A new, balanced man.

"A new, balanced man."

Her ass wobbled in the hot Florida sun. It looked like fuckable Jell-O, or a soft pig-skin cake that you could eat and wash down with a glass of cold milk. Jake's boner kept skim-boarding his inner thigh. But a week earlier.

Our Jake has a gift. But with all gifts, it's burdens can be deliciously torturous: (the torture comes with rich beauty intake.). Jake hadn't been laid in eight years, his therapist said it was abnormal as she handed him over her warm colored eggs hatched by her cooped chickens. Now at forty-two, not quite dead, and still carrying a working pecker, he grew anxious.

Jake fantasized about loving a specific lady: each morning, after lunch, before supper, in his backyard pool, and during his cups of coffee. He met her four years ago, a stunning brunette named Jane; Bulgarian, with funny brown eyes. Funny in that they bulged with a sharp sense of humor and wit. How could this be? He asked. How could such a beautiful little lady have a titanic personality?

Jake self-diagnosed himself by literature. He was morbidly shy like Vincent Van Gogh, and afraid to touch people because he may hurt them like Paul Cezanne and was an unassertive sissy like Robert Crumb. Even Jake's own father called him 'weird' because he caught Jake in his bedroom wiggling his fingers across his face. "I am making movies in my head, dad," he said. "My fingers help shape objects like spaceships blowing up mountainous regions peppered with enemy soldiers." Jake would multitask too by imagining the 1980's Airwolf theme song for the background of his battle scenes. Most of Jake's movies were aggressive and violent but Jake was not in real life. He was docile and a 'suppressed volcano' once described about Pablo Picasso.

Bulgarian Jane is married, so Jake often got stoned to Trent Reznor's, "I just want something I can never have." Other women showed interest in Jake, but he blocked by giving a monotoned speaking actor as empty as a paper cup rolling on the beach. But this afternoon, Jake's luck changed.

Jake taught watercolor painting at the local craft store. He barely made any money and sometimes shifted his suicidal thoughts by painting huge tiger sharks lurking under the surface by American tourists in Hawaii. People may have been disturbed if he didn't come out so fabulous. People would say, "you definitely have your own style." Jake's inner voice screamed, "Van Gogh only sold one painting when he was alive, so learn from that and buy it."

Jake's new art student: Sam—thirties, attractive, brunette, and disheveled. Jake helped her organize her painting area. Her honey smooth cleavage waved to him.

"You want to paint a still life; or create from your mind?" Jake said.

"I want to paint tiger sharks swallowing my soon to be ex-husband."

Jake conjured a phony laugh that he aimed for passing as authentic but knew it was phony and shielded himself with an inner battle clip (a three second seizure with his fingers wiggling by his face). She didn't seem to care.

"I have a busy schedule; you do house calls?" she said.

"Nobody has ever asked me," he said.

"Can you give me a lesson Saturday morning?"

"I think I could," he said.

On Saturday, Jake filled his Honda Civic trunk with two easels, a tackle box of paints, brushes, and a watercolor pad. He pulled in front of Sam's townhome while squeezing a bottled Fuji to diminish any evidence of his McDonald's sausage biscuit and hash browns. These laid like two dried globs of cement behind his belly button. When relaxed and he didn't dwell on it, his stomach leveled out.

Sam's face and torso appeared vibrant and bright above her patio fence. Bob Marley's "Redemption Song" echoed within. She squeezed a large pair of clippers to chop her night Jasmine's wild haircut. Jake came around to her standing on a wooden ladder. Her torso wrapped loose in a Spud McKenzie shirt and everything underneath: a thin black thong, tan legs, and bare feet. Is that a bathing suit or lingerie? Jake though.

"I am almost done. My husband took our two daughters to the Keys and I am trying to get this place straightened out."

"I love the smell of Jasmine, but the perfume swims up my sinuses and creates a hotel for bacteria," Jake said.

"I never heard it like that," she said smiling.

Sam rose to the balls of her feet. One last snippet of Jasmine. Her legs: smooth, tan, average; and her ass: bubbled, tan-lined, friendly; and her oval face: angelic, smiling, with a solid white grin that shimmied Jake's nerves like cocaine.

