Poz Paint

[Toon]

I live only a few blocks from one of the saddest, seediest gay bars in the city. It's only four blocks away so I usually walked there with no worries about how plastered I'd get. It was called "Silver's" for whatever reason and the patrons were a mixture of older gentlemen, drug dealers & users, and hustlers. I myself had been mistaken for a hustler because I always arrived by myself, played pinball for hours and never talked to anyone. It didn't help that I dressed like a bum and looked very boyish. Once the regulars knew I always came and left alone, no one ever bothered me again. I don't mean to, but I give off some very anti-soical vibes. If I'd get bored with pinball, I'd usually sit at a table clode to the pool table and watch the game while polishing off bottle after bottle of cheap beer. I would rarely strike up a conversation with anyone because I suck at small talk, flirting and stuff like that. I mostly listened to the men talking. I'm a freelance writer and find all people interesting. The old guys always had great stories, and if I wasn't so shy,  I would have sat down on an empty stool next to one of them and asked questions. The dealers were all business and didn't chat with each other. The hustler and users were mostly interghangeable or else they were both. They had great conversations about pure deprivation. I'd watch them go and out to the parking lot multiple times an hour but didn't know if they were using or blowing somebody. Or both. For whatever reason, some silly. little guy decided to befriend me. His name was "Tweety", and he was a tiny, skinny, pesky little fairy who never shut up.  He'd chatter on and on like canary while I tried to just ignore him. Eventually, I gave up and would talk with him. 

It was through my new friendTweety, that I started to meet some of the gang st Silver's and learn their names. We'd bum smokes from each other and buy rounds for the crew of low-lifes that I guess I was now a part of. No big deal. I was a bit more educated and way less experienced than they were, but we were all basically the same. 

Ome night, the pinball machine was dark and out of order so I just walked up to where Tweety was sitting and we started talking. The regulars filtered in and I couldn't help but notice that three or four of them had oversized bandages on their arms and hands. I assumed it was a drug thing and didn't ask questions. They all seemed flush with cash and bought round after round of shots. I loosened up quite a bit and finally their injuries. They looked at each other with small,secretive smiles but wouldn't answer me directly. It had to be a drug thing. Then Tweety pulled me aside and told me they let this one guy cut them for money. What the fuck? He thought I knew because I had so many cutting scars on my inner arm. He assumed I was in on the whole thing. I stood there, looking blankly at him. My scars were from a depressed period I'd gone through a decade or more earlier. Cutting my arms made me feel better for some bizarre reason. 

Once he was convinced of my cluelessness, he explained that there was a rich artist living downtown who hired boys to let him cut them a little snd then use the blood in his "work". 

"has he ever cut you?", I asked.

"Only once. My body is too precious and beautiful to be ruined with a damn razor blade," he answered with a dramatic fluttering of his eyelashes.

"What's his name?" I wanted to know because it sounded like the kind of twisted story I was always trying to write. 

"Carlos. I can't remember his last name, but I know it's hard to pronounce. Why? Do you want to make some money?"

No No No. 

"I just want to interview him".

"Well, I'll give you his number. I only keep it because he always has good speed".

Tweety copied it down on the inside of matchbook for me. I was pretty blasted from all the shots so I headed home. "Be careful", Tweet called out as I weaved toward the door. I think I heard the whole group laugh at me. I stumbled home, fell asleep with my clothes on and dreamed of hospitals. I woke up groggy and slowly started to remember the previous night and the bizarre story of this "Carlos" guy. I stumbled nakedly to where I'd tossed my jeans and found the matchbook. I knew if I had a morning cigarette and a cup of coffee, I'd scare myself out of calling. So I just did it right away.

"Hello? Carlos here," an exhausted voice answered, I guess he was a late sleeper too.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Sir. My name is Tim and someone named 'Tweety' gave me your number".

"Oh". he chuckled smokily, "Him. You need stuff?".

"No. He told me about your ... art, and I am very curious to see it and talk with you."

"Are you with a newspaper or tv?'

"Neither. I just find it interesting and wanted to know more".

(silence)

"Hello?"

"I'm still here.", he finally said, "Write down my address and stop by anytime after 8 o'clock tonight".

Tonight? I wasn't expecting to meet this weirdo so soon. It was more my style to put off things until I forgot about them. I wrote the address and wondered if I'd actually go through with it.

The day slogged on and on for an eternity before the sun even thought about going down.  Around six-thirty, I showered, shaved and got dressed. I wore my new black Levis, my new white sneakers and one of my nicest shirts. Why in the world was I dressing like I was going on a date? I was going to meet some drug dealer "artist" who bled street sluts. Even as I struggled to understand my motives, I sparayed some cologne on.  

