The Painting of Porcupine City by Ben Monopoli

Author:Ben Monopoli [Monopoli, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ben Monopoli
Published: 2011-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

a look and he was harder than hard and I was too and I was worried he might not want to splatter his masterpiece so soon. But then he pushed me down and did just that.

We laughed during it,

something he’d always done and which I was only beginning to get used to. Sex, for me, while never formal, had almost always been serious—but he brought a glee to it that you had to just roll with. When we were done he started cracking up, squirming beneath me, making a squiggly snow-angel in the rumpled white sheets. They were so streaked with paint it looked as though rainbows were pouring out of him.

“What’s so funny?” I put my hands on the mattress just below his armpits and lowered myself onto him, making a jizzy splat when our bellies met.

“Oof,” he said.

“I’m tired now.”

“Me too.” He crossed his legs over the backs of mine, ran his foot back and forth against the inside of my thigh, over the place where he’d made his mark. “And hungry. That paint wasn’t very filling.”

“So hungry,” I said into his hair. “I could eat a foot-long sub.”

“I could eat forty-two pancakes.”

“I could eat a turkey.” I felt his hands on my back, fingers tracing my shoulder blades.

“I could eat an entire Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I could eat a cow,” I said.

“I could eat a flock of cows.”

“You mean a herd of cows. A flock of geese.”

“A gaggle of geese.”

“Smarty pants.”

“I’m not wearing any pants.”

“Heh.”

“I could finish that wedding cake.”

“Me too. They’d be pissed though. Want me to make you a sandwich?” I blew raspberries against his stubble.

“Yes please.”

“I must look such a mess now,” I said. “And I don’t know if I can move.” I feigned trying to push myself up. “I think we’re dried together forever.”

“We’ll have to go to work like this,” he said.

“They’d love that. What do you want on your sandwich?”

“What do you have?” His arms crossed again over my back and his legs tightened around my thighs.

“Honey ham. I think some turkey.” I knew we weren’t any closer to getting up.

“I’ll have ham. And cheese?”

“All the cheese you could want.”

“Mayo if you have it.”

“Miracle Whip.”

“That’s fine.”

“Mustard too?”

“Mustard too.”

It was another fifteen minutes before I finally got up to make it. We ate sandwiches paint-splattered on paint-splattered sheets like some kind of performance art piece.

At 4:30 his phone started

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