Twenty-six

I HAD TO PAINT. I slipped out of bed early Saturday morning without waking any of my lovers. That burst that we’d experienced last night—that moment where Kate and I both wept our climaxes. It spoke to me. There was a word for it. I needed to find that word in the paint.

I almost carelessly tossed a canvas on my easel, noting that it landed vertical. Fine. I clamped it and pulled my paints together. I couldn’t see the whole piece yet, but I could see blue—lots of ultramarine, fading to Payne’s grey. The extenders I used made it almost translucent. I scraped away paint from the dark mass and two faces began to emerge. They leaned toward each other, touching lip to lip. So lightly touching you could almost see light between them. I hummed, not recognizing the tune. I hadn’t set up my music, so I was stuck with whatever sounds came out of my own mouth as a soundtrack.

It wasn’t important to be on key. Just noises, sometimes tonal and sometimes not, but filled with the emotion of my paint on the canvas. It was a counterpoint to color, an aural representation of chiaroscuro. It would never be a symphony, but it was a soundtrack and the more I painted, the livelier my vocal presentation became. Without words, I was letting go of my emotions—putting my night with Kate on canvas.

What was it that brought us to tears as we climaxed together last night? What had made Kate so frantic in her love-making that she exhausted three lovers before she reached me and had yet to reach her own fulfillment? I needed to increase my vocabulary in order to title this painting. I didn’t know the word for this emotion.

Other things emerged as I painted and when I stood back to examine the piece, my vocal soundtrack faded in the empty room. It was the fourth time I’d painted like this—put raw emotion on canvas. The paint was thick. Delicate shadings were less obvious as were subtle details, but shape, color, and motion were clear. And I’d done it without a sketch. I’d never approached a canvas without a sketch except in these trance-like paintings. The result was alive—that’s the only word I could find.

I saw something emerge that I’d longed for over the years. I got a hint of it in Ralph. It was not quite holographic, but as you moved from one side of the painting to the other, you could see the couple lean in for their kiss. Not much, but enough. I’d captured movement. It was so exciting I wanted to shout and show it to everyone, but I couldn’t show this yet. Four times, yes. That isn’t a career. I moved the easel to the corner and tented it with a sign that said “Wet Paint. Do Not Disturb.”

With finals out of the way, I had all the time I wanted to practice racquetball. John scheduled two matches a day for me for the entire week. It was after one o’clock by the time I got to the club. Lissa was waiting for me. The high I enjoyed from painting stayed with me through our training match and I painted the court with the ball. Lissa and I worked for an hour before John ushered in Ben Jones, a top ranked player from the Pro Sports Club. I got a five-minute break before I was returning Ben’s serves and dropping back into my zone. I was going to have to remember this. The ball was making patterns on the end wall with every strike and I chose where to place my next return based on the design that was emerging rather than focusing on my opponent. Focal point, eye-track, focal point. I almost laughed out loud when Doc’s painting instructions surfaced in my mind.

Ben and I rallied for an hour before I got another five-minute break for water. Then I was back in the cage for a battle with Allison. Allie was fresh and I’d been playing hard for two hours. She knew my weaknesses. She entered the court to win. When Lissa banged on the door after an hour, both of us waved her away as we set up the next serve. My endurance was beginning to flag. I muffed a serve and Allison sent her next serve on a long slow lob. I watched it hit the floor and bounce. I never lifted my racquet. All the energy flowed out of my body and I sank to my knees. It had been a marathon and I was finished.

Lissa was at my side with a water bottle and handed another to Allison. We drank greedily. Bree came onto the court with half a dozen towels and when Allison and I left, she mopped up all the sweat and wet spots off the floor so someone else could use the court.

“It’s four-thirty, you guys,” Lissa said. “Time for a nice long soak and lots of water.”

“We rallied for an hour-and-a-half?” Allison asked. “No wonder I’m fagged. I haven’t worked that hard in months.”

“That means I’ve been on the court for ... three and a half hours? You slave drivers.”

“Ben couldn’t stay to talk to you, but he wants to come back to work out with you again. He said it was amazing,” Lissa said. “What were you doing? We all noticed a difference in how you were playing.”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” I sighed. “I just saw the end wall as a giant canvas and started painting.”

“Great. It’s not enough that I play against you. Now I have to play against your art, too? I’m an actress, not a paintbrush!” Allison laughed.

And so it went. All week I played marathon sessions of three to four hours each day. I’d been building to this for nearly six weeks. Lissa took no chances that I would tire easily. She was building endurance. I was finding some release in sketching, but had been too tired to go back to the studio to paint. My entire focus was on my game. In addition to the hours on the court, I pumped weights first thing in the morning and three times a week I ran with Coach Frederickson. Twice I had Pilates sessions. I sank gratefully into a hot tub each evening, following a topnotch massage from Bree. I was eating more than I ever had, but my clothes hung loosely on my frame.

I was too tired at night for more than a goodnight cuddle. I had apparently started my tournament abstinence a week early and I wasn’t happy about that. But even when I looked at the parade of naked ladies that passed me each night, my peanut dick hardly saluted.

Saturday morning, I slept in and was alone in bed when I finally woke up. I stumbled into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. What I saw startled me. I’ve always been a little on the thin side, but what I was looking at wasn’t thin. No, it wasn’t gaunt, either. I looked lean. I looked powerful. I was ripped. I wondered if I had any body fat at all. Even standing relaxed at the sink, my six-pack was obvious. My chest was broader than I remembered—my face narrower. And I felt refreshed and ready to go.

As I faced the shower and let the water beat against my features, I felt arms encircle me, stroking up and down my torso. I felt sure I knew who was there, but as I turned to face her, a second pair of arms wrapped around me and lips found mine under the spray. Something down below finally stirred. Pulling my head back from the water so I could see, I wrapped Kate in one arm and Wendy in the other and brought both to me for a kiss. We didn’t say anything, but with one hand or another stroking me, there was no question about where this was going. The only question was, “Who first?”

“Me,” Wendy squeaked. She turned her back to me and bent forward as Kate guided me into her wet center. Kate slipped around in front of Wendy and kissed our lover as I pressed into her from behind.

The shower had moved from hot to lukewarm before we had each reached our release a couple of times.

“Three matches,” Lissa said. “First up, you’ll be playing against Whitney and me as a team. And yes, we’ve been practicing together so it won’t be a push-over. We’re playing three games in the match even if you win the first two. Second, Ben Jones is back. He says he’s been practicing and is ready for you. We’re saving the toughest for last, so don’t think you can let up. Five minutes between games, three games in each match, and ten minutes between matches. This is your last hard workout before we leave for Fullerton. I hope you’re ready.”