grayspike

Inez got this started.

For Halloween she e-mailed me a photo strip of people wearing outrageously wrong costumes. What they wore fitted between provocative and disturbing.

The picture that planted the seed which germinated in Flacas brain and bloomed on my nuts was a scene befitting then exceeding geek tolerances.

The picture in question showed an out of shape fellow wearing the costume of his favorite superhero, Spiderman. Well, not wear exactly.

Given his girth, Im betting the costume shop didnt quite have his spider-size stocked. Determined nonetheless to represent, he body-painted Spideys uniform onto himself. However, unlike the real Spiderman, this Halloween hero wore no codpiece. Rather, he let his tiny ghoulies dangle freely in the open air.

Its just not coincidence that Spidermans uniform is blue. Like this fanatics balls.

Since I had a good laugh, I imagine Inez was roaring. Shes so perverse! But in a good way.

Several nights later I saw Flaca. Okay. It was a booty call. She needed some physical release with a guy who wouldnt disgust her afterward.

True friendship is never having to ask, Why did I fuck that guy?

Womens rhetorical questions are so tangled.

Her students were stressing her out. Flaca teaches art at a local French school. Her charges are still young enough to absorb foreign languages easily, yet French culture remains alien. (Join the club, kids!)

Thanks to France 2 (or if the parents have the extra coin, France 5), they watch the recent nightly upheaval from there. Naturally they want to know the reasons behind all those cars burning throughout France.

Native French teachers, students, offer cut and dried explanations that dismiss the beurs as fucking ingrates. Surely these days in France thats sufficient enough.

This isnt France.

Pampered as they are, Flacas American students realize something is wrong. Despite being blessed with plenty and groomed to avoid serious concerns, they want answers to the disorder abroad.

Since Flacas an American (well, pretty damned close anyway) they expect her to be straight with them. These last two weeks shes had to cram then regurgitate French history from the Third Republic to the present.

Being more familiar with the Rhines east bank, I am little help. Though I did loan her my copy of Islam for Dummies. While not a guide to why the young Islamic French rampage, it gives a hint from where the disaffection comes. If theres a French version, maybe Chirac and Sarkozy (president and interior minister, respectively) are skimming it right now.

Flacas stressed. Her job description never included reducing foreign calamities to their essence.

Knowing how tense she was, I brought her a printout of Spiderman. I figured hed be good for some laughs. That or a shock which might offer relief.

Spiderman provided a jolt, all right. Whether it was good or not beats me.

Seeing his nuts gave her an idea. One she needed me to complete. Something nutty.

Flaca wanted to paint Mike the Tiger on one of my balls.

Let me explain. Everything.

Mike the Tiger is the Louisiana State University mascot. Hes purple and gold, the school colors.

Though nowhere near a football fan, Flaca is familiar with Mike. Two years or so ago Id grown weary of some T-shirts. One was an LSU shirt. Mike splashed across its chest. Flaca likes wearing my discards as either smocks or nightshirts.

If she ever notices what truly grace my castoffs it must be through some moony chick interpretations.

I think she fixed on Mike because of Katrinas Gulf devastation. With New Orleans down and out, its pro football team must relocate games. Some of those contests will be at LSU. Though not severely affected, the schools team also needed to re-arrange part of its schedule.

These developments were frequently televised. Each broadcast always flashed a stock photo of LSUs stadium. Snarling in the middle of the field the ubiquitous Mike.

So by the time I showed Flaca Spiderman she probably had Mike stuck in her subconscious.

Yeah. Its a stretch. But art is fanciful before becoming rational, no?

Flacas brainstorm was this: a request to portray Mike on one of my nuts. (!) I wondered wouldnt she prefer painting him on my behind? (Plenty of room to work there.)

No. Gilding the old ball sac presented just the necessary challenge to make life surreal. Shouldnt our bouncing off one another have accomplished that?

Flaca bounded out of bed. She jacked up her bedroom light. While she assembled tools and supplies I admired the smooth movements of her short thin body. Were we in water Im sure Flaca would barely have made a ripple. She gathered a T-shirt bearing snarling Mike, several small brushes, two sample jars of paint, one hand mirror, a towel.

She assured me the paint was tempera. Meaning after a few thorough cleansings all traces of Mike would be gone with the bath water.

Good. Knowing my luck Id find myself contorted with a Tulane alumna. Naturally shed ask why shed ever consent having the rival schools symbol rest against her jaw.

Flaca draped Mike facing us on a nearby seatback. The towel served as a drop cloth between my legs. She told me to hold my shaft high but not too firmly. She worried about an unnecessary erection whose co-effect mightve drawn up my balls, prompting a corrugated work surface.

Sometimes I forget our age difference. And until she mentioned it Id also forgotten this involuntary male reaction. Guys she ordinarily screw are still young enough for that response amid sex.

Im old enough now where mine hang while I bang.

She worked quick on the lower hanging nut. Her brush strokes felt nothing at all like her lapping tongue.

As she painted, I remembered a college girlfriend. She intended on becoming an artist; she has. Ive seen her work. Its technically proficient, very commercial. Her hair has grayed prematurely.

Back then she wanted to sketch my uglies. Not so much for the cheap easy thrill, but as an exercise in detail.

Younger and less secure than I am today, all I could think about was my gizmo displayed on someones wall or as a big part of her portfolio. I saw both possibilities as unseemly then.

Now, what the hell, I regret not taking that chance because today mere mention would be an ideally salacious conversation-starter. Not just rendered nude, but isolated and meticulously captured!

When Flaca finished she handed me the mirror to adore her work. She incorporated my hair for Mikes whiskers. The tempera was dull. Im used to seeing him colored brightly.

Flaca was pleased with her handiwork. Fevered, she looked up at me for affirmation.

Ah! How we deceive our friends for the greater good!