At 7:40 I just couldn't wait any more. Parking downtown is sometimes difficult so I figured just finding a space would eat up some time. I took off and found the place almost right away. What's amazing is that I didn't talk  myself out of it. I looked up at the building. These were nice lofts that not many people could afford. I buzzed him at the doorway and waiting for an agonizing two minutes before he answered. and let me in. The interior was very elegant but also ghostly. I rode the elevator to the sixth floor. As I got out, two young guys entered. They both had bandaged arms and were whispering excitedly to each other. They didn't even notice me. I walked to his door and knocked. "It's open." a voice answered. "Come on in". Huh? What kind of rich drug dealer leaves his door unlocked? I walked in. The place was as big as a bus station with really high ceilings. It smelled strongly of paint thinner and there was giant sheets pf clear plastic on the hardwwood floor. Paint cans, canvasses, brushes and other assorted art crap were everywhere. What struck me first was that I assumed artists used oil paints in tubes, but these were cans of hardware store-type stuff that you'd paint your garage with. The second thing I noticed was how ugly the colors were...assorted shades of browns, greys and sickly yellows. It was like Easter in Hell. And it was all lit up brightly.

Then I saw him in a far corner. It had to him. He was tall and exotic looking. He was not wearing anytthing but some way-short cutoff jean shorts. He was skinny. bearded. hairy and haad tiny spots of paint all over him.  I didn't get a good look at his face because he was kneeling down next to some kid who appeared to be sobbing. He was speaking in a low, comforting tone. The young dude finally collected himself and sniffed all his way to the door with his shoelaces undone. He didn't see me but I noticed his arm left arm was wrapped in snow-white gauze. Busy night I guess.

He padded barefoot all the way to me  with a walk that made me think of a stage magician. Dramatic. He stood about a foot away and sized me up. 

"Hi. Are you Carlos? I'm Tim".

I reached out to shake his hand and his expression changed.

"You've been here before, haven't you?"

"Um. No. I haven't."

He quickly grabbed my arm in his big, bony hands and exposed the underside of my right wrist. "So where'd you get these?" He was referring to all my old scars from yesteryear. 

"Oh. Those...those are pretty old."

He tilted his head a bit and I described who I was and reminded him that I'd called him this morning. "Ah yes", he said with a smile, "Come have a seat. But take your shoes and socks off first. If you're barefoot, you can feel when you walk in paint. With shoes on, you could track paint everywhere and not know it". Made sense. I did as instructed and followed through his cavernous front room to a couple of really nice easy chairs. "Watch where you step...and don't trip."

I sat down but he remained standing. 

"I'm sure I have paint on my shorts so I can't sit down." he said. He looked at me for a bit and then added "Oh Hell with it. I've had a long day and my legs ache". He stepped out of  his jean shorts distractedly and settled into the other chair with an audible sigh of comfort. He was completely naked. And maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed like him it took him a second too long to strip because I got a good long look at his hairy ass and oversized dick. Shit. I needed to collect myself.

"Tell me about your artwork", i said quickly. 

"Walk over to that wall", he said while gesturing towards the space near where'd I walked in. There was a row of fresh, glistening canvasses. And they were fucking ugly. Hoe was this guy rich? I looked closer at the first one and still found it hideous, but also intriguing somehow. I looked closer and suddenly he was directly in my ear.

"What's the verdict, Mr. Curious?"

I couldn't really answer. I also couldn't turn around because he was naked. I'm so glad I hadn't drank anything because I felt the need to be in control now. "Tell me about your process", I finally said.

"why don't I show you my process".

Oh. Okay. He was still naked as I followed him over to another corner. He was still naked and I walked on paint. Control. I needed to maintain some.

There was a wooden stool in between a blank canvass on an easel and a small refridgerator. "Please sit."

He rummaged in the fridge for a few seconds and then closed the door without taking anything out. "I'll be right back, Mr. Curious. Stay put."

I of course watched his bony naked frame walk all the way across the room before disappearing through a dark doorway. He came back with a lighter and a glass pipe in his hand. I knew enough about stuff to know this was meth or crack or speed. "Hope you don't mind. I need to wake up." I watched, fascinated.

"I'm out of special paint somehow." He lamented. With an arched eyebrow he asked me if I'd like to volunteer a tiny amount of blood. Hell NO. I had to get out of there. He shrugged. "I promise you're safe here. You won't be harmed."

Well. 

"I'll give you five hundred bucks".

Well!

I sat silently as he picked up a little orangle box and opened it and produced a new, factory-sealed razor blade. He deliberately unsheathed in front of me and let me see it was completely new and flawless. "You can make the cut yourself. I usually like to do it, but we both already know you're experienced."

Quick as a flash, his arm came around and he injected a syringe into my rib cage. Fucking what??? "Don't worry. It was just a litttle something to keep the cut from clotting too fast. And slso some....caffeine to give you energy". This was the point we all reach sometimes, and just let things happen without caring anymore. I could feel the caffeine working its way to my heart. 

