Chapter 10

I didn’t get up to paint. How could I even consider leaving Annette alone in my bed? I was vaguely aware of Dad peeking in and quietly closing the door in the morning. I’d made sure we had a sheet and blanket over us. I just stared at the treasure in my arms.

“Was my bare butt sticking out when your dad looked in?” Annette whispered.

“No, my Lady. I made sure it was covered.”

“You could uncover it now, if you want.” We pushed the blanket down and lay naked in each other’s arms. I was hard against her stomach and her hand grasped me as we kissed good morning. “I can hardly believe this was in me ... you were inside me, Pen. Do you love me?”

“Oh, Annette, I love you so much it hurts. I think my heart will burst.”

“That was a very poetic thing to say. Where did those words come from?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to leave you in bed while I painted this morning. But the feelings are just overwhelming.”

“I’d like to feel you in me again. Cover me, Pen. Make love to me again.”

I rolled on top of Annette and she guided my erection into her vagina. She was already wet and slippery. We moved together, marveling at the sensations of being so intimately connected to each other. This was beyond any dream that I’d had. We looked into each other’s eyes and I became lost in her soul as I was lost in her body. Yes, I needed to paint this, but first, I needed to experience it. Fully.

After we’d made love again, we showered together and groomed each other. I loved brushing her hair. Her touch was electric as she shaved the light growth of whiskers on my face. We dressed and held hands as we went downstairs to the kitchen. Mom and Dad were sitting at the table with coffee. Mom slammed her sunglasses down over her eyes as we entered the room.

“Good morning,” she said. “Would you like breakfast, sleepyheads?”

“I can make it, Mrs...” Annette began. Mom put a finger to her lips and then pulled Annette into a hug.

“You need to start calling me Mom, like my other children do.”

“Mom,” Annette whispered. “Mom.”

“Now get yourselves some juice. The oatmeal is perfect for frying. Would you like an egg with it?”

“Thank you, Mom,” Annette and I said from the refrigerator. I turned to her and kissed her. She sighed and got glasses from the cupboard. I filled them with orange juice. We sat at the table and reached for a slice of bacon. Mom set our plates in front of us and we began eating.

“What did you paint this morning?” Dad asked as he turned the page in the Saturday newspaper and folded it back. It was a normal kind of question for our family, except that I hadn’t...

“Um...”

“My tonsils,” Annette said leaning against me and rubbing her cheek on my shoulder. She said it so calmly and sweetly that it didn’t seem out of place at the breakfast table.

“That should make an interesting canvas,” Mom said. I was blushing. “Your mother would like to hear from you this morning, Annette. You need to let her know when you’ll be staying here. And the same goes for you, Arthur. If you plan to spend the night with Annette, please let us know so we don’t worry.”

“Um ... I don’t know if...” I thought of my art supplies and my morning ritual of painting. Then I thought of the fact that I hadn’t painted this morning. It was confusing.

“When you stay with me, you can bring a drawing pad and colored pencils,” Annette said, immediately identifying the source of my hesitance.

“What a good idea, Annette,” Dad said. “You know, looking at morning art is as much a ritual for me as painting it is for Arthur.”

“I know there is a sense of newness and awe in your relationship right now,” Mom said. “I can see it surrounding you. You are almost blindingly bright and your auras are intermingled. You should not totally lose yourself in it, though. Neither your parents, Annette, nor us, Arthur, have any problem with you sleeping together, but in the interest of a healthy relationship, you should spend time on your own, as well. I’d suggest that you continue the way you have been this fall, and not attempt to move in together right away. If your weekend dates extend to overnight, that is different. Do you find that acceptable?”

“Yes, Mom,” we both said and giggled.

“I’m going to run home for a while and talk to my mother,” Annette said. “I promised. And I didn’t really bring anything with me for an overnight. I’m wearing the same clothes I wore to school yesterday.” She leaned close to me and whispered in my ear. “Pen, you need to paint.” I nodded.

I wondered about my parents’ casual acceptance of the fact that Annette and I were sleeping together ... having sex ... in my room. It didn’t seem that strange, since Fay and I had slept together on and off for years. Would Fay be as accepting? When I thought of her, I didn’t find any change in the way I felt. I loved her. I loved her as absolutely and completely as I loved Annette. And I knew that there would be three of us in my little bed. It gave me a warm feeling as I began sketching.

The first thing I thought about Annette was not sex. I guess that was lurking in the back of my mind—I’m seventeen—but what I thought about was the morning she came into my room and examined my painting for the first time. She hadn’t looked at it and nodded before going on to something else. She’d studied it. She’d walked around it and peered at it from every angle as if it was three-dimensional. She silently pointed at different parts of it, smiled, frowned, nodded, shook her head. The way she looked at my painting was as if she was interpreting it with her body.

She’d done the same thing when I finished my classroom detention painting the day before. She’d pulled me back away from the easel and let Ms. Clayborn look at it. Then while my teacher and I talked, Annette examined the painting. She’d watched it take shape over the past week, but her response was as if she was seeing it for the first time. She pointed, giggled, and even bounced up and down. I could only see her taking delight in what she was seeing.

Last night, when we were naked with each other for the first time, she approached me with equal intensity. She wanted to see me from every angle. She wanted to touch and interpret me with her fingers and her lips. In her presence, I felt ... I felt like I was Art—I mean a work of art—or the essence of Art—Damn words!—and she was a connoisseur of fine paintings. I’d never been considered in that way. Never felt so valued.

That was the Annette that I sketched. Of course, that meant that I sketched my sketch on the easel in front of her as well. And ... Well, I didn’t draw her clothes. I couldn’t. The girl who looked at my painting was naked, looking at herself as though the easel held a mirror. And then another figure took shape. Fay stood beside Annette, a hand on our girlfriend’s hip. Her attention, like mine, was not on the painting within the painting, but rather on our Lady. Fay appreciated her with the same intensity and enthusiasm that Annette paid to the painting.

“Um ... Mom? I’m still sort of on detention this week,” I said at breakfast Monday. Annette had spent the night with me again Saturday, but had returned home Sunday afternoon. She would pick me up for school in just a few minutes.