Fucking in Pastel

It's my secret. I don't take it out often as I don't want to damage it. In fact this is only for the fourth time. It's an original. Pulling it from the cardboard canister, I unravel the heavy paper with utmost care, clipping each corner to the easel with clothes pegs to stretch it flat. I don't dare hang it on the wall nor have it framed. Putting it on display would require too much explaining to anyone who might regard it. It's abstract yet it's not, shapes boldly stroked and colors filled passionately, and for those who know me, the resemblance is obvious.

My hair is yellow and gold and tan and streaked with orange and scarlet. My thin lips are a soft pink, just slightly agape showing the hint of a reddish brown mouth and stark white teeth. Gentle black slits form my closed eyes with smudges of peach anointing my lids beneath my thin tangerine brow. My skin is a soft ochre, lightened with white and stroked sparingly with random colors, a turquoise bolt across my cheek, a violet zigzag beneath my chin. I contrast with him, the dark hair of the back of his head in heavy browns and black tousled savagely, my fingers digging in, the tip of my fourth finger emerging between coarse locks, the point of my nose nuzzling delicately there. The lithe contours of his upper back and shoulders in a mild copper are dashed with hints of green and teal. His arm reaches up to entwine fingers with my other hand, proving the difference in our skin tones all that more stark. Beneath it my underarm is shaded in a ruddy smear of orange and my slight breast is pale again in comparison, but enrouged with a smear of rose around my small nipple that stands out in vivid fuchsia, the tight areola concentric to the rounded shape of flesh.

uno

We were in Spain. It was beautiful day by the waterfront in Almería and we had done the beach the day before and then gone out for dancing and drinks in the evening, so we were taking an easy day. As many people do, Heidi and I were using a year off to see the world before going to college. In the fall we had done Japan Thailand and Australia. Then over the winter, we drove down through Texas and spent a month in Mexico. The final leg was Europe in the late spring and we were getting near the end of our two weeks along the Mediterranean. We had started in Greece, then took the ferry to Italy before working our way across through southern France. In a few days we would be flying off to Amsterdam to head home.

We went out for lunch at a tapas bar and on the way back to the hotel we heard strings. Coming around the corner, we saw the artists' walk stretched out before us on the chalky terra-cotta-bricked waterfront. There was a painter with watercolors. Next there was a comic strip artist. The string quartet that had summoned us was there - two men and two women playing a small concerto. The small ring of spectators gathered around and we joined them. We took it all in for several minutes as they finished up the piece and then everyone dropped some change or bills into their vase. Heidi made a donation and we moved along. The next girl dressed dolls with charming hand-sewn clothes. There was even a basket weaver forming amazing colorful works. Then we came upon another musical act, three young men who looked like gypsies played energetic flamenco on their guitars. They were very good. One had a dark soul patch. Another had a long flowing ponytail. Just as the string quartet, they too had gathered a small crowd. People tossed change into the open guitar cases and applauded between numbers. Moving right into the next song without looking up or engaging, they seemed a bit distant and aloof with their subtle attitude and had their CD prominent on the front next to a small sandwich sign with their name '¡Brío!' and a URL for their website. They were cute guys, rather sexy in their Bohemian beach hippie style and Heidi especially liked the shaggy blond one, although he seemed to pay her nor anyone else any mind. We stayed for three or four songs. There were no lyrics but they did stop to clap or thump the wood of their guitars here and there as parts of the hooks of the songs. Usually they took turns on solo lead runs as the other two kept up the lively rhythm.

That was when I saw him. As I looked to Heidi, over her shoulder was a portrait artist. He sat on a small backless chair and a few feet in front of him was a couple on their own little stool. The girl sat across her lover's lap and they had their arms around each other. The image was sweet but they were boring. The artist was captivating. He held some sort of clipboard by the top and anchored the bottom in his lap as his drawing arm moved with fluid efficiency to shape their likeness.

His hair was dark, not curly not straight, just thick tufts with sunglasses perched atop his head holding them back from his eyes. His brow was focused and the corner of his mouth held a confident hint of a smile. Behind him was an umbrella tent with displays of portraits in vivid colors. He wore a shirt loose and open half-buttoned and hanging off of his body. His skin was smooth and olive-toned, just a shade lighter than the plain tan brown of his shirt. His jaw was tapered and handsome and his lips were full and pretty. He looked up and saw me. I blushed. He smiled.

