A Gauguin Dream
“Damn it Nicky, I told you if I caught you cheating on me again, we were through. You come home with some bitch’s lipstick all over your underwear and try to make up some lame ass excuse. Get the hell out of my life.” Mercedes, his wife threw his duffel bag after him as he stumbled off the porch.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he headed for the bus station. Nicky had just enough cash for a locker and a couple of drinks. No job, no wife, no prospects, but for some reason he knew he had the world by the balls.
After taking his sketch pad from his bag, he stuffed everything into a locker. Palming his key, he headed for the men’s room. Stepping up to the urinal, Nicky glanced up at the graffiti. It read: “Your future is in your hand.” Up above it, it read: “Don’t look up here, the joke is in your hand and you are pissing on your shoe.”
Nicky smiled, like he knew something no one else could fathom. The smells dilated his senses, fresh garlic bread from a pizzeria. Street walker’s cheap perfume, after shave combined with sweat, above all greed and money. Strolling down skid row, steering clear of hustlers, pimps, and rip off artists of varying degree, he wanted to wet his whistle and sit and straighten his thoughts.
An oily haired Latino with a narrow tie and zoot suit tugged at his sleeve with whispered promises of a pussy paradise. Nicky didn’t put up enough resistance and found himself steered into this strip joint. Figuring it might do his libido some good, he relaxed.
He felt bad about losing his wife, but it had been coming for awhile. They’d been together for what seemed like forever. It hadn’t lasted two years. When they had moved to the big city, things had changed drastically. Nicky wanted to paint, it was what he breathed for. Mercedes couldn’t understand and had no faith in his capabilities. That was only a small part of their differences. The women were hot for him and he could never say no.
Mercedes was a preacher’s daughter. Her family stopped at the gas station he worked at every Sunday after services. The reverend would fill up his car, while Mercedes would head for the restroom.
Every Sunday he watched her from his peep hole. She had a fantastic body and from the way she lifted her dress and touched herself, he knew she was primed for love. Her hair was reddish blonde, thick and curly. Long legs and ripe grapefruit sized breasts. A sweet girlish face topped off her generous attributes.
Nicky drew her with her hands inside her panties, a look of wanton pleasure on her face. From his sketch, he made a beautiful painting and showed to her. She was mad and embarrassed at first, but the painting was so erotic and flattering it aroused her. He persuaded her to come to his apartment and pose for him, at first clothed, then nude. Seducing her, they made earth shattering love every chance they got. Capturing her at the height of orgasm on canvas was what he finally succeeded at.
He continued to work at the gas station, the pay was lousy, but his fame spread. It was amazing the quantity of women that started using the restroom. Nicky painted, studied, and made love to Mercedes. They married after a short engagement.
Her Papa had seen several of the paintings of his daughter and some of women in his parish. He thought it would be best for them to get out of town as quickly as possible. Besides, it would be unbecoming of the town’s minister to murder his new son-in-law. So, he married them and financed their move to a large city.
The love of women, their smell, their smile, their twinkling eyes, their walk, and their hidden curves all drove him senseless. Nicky painted them all in his mind. He wasn’t a Casanova or a Don Juan, but something attracted women to him. Maybe it was because he knew how to talk to them? Maybe they sensed his devotion and it drew them into his magnetic power? His looks were average, dark curly hair, an athletic body, not overly muscular. He could go the distance. He knew how to stroke a woman, her mind and body and put her at ease. They loosened up and wanted to confide their deepest secrets. Nicky took advantage of his charm every time he got the chance.
Painting was his life, capturing the feminine body on canvas. He studied all his favorite artists. Manet’s skin colorations, Toulouse Lautrec’s barroom women, Gauguin’s native beauties, Renoir’s exquisite faces, Degas’ ballerinas, Cezanne’s fruit, Van Gogh’s irises and sunflowers. Learning from them all, he still had one main problem, his dick kept getting in the way. His small brain took over sometimes.