Suddenly this all seemed okay. "How big? How deep?", I asked in a calm voice.

"Very small. And just deep enough to get a good bleed going."

I finally looked him in the face and noticed how handsome he was and how black his hair was. 'Dark Jesus' is what I heard in my head.

He handed me the new razor very delicately and i pinched it between my two fingers. It was all so familiar. In my mind, I was back in the bathroom of my parents' house, sitting on the edge of the tub.  I studied the underside o0f my arm and saw that same blue vein I'd hacked at as a kid. Too quickly and carelessly, I made a cut right on top of Old Blue.  It was larger and deeper than I'd intended. I was gushing. 

"Strip!", he commanded, "You'll ruin your clothes". And I did just that. I stood up and let the wide rivulet of bright red blood flow out of me. It felt good. It felt like old times. The caffeine he'd given me was making me feel happy and excited. I volunteered to do it again, "Slow down Hot Rod", he admonished as he tried to capture my dripping blood in a tiny jar. I felt the blade drop out of my hand because my fingers were getting cold and weak. 

I stumbled a little, and he helped me settle on the wooden stool. I was grinning like a monkey as I heard my fresh blood spattering noisily on the plastic below me. It was loud.  Did I really cut that much? I didn't mean to. I hoped he wasn't mad. It was suddenly important to me that I please him. He told me to hold the wounded arm above my head if I could. Sure. "You fucking better not pass out on me", he warned. 

"I won't," I promised as tiny streams of blood dripped down my neck, back  and chest. 

"You've really got very vibrant red material in that arm". He showed the full jar he'd collected. I wobbled a tiny bit and grinned dreamily at him. "But I want to try the other arm -- just to see if it's a little more interesting than the other one." Well, that made perfect sense. He moved a standing lamp closer so he could see the non-bleeding arm I was holding out. He grabbed a blade that was already on his work tablebefore I had a chance to tell him I'd dropped the fresh one. Under the bright light he studied my network of veins. As I looked down I noticed his long bare feet below which were covered with blood and paint. Actually, the whole floor was flooded with red. Not my mess to worry about.

"What did you say?" he asked as he looked at me tenderly. I hadn't realized I'd said anything out loud. For whatever reason I said "I love you". He didn't respond. Just made a fast, fresh gash on the untouched arm. He couldn't be mad at me now because his cut was even more severe than the one I'd made. The dam had burst and my blood was going everywhere. I felt so dizzy. I said domrthing about needing to lie down. Where were those comfy chairs? I could face them together and sleep on the cushions. I neede to get to them before I passed out. I'd better hurry. I stepped a liitle too quickly because the bloody, paint-soaked plastic cause me to slip and fall on my back. Ahh. This was as good as a chair. I almost drifted off. I almost didn't notice Carlos lower himself on top of me. I wanted this. I'm pretty sure he gave ne another needle to my ribs and say something about a substance that would control the bleeding. I guess it wasn't working fast enough for him because he kept muttering "shit shit shit".

He straddled my chest with his long legs and was smoking that pipe again. I asked to try it and he held to my lips and flicked the lighter as I inhaled the fires of Hell. Now I was starting to come alive again. It made me so happy to see him inhale more as well because I wanted him to be happy. I started to try and ask him if he was feeling good, but he was lifting my bare legs in the air and positioning his long hairy prick up against my hole. Nice. That felt right. For a brief second I remeber he had some paint on the pointy head of his dick and that worried me more than anything. A strange dick with no condom was inside me but I was more worried about paint in my bloodstream. Not too worried -- just a little worried. He bucked those slim hips in and out of me as we slid all over the wet plastic. It was almost comical....like a 'Tom and Jerry' cartoon or something. But then he came audibly...and emptied his seed inside of my ass. 

Was I still bleeding? Was I dying? Both? I wandered some other things when Carlos covered me with a few layers of unstretched canvas. It was a little scratchy but warm. I drifted into dreams of colors and art. Would I wake up alive? Probably. 

 

 

 

[HighlyCurious]

Tim and Curious. That's me.

 

[HighlyCurious]

wild cause that's my RL name and my name on here. Kinda neat.

 

[Closetwhore]

I actually loved this

[rawemobttm]

I liked it....different....reminded me of years past... =)

[lynn1964]

The premise of this story is the absolute shit!!!!! This was great! I saw this "artist" on a segment of "Outrageous Acts of Science" once and he used blood in his paintings. Mostly his blood but if someone wanted their portrait, then, if they wanted, he would use some of theirs.

I love that you let Carlos breed you! His artist's aura enveloped you and carried you with it! That is a good artist! I think you are a good artist as well Toon!