Heidi's soft dimpled face was framed with light brown hair in two braids down the front of her chest and was topped with her favorite baseball cap. It was blue and had a red C on the front for Chicago. Despite my protests that it gave us away as American tourists, she wore it often as some sort of badge of allegiance. She had a pale orange tee shirt under faded blue short leg overalls and gym shoes. My ginger skin required more sun cover so I had a sun hat and a long white broomstick skirt. My blouse was powder blue and white striped and hung loose, untucked and mostly unbuttoned over a white sports bra.

The flamenco troupe finished and the small crowd applauded as they packed up their things.

"Okay, let's go," said Heidi. I was disappointed but was rather embarrassed to admit why. "We got our lunch. We got our fresh air. I need to sleep off the rest of this hangover," she pressed the issue. We moved on towards the hotel but I kept glancing back at the artist as he sketched the couple until we turned the corner and he was out of sight.

"That guitar player was hot but I just don't have the energy," said Heidi as we entered the lobby.

"He was all right," I shrugged.

"Okay then, who did you see?" she needled me. She knew me too well.

"There was a sketch artist," I said quietly. She looked at me as we entered the elevator and the doors closed.

"Ooh, you're blushing," Heidi grinned. I covered my face with my hand. "I think I saw him," she continued. "He was drawing that couple?"

"M-hm."

"I didn't get much of a look at him," she said. "Was he that hot?"

"Yuh," I affirmed almost silently.

Back in the room, we were both a bit tired. The end of the trip was nearing. We had a bus ride in the morning to see some tunnels and then on to Málaga for lunch and then further to Gibraltar. Heidi had it all planned out. Her older sister Kelly was a travel agent and got us some tours and all the deals.

"Two more days and then off for the last weekend in Amsterdam and then a stop in London and then home," she sighed as she flopped onto the bed.

I stretched out on my bed too and my eyes shut comfortably, but my mind was restless. I just knew that I would regret not trying to at least meet him. I could get my portrait done. I had to go back.

dos

Heidi had nodded off. It didn't take her very long. She was sprawled on her back and zonked right out. I got up and went to the bathroom. My hair was all right, blonde with a hint of strawberry but things were a bit unruly so I gave it all a quick combing. It was a little windy outside anyways. I had no makeup on. I needed to fix that, so I added a little peach eye shadow and black mascara. Then I blinked my pale blue eyes and felt satisfied before adding a touch of beige lip gloss. My ginger skin was light and flecked here and there with tiny marks and freckles. I took a long look at my narrow jaw, my thin face, all my imperfections and smirked. I supposed that I looked fine enough. There was no time for a beauty salon treatment. He could have been packing up to leave at that very moment and I would have lost him forever. I unbuttoned my blouse and knotted it to show some midriff and a small hint of my white ribbed sports bra. Then I folded my sleeves up to my elbows and grabbed my bag and white sun hat.

I snuck out. Heidi and I had a rule to not go anywhere alone but I broke it and headed out to find him. We had been told that France was quite safe but Spain not so much. I justified my actions by the fact that it wasn't far, perhaps just two or three blocks. Still it took about ten minutes to return to the walk. I held my skirts as my feet half-scurried in their strap sandals. The musicians were all gone but a juggler had taken up one of the empty spots since we had left. I passed him as he tossed his colored clubs about while spinning a hoop on a raised ankle. When I saw that the weaver was still there I knew that I was close. Finally I spotted the back of his parasol. I calmed myself and strolled around in a wider arc, trying not to be obvious. He was packing up. I was too late. I thought that I'd blown it, but I couldn't give up so I plucked up the courage.

"Hola," I spoke out, almost choking on the word.

"Hola," he looked up and smiled. "¿Qué puedo hacer por ti?" I wanted to meet him but now that I had his full attention I wasn't sure what to do with it.

"Sorry, I uh... don't really speak Spanish," I sputtered. My French was so-so, as my grandmother lived in Québec, but that wasn't going to help me much.

"Inglés," he acknowledged. "No problem."

"Oh, you speak English?" I asked, the relief swelling in my chest.

