An artist does with his hands what a lover does with his sex. He paints, and he draws, and he construes on paper and skins an image worth engraving into cortex; sticky strands of pearly shaped drops, that hang around necks, like Victorian lace fall from chin. And hard black lines that smudge across fingertips, smearing between cells, sinking into red organs and soft tissue. Water engrossed lovers feasting on acrylic black and white.

Legs that have been dusted with fine black hair twine in the sheets; twist together and pull until they can not move again. The man's hands are black, soaked in thick chalk and paint. He rubs one of those hands on a pillow, but the paint has long since crusted into his flesh so that it does not smear only flakes off and crumbles when he rolls on it.

Then he turns, and his hair, thick and golden grasps at the black flakes, holding them close and letting them slowly crawl deeper in his scalp. His lips all too full and cheeks still-flushed from nightly sexual pleasure stick with salt to the pillow.

His chest lays open to the sticky New Orleans air, and between course chest hair and smiling happy trails, can be seen interwoven puddles of white. Hazy clouds on chest that peels under nail, and softens to the touch of a wet tongue. A breeze that shift the come-dried chest hairs and shifts the black chips lazily wafts in through the open windows; and the sounds of the early morning, murmurs of people and honking of horns beckon to his ears, they speak of a world beyond the four walls.

When he sits up, he yawns, his mouth tired from the exertions of last night's exercises. His tongue dry, he snaps it against the roof of his mouth, trying to feel around for the spit that usually waits for him upon waking.

A painting lay at the foot of the bed, the white canvas smeared with black and yellow, like his hands and his hair. He does not remember what happened the night before, only the smell of sex and feeling of being purged and opened wait his trying to recall. A hazy image of a tall thin man, with dyed hair and several rings through his body and penis; and opened tubes of paint and several torn condom wrappers lay on his dresser and floor. Well, at least he used protection this time. Sort of.

He scratches at his sticky chest, and tries again in vain to make the saliva come to mouth. He rises, and stands naked in front of the window, staring absently out into the almost dead streets. A few early Alcoholics making their morning trip to the bar gaze up at his silhouette, and continue along in silence.

He starts the shower and climbs in tenaciously, approaching the cold like an old enemy, cautious to its touch. The soap turns colors as the paint strips away from his body in a swirl of yellow and black. His toes grip the plastic tub, as his body moves under the dancing water. He moves his tongue again, urging the spit to fill his mouth once more.

He reaches for the green towel, and dries his naked body, taking special care of his penis and sore posterior. He moves back into the bedroom, the only other room in his apartment, and searches for his old black button up shirt and faded jeans. He never wears underwear or boxers, he sweats too much in the New Orleans heat, and they always stick to his body. Several holes in his jean catch his eye, and he tries to remember to buy another pair, but, like his love life, it escapes him when he leaves.

The city is dirt-encrusted, the streets covered in filth, with everything from old condoms to McDonalds cups littering the sidewalk and gutters. He moves against the wind, smacking his lips as he turns into a Burger King that rests on the corner of Bourbon Street. He orders, reaching in his pocket for a crumpled five-dollar bill to pay the teenager with, and leaves with food in hand. He walks out, cursing under his breath when he stumbles on the cracked sidewalk.

The Pink Blossom. The sign above showed a beautiful pink rose, lighted in fluorescent pink and red. It was, like most bars in this district, a strip club; and, like most strip clubs in this district, the women inside were thirty-five and drug addicts. A bar lined one wall complete with a man who had just recently passed out, and several early morning alcoholics, several whom Brian had seen earlier this morning. Torn red-leather booths the other wall, they were empty except for one, and in it sat Aaron.

He would never be called a beautiful man. He was of a large build, the kind where muscle could easily be turned to fat, and vice versa. His lips were large and full, but slightly turned upwards; his eyes were set deep inside his skull, and seemed to play on a perpetual acid trip, so dark were they. He wore a set of glasses that were too small for his large face, and rested on his long nose.

He was slouched over a glass of orange juice, his head hanging off his neck like a broken flower when Brian walked in, Burger King food in hand. His eyes downcast, he walked over to Aaron, setting the bag on the table in front of him, and placing a hand on his forehead.

"Are you okay?" He spoke, trying to whisper but at the same time talk over the loud music.

He fell against Brian's shoulder, his head sinking down into the crook of his arm. "I don't want to be inside me anymore." The stopped, the tears coming to his eyes, stinging them the way tears always seem to do.

Brian opened the bag, taking out a small sausage-like burger, and placed it to Aaron's lips, encouraging him to eat it. The dancer on stage looked at the two men, then turned away in disgust at the obvious affection. :"I don't know why you come to these places," Brian spoke. "You don't even enjoy women. Why do you put yourself through this?" He stroked Aaron's head tenderly, while he ate.

"It just makes me feel normal I guess," Aaron said into his lap.

They continued in silence, until the burger was gone, and Aaron slowly opened his mouth to take in each of Brian's fingers, to lick at the grease. For no matter how much his tongue seemed to push out the rancid taste of burnt grease, his mind, took in the texture of Brian's finger, and savored the taste of his skin.

And then:

"I have to leave Aaron. I have work." He raised himself to go, stuffing the greasy wrapper back in the bag. Rushing, escaping from Aaron's mouth. He kept his eyes downcast as he moved from the table; away from the dancer, and the man in the booth.

Just stay with me, and hold me. I need to be held. Fuck, don't leave!

"I want you… Brian…" he whispered to himself, silently under his breath, so that the loud bass around him swallowed his voice.

But Brian, along with his bag, had already left. And Aaron was alone with the eyes of the dancer still on his body, and an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

In the street, where corner met street and pavement meshed in dull colorless grays, Brian turned. His eyes seemed to throb in his head; his flesh seemed unnaturally warm, as one does when stepping out of a hot bath; his palms sweated as he gripped the bag to his chest. He stared at the Pink Blossom, at the ugly sign, the grotesque flesh portrayed in florescent pink and red. Swallowing the dryness that swelled in his mouth, he turned with the wind around the corner into a world of gray, and the heavy memory of Aaron left his mind to be replaced by another image, florescent pink and red engraved in his mind.