Words from a loud song broke into Nicky’s reverie and made him smile. “If she won’t do it her sister will.” The strippers had a small stage with a shiny brass pole to hunch and to hang on to. It was connected to the bar, so they could dance between customer’s glasses after their routine and retrieve tips. They bumped and boogied to ear blasting rock, stripping down to G strings and high heels. Shaking their money makers, they were mostly young with big titties and round asses, full of energy. Mostly working class dudes filled their strings with singles.
One lady in particular caught Nicky’s eye. She had long dark hair with beautiful amber highlights that whipped back and forth when she danced. Her body was superb. When she smiled, one gold tooth
sparkled like a bejeweled vampire. Nicky sketched her face and body in half a dozen positions. Every time she danced down the bar, men stuffed both sides of her string.
She slowed as she sidled past Nicky, trying to see what he was up to. He signed and folded his small sketch of her and slid it into her booty string. His other hand slid over her cute ass, copping a quick feel. The bouncer, a humongous black dude with a yard wide Afro headed his way, with head busting on his mind. The lady motioned him off and shimmied and wiggled on her way.
Figuring he had broken a rule or two, the feel of her behind had left his hand on fire. Three or four skits later, the dark haired beauty was up again. She passed him a note asking him to wait for her until closing time. This was perfect for Nicky, seeing as how he had no money or no where to stay. The bartender hassled him once, for not spending more money. He gave him a drawing, which got him a couple of free drinks and no more trouble.
The dancer’s name was Chichi Martinez and she was a bundle of smoking hot chili peppers chased with raw mescal.
“All the time I was hunching that pole, all I could think about was my little dog. I left it behind in Juarez. And you know what? You remind me of my little poochie, Peppi,” she confessed.
“Thanks, I think,” replied Nicky.
He had never felt so flattered. They picked up some chow mein and several bottles of Mad Dog, on the way to her place. As soon as they opened the door, everything went flying and she had her tongue down his throat. Nicky ran his hand up under her skirt and rolled her panties down past her ankles. Her bush felt like a scouring pad, all trimmed for exotic dancing. Chichi undressed him and mounted. She started riding like the Texas Rangers were in hot pursuit and she’d be free if she could cross the Rio Grande. She gave him the pet name Wolfie, deciding he didn’t resemble Peppi at all.
They fucked and sucked in almost every conceivable position. Resting between orgasms for wine, Nicky staggered up and drew Chichi at length.
“Wolfie, baby, stay with me, I’ll buy you paints. You can become a great artist like Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo combined.”
“Thanks, Chichi, but I just lost one good woman and right now I can’t hurt another. I need to move around for awhile,” he replied.
“You lying sack of shit. You just want to fuck anything with a heartbeat and use painting as an excuse,” she said.
Nicky just smiled.
After two days of sex and art, the walls of her tiny apartment started closing in. They’d made numerous trips to the liquor store and Chinese joint. It was time to reenter the world. His prick had gone through the agony and the ecstasy more times than, Charlton Heston’s movie about Michelangelo. He gave her three of his best sketches. Chichi fronted him a ten spot. He used the dancer’s mint toothpaste and cleaned his teeth and gargled.
The azure sky was filled with purple bruised fingers groping the sun. Nicky staggered back into the day. The sunlight hit his eyes like a cop’s interrogation torture lamp. His head throbbed and his tongue felt like it was growing green bologna fur fungus. As he took a breath of fresh air, a Santa Fe Chief locomotive blew by screaming its whistle. Feeling like he’d passed out in some alley with his mouth open and a wino had taken a piss in it for a cheap laugh. He finally got his brain strain together so, he could grab a couple of cups of java and some greasy eggs. Then he called an amigo.
Slick, his lifelong pal was a small time cat burglar that graduated from stealing manhole covers to various nefarious schemes. He’d done three years in the big house for getting stuck in a Radio Shack’s cooling system. Unfortunately for him, this was at the time of the big prison riots and some unruly inmates cut off three of the guard’s heads and set up a bowling alley with them. Slick had never come completely clean about what happened inside. His Uncle Tommy Keys had taught him to steal, before checking in to Club Fed for a twenty count. Their family motto was; “The night is friendly.” It almost always had been for Slick, until this little old lady caught him doing his sleight of hand and blasted a hole in his left testicle with a 32 derringer.
