Because it's Thursday and I said I would post writing on Thursday, here is the next section of the story I started here.

He tells me I am pretty a lot. I have nice breasts and a nice vagina. I wish he would use the word cunt. When he asks me to do things during the day, I say no, even though I’m not busy, so that when he asks to come over later and I hesitantly say yes and we fuck, he feels like he has conquered something.

I open the door in flowered shorts and a wife beater and he tells me I look hot and he can see my nipples through the fabric. I don’t say anything about his body.

In the morning I go to drawing class. I don’t tell anyone in my drawing class about the boy I am fucking. I don’t tell anyone in my drawing class that I saw a man die. I don’t tell anyone in my drawing class anything.

We started by drawing shapes. Then we drew popcorn. Now we are drawing naked people. I don’t think about fucking when I am in drawing class. Normally when I am having sex with someone I think about sex all day. I don’t know what it means that I don’t think about Paul that way.

I keep my charcoal in a box I took from my grandpa’s apartment in the retirement complex after he died. The inside of the box is slowly turning black. The drawing teacher tells me I am too careful a lot.

I take notes about bodies. The way that some girls shave their crotch and other girls don’t and the hair is long and curly and colored differently from the hair on their heads. Some girls have breasts that swing long and low like pendulums and dark brown nipples. The models are almost always female: boys don’t know what to do with their bodies.

When we are lying in bed together Paul asks me what I like best about his body. I don’t tell him that I like the way that he is fat and when he spoons me, I feel like I am in a cocoon. Instead I tell him I like the way his dick feels when he’s inside me.

During critique the teacher says my drawings are too pretty, I need to make something ugly. She likes the warped perspective achieved by the boys with no drawing skills, the massive thighs, overpowering hips.

I think of the Picasso I saw in Amsterdam, Nude Woman with Cats. I have never much liked Picasso, but as I stared at this painting I wondered how he could have rendered me so accurately. Though at the moment I had no cats, it was my body in the picture. The same drooping stomach, disproportioned legs, the twisted lonely smile of someone watching television like it is life. By most standards, Picasso was a pervert, but he was not different from any man I had ever met. He slept with women and then took their bodies and made them in a new shape.

Paul asks me what positions I like and I tell him the positions he wants me to be in. I don’t say anything when my legs hurt or about the bruises developing on my thighs. He leaves a big hickey on my neck and I complain about it, but I don’t do anything to cover it during the day.