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6
Ashton
I hate blind dates.
But, I’ve not been laid in a month. It’s affecting every bit of my creative process. Or, at least, it’s my hope that the lack of my orgasms is what’s disturbing my artistic ability. Kate promised me a good-looking hot guy, near my age, who loves dirty and raunchy sex.
If his art is any indication to the kind of man he is, I’m in for a great night. But I hate the charade of a date. Can I just meet him at his place, fuck each other’s brains out for a couple of hours, and then get home by ten so I can finish this painting? Do I have to wine and dine the guy? He certainly doesn’t have to wine and dine me. I bet if I were to ask him, he’d be fine with skipping the formalities.
I take a look at my spiked black hair. I’ve always worn it short to my head. I look more like a preppy frat boy than a starving artist, emphasis on starving. Kate is the first art dealer to take a chance on me. My first piece was bought just a month ago, and after the commission fee, I ended up receiving four hundred dollars. It was just enough to cover the rest of my rent for the next month with a little left over for art supplies and food.
My jeans are tight, but not so tight that my balls ache. My shirt is a burgundy button-up. With my septum pierced and my black rimmed glasses, I figure this is the best it’ll get. I don’t have nice clothes; again, the whole starving-artist bit.
Greg is gaming in the living room, and Dave is in the kitchen cooking something. I lucked out with tidy roommates. We only talk when needed, but it’s still a small blessing.
“Getting your dick wet tonight?”
They must have noticed my foul mood. “And what tells you I haven’t?”
“You’re a moody asshole on most days, but the last couple of weeks, you’ve beenextrayou.”
I guess I have. I snapped at Greg for not putting my mail on the table. It’s a pet peeve of mine, and rightfully so, because I missed out on an opportunity with another studio. I made coffee one morning before I showered, and by the time I got out, Dave had drained the pot and hadn’t started another one. Now that I think back on it, I had every right to be upset. Inconsiderate assholes.
“Well, we’ll see. Just don’t be thoughtless jackasses, and I won’t be a jerk to you,” I quip, with a bite to it.
I guess I just proved their point. “Sorry, maybe I’ll be a little nicer if I get my dick wet,” I concede, adding the last part as a half-ass apology.
“Have fun!” one of them yells, but I don’t stop to see who it is. Apparently drastic times call for drastic measures. I’m all about a quick fuck, as long as the guy is on board.
* * *
With the datebeing a couple blocks from Kate’s studio, I need to bring along the last good painting I have to drop off to her while I’m in the area. I slip the canvas into my carrier and heft it on my arm like a giant tote bag, then trudge onto the bus. I hate public transportation, but…starving artist and all.
I’ll Uber to the restaurant from here, but Kate has promised me a fair price on this piece, if it sells. She has a couple of clients who love my work, and I need a good payday. Even a couple hundred dollars would buy some food and art supplies.
The public bus drops me off a block from the studio, and I’m feeling very good about the piece I’m bringing. It’s of a young man, his profile against a deep turquoise color, and he’s smoking a joint.
A man, a couple inches taller than me, holds the door open as I enter the studio. I can’t speak, but feel his intense gaze on me when I cross through the door. I don’t see Kate at first, so I linger in the reception area until her head pokes out of her office. She crosses by all the displays in the main showroom, beaming at me. I want to ask her who that guy was. He was stunning, and so easy on the eyes. There’s a familiarity about him, and I loved knowing he was watching me, too.
“Ashton! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. I have a client who is coming today to view your picture.”
I slip thin gloves on my hands, not because it’s cold outside but to prevent transferring any of my prints or oils from my skin to the piece. Pulling it out gently, I set it on the easel in front of the reception area.
“Oh, fuck, Ashton. This is unbelievable!” She tugs gloves on her own hands, grabbing for her magnifying glass, examining the finer details of the painting. “And your strokes are so smooth, with the acrylic paint. Shit, Ashton. You’ve been holding out on me. You told me you’re having some sort of artistic block, but this is definitely not a block.”
I’m elated by her enthusiasm. “This was the last good piece I've done in a while." I could expand my inventory if I could get past The Bride painting. I have this vision of the finished product, but I can't transfer it to paper.
“I’ll take this and display it at our next open house, if it’s not snatched up before. Mr. Martin called me today, and is interested in anything you paint. He’ll be by tonight. Let me research paintings similar to the detail you provided and I’ll get back to you with your bottom line.”
Kate takes thirty percent of the agreed upon amount. I trust her because she knows what my pieces are worth.
“Thanks, Kate. I appreciate it.”
She’s still mooning over the painting as I’m discarding my gloves.
“Oh, and, Ashton? Go get laid, and maybe you’ll have more art to bring to me. Anddo noteven think of selling to another studio without coming to me first. Ashton Brooks will be a household name one day, mark my words.”
Could it be true? But, she’s not done.
