature spirit, the way her tiny body floated around the room and her musical little laugh echoed around in my head long after the sound had dissipated from the room. At first she sat quietly while I added the finishing touches. She knew that I was almost done and there was something almost magical about it that we both understood. It was almost as if we were holding our breaths in anticipation, knowing that the finished product was so close so fragile that we didn't want to do anything to slow it down or break it at the last minute. "OK," I finally said. "You wanna come see?" Her eyes lit up. "It's ready?" she asked tentatively. I nodded and she ran to my side. When she looked at the picture, I heard her inhale suddenly and then she was silent for a moment or two. "You made me look so- beautiful," she said in awe. "You are beautiful," I answered. She looked at me with her eyes shining. Something passed between us, I felt I know what it was but I was afraid to name it. A moment that seemed it could have gone anywhere if one of us had had the courage to seize it. But neither of us did, and the moment passed. "Your very talented," she told me. I wondered if the moment had happened at all. "I think this is my best work," I told her. "Can I see some of your other stuff?" she asked, looking eager. "Sure, let's do that while this one dries. It always looks a little different after the paint dries." I took her over to my cupboard and we started looking through my canvases. I didn't have many yet, most of the pictures I had painted in high school where in boxes painted on heavy paper. Most of the canvases, even, were from school assignments. We flipped through my meager collection. Zoë seemed impressed with every one. "Wow!" she told me, "I don't think I could ever be that talented." "What are you talking about?" I asked her. "You're a photographer! And you design clothes." "Yeah, but that's different. Photography's not really a talent like painting. I just take a picture of what's there. You create." "We all have different talents Zoë. You use your eyes to see and capture beauty just like I do. You shouldn't undervalue yourself." "Don't hide your light under a bushel huh?" she laughed. "Exactly." Our friendship was cemented that day. Rather than being the last, it was the first that really mattered. It was the day we went from being people who knew each other to being real true friends. Zoë liked my fairy pictures the best, and I sometimes wonder if that isn't the reason that I've painted so many since then. Zoë became my model, and secretly my muse. She would sit for me whenever I needed to do a painting for class, or even if I just wanted to practice sketching features. One day when I was preparing to do an assignment she said something that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Do you ever do- you know, nudes?" she asked quite shyly. "Sure, in class I've done a few," I told her trying to be nonchalant. "Would you want to- I mean, well. I think it would be a cool thing to have, you know a once in a lifetime- Or do you think that would be too weird? You know, since we know each other so well?" "No, not at all. I mean, if you were ok with it. I know some tricks to help you if your uncomfortable." "Tricks?" "Sure- like wearing a sheet, keeping the room warm, stuff like that." "Oh," did she blush? "That's thoughtful." "All in the name of keeping the model happy," I told her with a smile. "And if you decide you're uncomfortable at any point, and don't want to continue- I just stop. I'll paint over whatever work I've already done and re-use the canvas for something else. I don't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable." "I feel totally comfortable when I'm with you," she assured me. There it was again. Something between us. What did she mean? Was it something more than the sum total of the words spoken? I had just told her that I didn't want to make her uncomfortable, so I was afraid to ask, to pursue it further. She mentioned the nude painting a few times again, but whenever I asked if she wanted to do it, she said she wasn't sure yet. I was patient. I tried not to let it show how eager I was to see her body naked, laid out for me to caress with my minds eye and stroke over the canvas board with my brushes. How often I had imagined it and dreamed about it, hoping that somehow she might feel the same way about me. Alone in the night I let the fantasy take me away, to heights of pleasure. But when she was in the room, standing so near me I could feel her body heat and smell her shampoo, I would say nothing of the desires that burned within my heart. Finally the day came. "I'm ready," she told me resolutely. I didn't have to ask what she meant. It had been on my mind for so long, and I could see that she had steeled up her courage to take the plunge. I led her to the room, turned up the heat to a comfortable temperature for the clothing-impaired and left to let her take off her clothes and cover with the sheet. "It's just like the doctor's office," she said, giggling nervously. She called out when she was ready for me. "The doctor can see you now," I said with a chuckle. I could see she was tense, but relaxing. "The next thing we need to do is decide on a pose." "I thought I would just lay on a…" she looked around, realizing that there was no couch in the room. "Hmm, what do we do now?" "I could draw you standing, or sitting. In fact, I have a couple of pose ideas of you sitting down under the window sill. Would you like me to show you?" "Ok." "All right, you stand here, behind my easel where I would be. That way you can see how you'll appear from my point of view." I went to the window and showed her several sitting positions, including one where her knees were over her breasts and her hands down by her feet. It's a good pose that looks fresh and sensual without showing too much detail. The one she choose had her legs together and bent so that the bottom half of her anatomy would be covered, but her breasts exposed. Then she leaned at a 50-60 degree angle on her hand and faced forward toward me. Zoë seemed to have no problem shedding the cloth. It seemed to me that she had been building her self up to do this for a long time, and now she was determined to do so without showing