“How are you? You old one balled horse thief,” Nicky asked.
“Where the hell have you been? I thought your nuts would have been hanging from the rear view mirror of Mercedes’ cousin’s pickup truck.” Slick replied.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, your wife’s hillbilly cousins. They are all hunting your ass like coon dogs.”
He thought about Mercedes’ inbred behemoth relatives, Jim Bob, Billy Bob, Jerry Bob, and the runt Curly Bob. “I don’t know why, she’s so upset. I gave her the best mustache ride of her life for two years.”
Slick replied, “I was planning a vacation to the Jemez Mountains. You want to come?”
“Why not? First I need to stop for my bag and some paints and canvas.”
Jack of Jack’s Art Supply was to Nicky what Pere Tanguy was to Van Gogh. “Jack, I need oils, brushes, and enough canvas for a couple of months. I know I owe you, but I don’t have money right now and I need to blow town. I have a few sketches to add to my growing stockpile. Plus I’ll send you something you can sell as soon as I get settled,” Nicky explained.
“Fifty years in the business and I have never met a painter with more natural talent than you. I have waited all my life for you to come along, then you turn out to be a drunk and cocks man,” replied Jack. As he loaded a box with the supplies Nicky needed, he finished and hugged Nicky. “You just turn out the masterpieces and I’ll keep putting them up for sale.”
Leaving Jack’s, Slick and Nicky headed for the bank. Nicky knew Mercedes would probably have frozen all their assets, not that they amounted to much. Luckily, he kept a key to their safety deposit box on his key ring. He remembered they kept several hundred in there, just in case.
The teller he spoke with informed him there was a flag on all their accounts. Nicky went to the personal banking department and signed in to wait for a banker. A young blond verified his signature and was about to buzz him into the inner office and then take him to the vault. Her supervisor, a gray-haired lady came over and whispered something to the blond.
“I’ll take care of Mr. Moon,” she said out loud. The woman appeared to be in her late forties, a little over the hill, but extremely well taken care of. If she’d dye her hair it would take at least 5 years off her appearance. She led Nicky into the vault. As she placed her key next to his, her breasts brushed up against his hand. This sent a tingle through them both. The lady looked him in the eyes and sucked in her breath. Nicky gave her his best smile, as she led him to a private cubicle. She opened the door and he entered with his metal box. He pulled her in behind him, the box forgotten. She started to protest, but Nicky was kissing her full and deep. Any questions about what was about to happen disappeared, as he cupped and massaged her fine ass through her silky dress, pulling her to him. She moaned as he pulled her panties to the side and with a feather like stroke erected her juicy clitoris and nibbled at her hardening nipples through the fabric. He guided her down onto the thick plush carpet and ripped off her lacy white panties. They split at the seams, but they were beyond caring. With her dress around her hips, Nicky let his tongue do its magic. The lady groaned and tugged at his belt and unzipped his fly and freed his stiff boner. Placing soft wet hungry kisses up and down his dick and then sucking greedily at the tip, she knew her business. Almost beyond ready, he mounted and worked fast, banging her head against the flimsy wooden wall of the cubicle, the harder he thrust, the more she liked it. She was so vocal, he stuffed her mouth with her shredded panties. They both climaxed together, wiping off, he checked his box. While she put herself back together.
Mercedes had beaten him to the safety deposit box. Every person in the bank, watched as they exited the vault area. Nicky waited for a standing ovation. The lady blushed right down to where her panties should have been. He made a quick survey of the women, always checking for future fornication prospects.
Nicky walked out of the bank. Slick sat there waiting for him in his Ford pickup, with a camper shell. He climbed in and they drove off, headed west and north.
“What the fuck took you so long?” Slick asked. “I thought you were pulling a stickup or something. As much as I love you, I’m not going back inside without a damn good reason.”
“This silver fox jumped my bones in the bank,” he explained. “Can we find a gas station, I need to clean up?”
***
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Horror Sleaze Trash 