"Come inside...iced tea?"

"Thank you."

Jake felt alive and embarrassed over any suicidal thoughts that ever paralyzed him. "Holy shit, I am breathing and alive up in this bitch!" He presented himself as an intellectual and an artist, but when loose and excited, he would transform into a 1990's hip hop gangster. "I am gonna-finny tap that ass!" He despised hard-cold thugs but used their dialogue as a release.

Jake practiced how to make shapes and sounds without using his wiggly fingers in public (although not as vibrant and detailed). When nine, Jake recalled his mother often defending him in bowling alleys across the state of Florida (she was a pro). "He is not having seizures!"

Sam's iced tea, sweet enough to stab through the enamel of nerve endings fist came innocent then the second round spiked with gin. Jake doused it into his insides.

The watercolor class began and the two painted in the patio corner— a still life of Sam's quite jacuzzi, obscured by two potted cherry tomatoes.

"Does it work?" Jake said.

"Of course, I can turn it on. I can give you a bathing suit."

Jake feared an encounter with her husband. The habitual eternalizing movie making made him vulnerable to real life confrontations. He scared easy and played strategic chess moves as of hiding Sam's heavy patio ashtray in his pants and then smashing her husband's temple.

"Does your husband live here?"

"He moved out four months ago...I am going to see my attorney next week about getting our divorce settled."

Her ass wobbled in the hot Florida sun. It looked like fuckable Jell-O, or a soft pig-skin cake that you could eat with a cold glass of milk. His boner kept skim-boarding his inner thigh.

"Another iced tea?" she said.

"If you are having one."

Jake analyzed his near future. He knew masturbating in hot showers can be a miserable task, so the Jacuzzi's heat could ruin this.

"How hot does it get?"

"I can control it."

"Cool."

"I can make it seventy-two; like the town pool."

"There are trunks on the dining room table."

Jake slid on her husband's trunks. He imagined being him several years back when their marriage smacked home runs. And when her husband once slid in these same shorts before kissing his wife's gorgeous smile and holding her hot bare buns like two decayed watermelons.

"Your painting is really fucking good," Jake slurred.

"Your shorts are loose."

Instead of strangling them tighter, she loosened him. Fresh summer air tickled Jake's testicles and bare ass. She pulled down further. Jake's cock slid inside her smile as he absorbed the chorus of surround crickets. Her wet voice unleashed vowels like butterflies that tickled Jake's mind. He stood naked, burning in the sun. His hands on his hips like his father's stance when he analyzed his cherry tomatoes.

The Jacuzzi bubbled and Jake watched the suds swirl and pop around her half-submerged ass cheeks. He palmed her right bubble, squeezing, polishing, squeezing; spanking then palmed again. He stumbled in the gurgling bromine water, slid her thong into it. She pushed back making her ass perk up like a summer sunflower. She helped him scud his cock right. Followed by a breath-taking rhythm, bromine vapors exhausted, cold splashing stings—summer fucking ensued. Swelling out the hundreds of demons that tried to scramble back in the wrinkles of Jake's brain. He was succumbed into a teenager bliss, watching her ass jiggle as his cock craved the resistance she gave. Then everything about both of them went loose, and his cock won the war of flesh. He bent his knees and continued a new and hermetic fucking.

Jake watched their shadows like a distant porn, but he was in it. A wiry and dynamic shape that danced in the wind that ran by flinging his hair. The summer angles kissed his darkness. He held Sam's hips firm like a falling pillow. He smacked his pelvis against her to the thumps of Bob Marley's "War". He cupped her tits like cold water balloons.

"Oh shit. I am about to come."

"Do it," she said.

His thrusts became intermittent. He tried to fuck every last centimeter of resistance inside a nanosecond of explosion. His cum rushed out frantic. Then flooded all over her ass spilling in the Jacuzzi's waves.

Jake leaned in and kissed behind her ear. He slapped her curved ass. This sex was palpable and sure beat the shit out of those endless movies in his head that now seemed grim. He was a new balanced man and at a perfect time.