any fear. It made me like her even more. Now she sat in front of me, naked at last. "Breathtaking," I said, not even realizing that it was out loud. Her breasts were round and firm with large put pale areolas and pale pert nipples. I sketched her quicker than anything else I had ever drawn and when I reached for my brush, even she was surprised. "You've finished the sketch already?" I stopped what I was doing and looked at her carefully. I searched her face and found no fear, I decided for myself to be brave as well. "It's like I was born to paint you like this." The words fell into the air. There was no tension in the silence, only understanding. The room was infused with a soft kind of energy. A glow of mutual respect, caring, and something else. Dare I even call it love? I painted like that, in silence. The sun moved down the sky and the shadows in my painting moved to. They were fluid, almost surreal as if the viewer could hear them whispering. Something was different now. Zoë felt it, I felt it. She looked at me differently now. She was waiting. Waiting for me to finish; waiting for me to make my move. When the last bush stroke was laid down, I nearly dropped my brush and pallet. I didn't run to her, but moved with a fluid motion as though pulled by some force beyond my control. I stopped just in front of her without touching her. Now we looked into each others eyes and calibrated out breaths to one another. The air was thick with anticipation, I could feel our souls being drawn toward one another. I leaned toward her, taking her in my arms, wrapping myself around her. I didn't kiss her lips, but her cheek near her ear lobe. I kissed her neck and felt her melt into me. I nuzzled her neck, feeling filled with joy. I had painted her so many times, but I had never been able to touch her like this, to capture her in this way. She was like smoke in my arms, like a dream only I knew this was real. I had dreamed this so many times and this was different. I heard her moan softly, accepting me as I slid my hand down between her legs. She pressed into me as I massaged her moist outer lips. Her moans were like soft mewing, a beseeching sound begging me to take her but to take her gently. I knew instinctively that this was new for her, yet she was willing because she knew me, trusted me. I took my time coving her neck with kisses, blowing softly across her ear, and stroking her gently between her legs. I waited to go further until she was sure she wanted it, until she wanted it so badly that her body was begging. Her head was tipped back, her breaths long and steady. "Do you want me inside you?" I whispered; our cheeks pressed together. "Yes!" she moaned back. "Yes." I pushed two fingers up past her external folds. Her body opened to me as I slid into the velvety flesh and she cried out again. Very slowly I worded my fingers in and out of her, in time with her hard and steady breathing. In and out I slid past the sticky entrance to her cunny. Her breathing quickened and so did my thrusts. She moaned her pleasure as if in a dream, saying my name and calling yes, yes, and please. "Oh, god Nicole- yes! Oh yes, please. Just like that, baby. Just like that." She was lost in the ecstasy of the moment. She seemed almost possessed my some medieval sprit of sexual rapture, the way she rolled in my arms and pleaded for more. I brought her up, all the way up so that she was so close- her moans deepened, her cries edged toward screams. My fingers flew in and out of her, bringing her close to the edge, but then backing off. I slowed and now she went back to the moans from before. I could tell she was wondering why I had not let her come, but what I was now doing felt so good that she quickly forgot to complain. My arm was wrapped around her back, and I now leaned her back on top of the sheet on the floor and slipped out from underneath her. Continuing to work my fingers over her g-spot, I used my other hand to lift her knees and spread her thighs open. When I leaned down and reached my tongue out to touch her, she gasped in shock and pleasure. I liked her inner lips evenly, tasting the condensed sweetness of her juices. Her pussy-juices continued flowing in response to the generous tongue bath I was providing and together we slicked up both her sweet nether regions and my mouth with a mix of our fluids. Her sweet taste was encouraging to me as I continued to stimulate her g-spot while I flicked teasingly at her clit off and on. Zoë's head was now thrashing back and forth, and the words and moans that emanated from her mouth were all gibberish. But each time my tongue danced over her protruding little nub, a high pitched squeal would escape amidst the lower earthy tones of lust. Each flick was followed by more attention to her lips and then another flick or series of flicks and then back between her lips. I used my hands to pull her inner labia apart, finally releasing hr g-spot with some protest from her. That quickly died down when I pressed my tongue up inside of her, fucking her wet pussy with my driving thrusting organ. Now I could feel her fluids gushing down my tongue and onto my chin as I searched for the tender g-spot with my bending stretching tongue. Her hands gripped the sheet on the floor and her body began to tense again. I jabbed at her frantically, hopping to bring her off in my mouth and catch a flood of sticky girl come to gobble down. She moaned and thrashed and seemed so close, but just continued on like this rather than exploding in orgasm as I had intended. It didn't seem to bother her, although her moans grew more and more frantic and she bucked her hips into my face almost violently. She felt she was close, but for some reason she just couldn't reach climax. I decided that I would need to slow down again, to ease her into this process and seduce her body into letting go. I held her hips still and slid my tongue out of her gushing pussy, and pushed my wet fingers back in. "It's ok," I reassured her. "I want to try some other thing." I brought her up in my arms again and looked into her beautiful face. I couldn't believe that I was so lucky to be hear with her, holding her, fucking her on the floor of my studio. I wondered if she would accept her own juiced on my lips as I moved in to kiss her.