The Artiste (Part One)

The Artiste and I met last summer. We were in an intensive summer course together. For five weeks we were stuck in a sweltering classroom from nine a.m. until noon, from Monday through Friday. He had graduated in May, but needed this final class on his transcript before he could officially claim his diploma.

He had dark, curly hair, blue eyes, and t-shirts stained with paint and coffee. If I were the kind of girl that had a type, he would have fit it perfectly.

We were the only two regular smokers in class and as we sat on the steps to the building during our breaks, we inevitably began chatting. When it came time to choose partners for a project, we paired up.

Our in class work lead to out-of-class study dates. One such date at a café ended with us sitting on the sidewalk talking for hours after closing. It was around one a.m. when I followed him in my car to his studio.

Amid the canvases and a couple of his installation pieces and the empty beer and wine bottles from a show he and his studio mates had recently held, we listened to music and he told me funny stories about his studio residencies in New York and Paris. There was nothing that I wanted more than to fuck him right there, on the filthy floor of his workspace. But, I didn’t. Instead we parted that night with an electricity-filled hug in the loading dock behind the converted warehouse, and I went home to The Ex.

My relationship with The Ex was already faltering at this point and the emotional affair that The Artiste and I had embarked upon did nothing to help this.

A week after I left The Ex, The Artiste and I met at our regular coffee shop to study for our final exam. He needed to pass the exam in order to pass the class. However, he had taken precautions, and had taken another test. If he passed that test he would have fulfilled the requirement to graduate, and it wouldn’t matter if he passed our class.

Sometime during our anxiety-ridden study session, he excused himself to use the café computer. He was hoping that he had received the e-mail with the results of the test. He had. He called me over, unsure of what the results meant. I leaned over his shoulder and peered at the computer screen. I confirmed, that he had, indeed, passed.

“Congratulations darling! You’re a college graduate!”

He stood up and hugged me, swinging me around in the middle of the café.

After that, he no longer felt like studying. I figured that I wasn’t going to get much done with him there and probably wasn’t going to absorb much more of the material the night before the exam anyway.

We decided to get a celebratory drink.

A Gentleman Whore

I have to admit, I'm a little bit of a snob. I have no reason to be: I'm not the greatest writer out there, nor do I update all that often, nor do I have an especially large following. But, still, I'm a snob when it comes to the blogs I link. I like to give people a little bit of time. I like to read them for awhile before I put them over there on the right. ('Cause I like to hang on to my old school roots I also write the HTML for the links myself, so you know it takes a minute or so of my time to link someone.)

Point is, that I want to direct your attention over here. Gentleman Whore only has two posts up so far, but they are sooo hott and well written.

And, I totally have a crush on him.

Notes From the Trenches

If you are on the cusp of your fortieth birthday, please do not:

Spend all night chatting with me.
Mention that you are bisexual while chatting with me, because at age thirty-nine, you certainly know the effect that that has on hip young women like me.
Follow me to the basement. (You haven’t seen the basement yet? You must let me give you a tour. You have to see the washer and dryer…)
Proceed to freak out after we kiss in said basement.

Because if you are almost forty-years-old you should know when a girl is flirting with you. Also, at your age you should know what a basement looks like, and you should know exactly why a woman is inviting you away from the rest of the party. As a Grown-Up ™ you should really consider avoiding situations that you know will make you uncomfortable.

Just a bit of friendly advice.

The One In Which We Part

I have been putting off writing the final installment of my weekend with Jefferson. I have started writing and then abandoned it to check my email or Google reader or go out with friends.

I have been struck by small details that I wished I had included: Jacob complementing my asshole, putting clothes pins on Leah’s nipples, and the orgasm that was achieved solely through a hard bite on my abdomen. How did I mange to put in nothing about the bites administered to my toes, even though there is still bruising underneath my left big toe?!

But really, I have been putting this off because it is all rather anticlimactic from here. I have failed in constructing a proper narrative arc in serialized form. All I have left is dénouement.

We went out Sunday night for dinner and a couple of art shows. We were a little bit stoned and a little bit drunk by the time we left, leading to something of a subway disaster.

When we returned home we curled up in bed and watched Caligula. I fell asleep during the movie and was awoken by Jefferson for some sweet vanilla sex before we retired for the night.

We woke up early and had another short bout of sweet vanilla, which, for what it’s worth, resulted in an almost simultaneous climax.

He made coffee while I packed up my things, and sent me off into the pre-dawn darkness with a long, somber kiss.

It was raining, and I was pretty wet by the time I got to the subway station. I rode the train to JFK, damp and listening to Leonard Cohen on my iPod.

Sometimes life is disgustingly cinematic if you only describe it with choice details.

A few weeks later he emailed me some pictures from the weekend. I’m pretty cute when I’m naked and marked up.

This is where I feel like I should put a summary, or a reflection of my experiences, but I’ve got nothing. Maybe sometime later. For now I’m just going to leave you with my quiet longing.