"Yes, of course," he confirmed. His voice was casual and warm and his sexy accent shook my insides into jello. "All of us at the University speak English."

"Oh that's good," I said awkwardly and immediately felt stupid.

"You are American."

"Si," I answered. His light brown eyes were flecked with gold. The skin of his clean-shaven face was so smooth. I just wanted to touch him everywhere.

"I saw you before," he said. He'd remembered me and my heart fluttered.

"I saw you too," I said.

"Would you like your portrait to be done?" he asked to my utter delight.

"I uh, I would love that, yes," I answered. He smiled warmly, affably and pulled his chalks set back out of his bag. "Am I not too late?"

"No no," he assured. "Never too late." Then he looked at me and then up at the sky and then back at me. He bent over to unfold one of the stools that he had put away. As he did I caught a glimpse of his dark blue beach shorts stretch over his tight butt under the tail of his shirt. I knew that he was cute from a distance but now up close I realized just how hot he was and felt like I was in over my head. He could have anyone and didn't need to waste his time with me. Some gorgeous enchantress must have had him off the market anyways. Unfolding the next stool, he stepped towards me. I quivered with goosebumps as he looked me in the eyes and took my elbow to guide me back. Then he placed the stool down and bade me to sit and I noticed that his fingertips were smudged with the colors of the chalks that they worked with. He wasn't very tall and was on the slender side but every inch of him was beautiful. Then removing my hat and placing it in my lap, he gathered up hy hair behind me. My eyelids fluttered in bliss as he gave my mane a gentle twisting and guided it to let drape down the front of my left shoulder. My eyes opened to see his shirt hanging open before me, the smooth hairless light bronze skin of his chest and the hollow of his neck behind his clavicle. I was afraid to move or my lips would just start kissing him on their own. Then he replaced my hat, took my shades from my eyes and handed them to me, and stood back to appraise his latest model. After a moment's contemplation, he leaned back down and motioned for me to cross my right thigh over my left. Then with one hand on my right shoulder and the other on my knee, he gently urged me to turn. I did but after an inch or so, he gripped just enough to stop me in place. Then with is finger under my jaw, he positioned my head a quarter turn to my left. My entire scalp neck and back rippled with goosebumps from his care and attention.

"This is good," he said with a warm smile of satisfaction. "Are you comfortable?" he asked.

"I think so," I answered with a blush. My chest felt light and swirly and I was just thrilled that he not only seemed to be happy with how I looked but that I was also in his attentive care. He pulled his own stool into position, placed a fresh paper onto his clipboard and sat with his set of color chalks propped at his foot. He took one and began to draw.

"Andrés," he introduced himself.

"Simone," I replied.

"Lovely," he smiled casually. As I had observed before, his whole arm moved with honed skill and not just his hand.

"How still do I need to be?" I asked.

"You can relax," he said. "If you move too much I can correct you." He was in complete control.

I kept flitting my eyes his way and then averting them, trying not to get caught looking whenever he looked up at me, but he seemed to watch his paper more than he took me in. His sunglasses were still on his head, holding back his thick hair which looked black but when the Mediterranean breeze played with the locks and the sunlight caught them I could tell that it was actually very dark brown.

Behind him was his parasol shaped like a mini-tent with colorful samples pinned within it. It was a convenient distraction for me. The one that jumped out was of a young boy of maybe age ten standing proud in a bright red jersey with hands on his hips and his foot on a soccer ball. There was another of a middle-aged man in profile with short-cropped reddish brown hair and trimmed beard in a dark turtleneck and smoking a pipe. Then there was a dark-haired bosomy mother gazing down adoringly at the infant that she had propped on her knee. Near the bottom was an old wrinkled man in a blue and grey patterned flat cap carefully moving a chess piece. They were all captured still, yet lively and vibrant. Andrés looked up and smiled as he saw me checking out his work.

"How many do you do in a day?" I asked.

"Depends how long I am out," he said. "And how many pretty American tourists come by," he looked up and winked. He had my cheeks all rosy again. I dreamed of asking him if he might just pick me up and carry me off somewhere. "Sometimes only one or two but on my best day maybe eight or ten."

