The Pain Painter

Yarrow Paisley




Not long ago, a man came to me with a photo of his happy wife. He asked me what I could do. I examined the photo, and was intrigued by the faint lubricious luster in the wife's eyes. I consented to paint him. He sat for me every day. Green dominated this piece. Sharp angles. I kept the photo for reference, returning it only when the painting was finished. The man was pleased with the result. He invited me to dinner not long afterward. He proudly pointed to the painting above his mantel. It was red now. His wife prepared our meal. The meat was raw, and seasoned with mown grass. The man wolfed it down with relish, and demanded a second serving. I concentrated on the side dishes. When the meal was finished, the man instructed his wife to lie back on the cleared table and raise her skirt. He told me this was dessert. I glanced at the painting. There were small green circles within the greater red. When I looked back, I saw that the wife's pussy was zippered shut, and padlocked. The man told me this was for security reasons. He showed me the key he kept on a chain around his neck. He unlocked the pussy, and unzipped it. The wife emitted a shriek, and the man shuddered with repressed ecstasy at the sound. He unzipped his pants and hefted his member out. He caressed the zipper (of the pussy) with the member, and the member grew. In forceful quick repetitions he plunged her pussy as he would a clogged toilet, without relent until the waters gurgled and the pipes flowed clear. I declined dessert. The man seemed disappointed, but shrugged and zipped the wife back up. When the padlock was secure, the wife stood and arranged her skirt, then went to do the dishes. The man thanked me once again for the painting, which I noticed now was blue. I wish, just once, a client's painting would remain faithful to my vision.

Soon, as I somewhat expected, the wife came to me with a commission. She showed me a photo of her happy husband. I consented to paint her. She sat for me every day. Volume dominated this piece. Complex curves. The woman was pleased with the result. She invited me to dinner not long afterward. The husband was not to be seen all evening. The woman and I ate an elegant meal of escargots from the same plate. In the candlelight, her pale skin seemed to glow. I told her she appeared happy. She laughed, and nodded. I asked her where she kept her painting. (I had noticed earlier that the husband's painting no longer hung over the mantel.) She told me it was too beautiful for public display, so she kept it in her closet, for private viewing. She told me that since I was the painter, however, I could see it. She led me upstairs and through her bedroom to the closet. It was the walk-in kind, so I walked in, and flipped the light-switch. The husband was here, standing against the back wall, nude. He held the painting, and his face strove to be impassive, but I detected fatigue in his taut cheeks. I noticed that the composition was much simpler, and the colors more vivid. There was a great deal of flatness in the painting. The woman attempted to seduce me, but I declined, telling her I was homosexual. I was not, but it was an incontrovertible excuse.







Yarrow Paisley currently lives in Western Massachusetts. His fiction has appeared in Web Conjunctions, 3rd bed, and Sein und Werden, among others, and will soon appear in Diagonal Proof. His poetry is forthcoming in Clockwise Cat and Gutter Eloquence Magazine.