I’m crossing the quad and this guy on a blue bike skids to a stop. He gives me a queer look, like what business do I have being in his way.

“You’re just itching to run me over, aren’t you?” I go.

“Hey girl, what? No. I was just...”

He’s straddling his bike. He’s not quite tall enough, so he has to stand on tiptoes. Jiggling a bit side to side. We stare at each other. I suspect he’s gay. I could be wrong, but I can usually pick up on it.

“You getting off?” I ask.

“Huh?” He looks down.

Yeah, his stuff is pressed hard on the bar.

“Masturbation Monday?” I query.

“Huh?”

“Yeah, you know how they have these stupid names for days these days.”

“They do? I mean ... huh?”

“You’re not wearing underwear, are you?” I go.

He looks down again. “How did you ... I mean...”

I give him a semi-seductive smile. “You know what? I’d really like to paint you.”

“Huh?”

“For Masturbation Monday. A school art project. Blue boy on blue bike. Don’t worry, it’ll be in good taste.”

He goes, “So like whadah I hafta do?”

“Nothing. Just stand there.” I snap my phone out of my back pocket and take the picture.

“You’re really gonna like paint me?”

I nod. “Want to see it when it’s done?”

He shrugs but says sure. We exchange numbers.

And off he goes.

I call him a week later and he comes over.

“Whadya think?” I go, nodding at the painting.

He studies it. “I guess it’s me all right,” he concludes. “But what’s this like silvery stuff? Steam?”

“Ha ha, no,” I tell him. “That’s jizz.”

“Really?”

I nod.

“I mean it’s paint, right. Not...”

I can’t help laughing.

“But you know what?” I start, after my mirth has subsided. “There’s a second version. It’s in the bedroom.”

I lead him in. The painting is propped on the bed against the headboard.

“Huh,” he blurts. “That’s...”

“Awesome, right?”

He makes a face. “I thought you said it would be in good taste.”

I give him a serious look, then say, “You’re telling me your jizz don’t taste good?”

He puts up his hands, much like the pose when he was on his bike having almost run me down.

“I guess we should find out, just in the interest of verisimilitude,” I tell him, and my hand slides into his pants. No underwear again.

As for his jizz, I’ve tasted better, but his isn’t bad—not bad at all. Later I might want a second helping.