Andrés changed colors to something lighter, perhaps a skin tone, and continued. Even without touching me, he had me all soft and gooey inside with a sweet light churning in my chest and a beautiful pins-and-needles sensation sweeping all over my skin. Just his simple focused attention on me had me all aglow. His eyes flitted up and scanned down me, then went back to the paper and I wondered what he saw in me not only as an artist but as a gypsy-blooded man. He changed colors again, to a bright peacock blue and began stroking careful detail. I was afraid to scratch my nose and spoil his muse.

"Should I be looking at you?" I asked.

"I've already finished the eyes," he assured. His confident ease had me convinced that it was turning out well even without me being able to see the image that he was forming. The sea lapped gently at the shore behind me (we had learned on our trip that the tides in the Mediterranean varied little) as the breeze flitted with the brim of my hat and made half-hearted attempts to sway the hem of my skirt. A sudden wail of gulls made me look up to see a flock rise up above the rooftops and circle their way off behind me, their clamorous calls fading harmlessly into the distance, much ado about something that was nothing to my artist and me.

"Almost done," he said assuredly as he changed colors again, opting for a salmony chalk and started brushing broadly. Then he held the chalk up between two fingers and started smudging here and there with his pinky, before changing to his ring finger and smudging some more. Then he used a couple of fingers from his other hand, and finally picked up a dark chalk and added some extra touches.

By this time I was quite excited to see how my likeness had turned out. I was giddy actually. I wanted to see how he saw me, what about me caught his attention. He stopped, leaned back and took in his work.

"Si," he nodded approvingly, then wiped a couple more smudges with his fingertip. "Finalizado." Andrés looked to me and smiled. I stood up tentatively. He rose and I went to him. He held up his clipboard for me. "How do you like it?" he asked.

There I was in my sun hat with my strawberry hair down my shoulder, fluttering in the gentle breeze, and my knotted powder blue blouse and long white skirt cascading down my legs, my right foot dangling comfortably just above the ground with my little beaded ankle bracelet that I'd bought from a child in Mexico that winter. The sunlight caught my cheeks and hands and my soft blue eyes sheened glossy on my bright rosy face. Around me, the terra-cotta bricks and the sapphire blue Mediterranean flourished into a fade. In the bottom right in the bricks was his signature: ACórdoba.

"Ohmigod," I hissed. Then I gawked up at him for a moment to see his carefree grin, then looked back down at the portrait, mesmerized. It was so colorful, so vibrant, with bold almost messy strokes all outside the lines, yet if taken in as a whole it was precise.

"That sounds like approval," he said. Then he took it, stood it up against the foot of his parasol, adjusted the angle for light and retrieved his phone from his pocket to frame it up and snap a picture of the picture.

"For you," he said as he picked the portrait up and unclipped it from his board to pass on to me. I held it in my hands, afraid to damage it. It was brand new and the wind flicked at its corners already.

"How much do I owe you?" I asked.

"No charge," he winked. I almost laughed out loud in embarrassment.

"No way," I protested. "I have to pay you something," I said as I reached into my bag.

"We could get something to eat and have a little drink and maybe you could buy," he suggested.

"Okay," I agreed with blushing enthusiasm.

tres

He had a couple of cardboard canisters left. He gave me one and then he rolled up the portrait and slid it into my tube.

I helped him pack up his things. He had me take down all the sample portraits from his display parasol as he packed up his chalks, and I realized that they weren't originals, but printed photos. He had a small wagon and I laid the samples all neatly in the bottom of it while he took down his umbrella. Then he stacked his parasol and bag onto the wagon and pulled it along behind him as we went.

I was a little bit scared as I still didn't know him at all, but my nerves settled down when two blocks later we arrived at the same tapas bar that Heidi and I had had lunch at earlier.

"Get us a table," he said. "I will just take this all upstairs."

It turned out that he actually lived above the tapas bar. My hat felt awkward inside and so I removed it and hooked it on the back of my chair. Then I checked my phone in case Heidi had messaged at all. The last thing that I wanted was for her to wake up and freak out that I was missing. We had worked out a code. If we ever became separated and we used the word awesome in a message, it meant that we were fine, but if we used the word peachy, it meant trouble, and if either of us asked the other for a confirmation, we had to answer with awesome so that we knew that it wasn't an impostor replying. We hadn't needed to use the code yet. I sent her a message that I was getting my portrait done and added that everything was awesome. She didn't answer so she had to still be crashed out.