‘Paint me like one of your French girls.’ I said it as a joke.
But here I am. A fat white girl spread naked on your rug.
Brush in hand, your Whitman beard breathes on the tight virgin canvas.
The sun pours down like lemon curd. A clock ticks, having no alternative.
You wear a linen shirt and your old army shorts. I focus on the outline of your horse cock. My melon breasts are stippled with sweat; the nipples stick out like chapel hat pegs.
We take a break in five.
My cunt yawns wide to invite you in.
