The Artiste (Part Two)

You can read part one here.


For our celebratory drink we chose a bar that hosts a lot of the local hipster bands. On that Tuesday night, however, it was quiet and almost empty. The Artiste had called a friend to come out and drink with us, but it took awhile for him to make his way there.

I offered to buy us the first pitcher of beer and the two of us headed over to the ATM so that I could get some cash. We talked and joked as we walked across the bar, and The Artiste slipped his hand around my waist and squeezed my hip.

As we perched on our barstools, I couldn’t help but mention my recent breakup.

“You know it’s been so long that I’m not even sure I know how to flirt anymore. I mean, how did I do it before?” I laughed.

Ok, so maybe asking that question while I spun my barstool so that my knees were almost touching The Artistes’ was an answer.

When The Artiste’s friend arrived we moved to the lounge downstairs and huddled up in a booth among the kitschy, hip décor. We chatted about this and that, and ordered another round of beers.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom and The Artiste slid out of the booth so that I could get out.

I went to the alcove near the stairs that housed the well-graffitied bathrooms. When I stepped out again, The Artiste was in the little hallway, about to enter the men’s room. A little bit tipsy already, I moved closer to him than was necessary, even in the small space of the hallway. I steadied myself with my hand on his shoulder and looked up at him. Here, now, it was inevitable.

We kissed.

The sweet, slightly sloppy kisses were made even better by their slightly secretive nature in the darkened back of the bar and the Pop! Bang! Fizz! of a long-fostered attraction finally consummated.

Breaking apart, he went into the bathroom and I returned to the table. It wasn’t much longer before our little group broke up under the pretense that The Artiste and I were going to go to a bar closer to his place so that he could have a few more beers without worrying about having to drive.

It is probably not necessary to mention that once we got to his place, we didn’t leave for more drinks.

Back at his apartment, we didn’t even bother to turn on the lights, and we navigated the messy rooms with the help of the orange-tinted streetlights that poked around the corners of the windows.

While he turned on some music, I took a position on the sofa, kneeling on the wide arm so that I was slightly taller than him when he was standing. From this stance I was able to wrap my arms around his shoulders and rest my head on his. We stayed that way for a little while, with me dipping my head down to kiss him.

And then we were dancing. And then we were on the floor, rolling around, kissing, and giggling. And then we were in his bed.

I have noticed that while the sex may suffer in long term relationships, it is the kissing that is much more likely to go away much sooner. After two years with The Ex, our kisses had become little more than a peck here and there, even on the rare occasions that we did have sex.

Lying naked in bed with The Artiste, kissing was better than I remembered. For a deliriously long time we kissed. I ran my hands over his skinny, taut body, loving that little dip where his stomach curved down on the inside of his hipbone.

“You have such soft skin,” he murmured.

“I’m a girl. That’s what we do.”

“Not the girls I’ve been with lately.”

When he finally entered me, he was sweet and gentle just as I’d expected. He was an attentive lover, checking in occasionally to make sure that I was alright. I was.

The slow, missionary fucking of my first post-breakup sex was a needed antidote to The Ex. Although our sex life had dwindled—to the point that I could no longer accurately answer the gynecologist’s question “When did you last have sex?”—when The Ex and I did have sex my ass rarely made it out of the deal without being covered in a mottled mess of bruises. Some say that vanilla is boring, but I argue that even triple super fudge can become redundant.

I could look into The Artiste’s blue eyes while we were fucking, and I could tangle my fingers in his curly hair.

Eventually, he came in my mouth and I crawled up to the head of the bed where I could rest my head on his chest and sleep.

A few hours later we woke up with grit in our eyes and went to take our exam.

We both passed.