Forty-Seven Shades of Pink

Now that the author of the “Shades of Gray” books is likely swimming in a jacuzzi filled with C-notes and caviar, I thought I’d take a stab at some of this erotica stuff myself.  Rather than waste valuable energy developing a plot, I’ve opted to just rehash a classic- inserting juicy parts as I go.  I’ll just slip them in slowly, but with urgent determination, again and again.

Anybody who says I don’t sacrifice for my art should know that I bought this pound of bacon solely for this purpose. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m going to cook it and eat it, but my main reason was for the photo shoot.

Once upon a time, there were three little pigs, Francine, Gloria and Beulah.  All three of the pink, succulent porkers were mesmerized by thoughts of the new guy in town, the roguishly handsome Mr. B. B. Wolfe.  They nestled together in the comfort of Francine’s California king-sized bed, beneath the tangled sheets in a sea of eager, pink flesh and tightly coiled tails.  They whispered to one another about B.B. and his devilish good looks.  Each hot breath filling their pointy little ears, until they could hardly stay still from the excitement.

They’d heard that Wolfe had a fondness for tail.  He’d surely want theirs, and they quivered in a volatile mixture of fear and anticipation.  Each piggy had her own views on how best to build her house to keep him out.

Buelah set to work on her plans.  She set out from the comfort of the bed and hastily slipped into her work clothes, not even pausing to bother with her thong.   In truth, Buelah seldom wore a thong, she’d long ago grown tired of untangling her curly tail from the G-strings.

She got working on her new home, which would be an earth-friendly, straw design.  As she busily tied the bunches of straw together, her mind kept drifting to B.B.  There were rumors in the village that he had a penchant for ropes and hand-cuffs.  She found it hard to focus on tying the bundles as she imagined her own hooves being wrapped in twine, unable to move as B.B. helped himself to a wolf’s share of her fatback.  She imagined herself squealing in pain and pleasure, helpless as Wolfe did as he pleased.  Though she was a successful, self-sufficient young sow, she had to admit to herself that it made her pork loins tremble at the thought of being used by Wolfe for his every whim.

When at last her work was done, she sat back and regarded the fruits of her labor.  Her new home was quite stylish, and politically correct from a renewable resource standpoint.  The front door was hung in a flimsy frame made of bundled straw, and would take no effort for B.B. to blow it down.  She knew she should reinforce it, but deep inside, her inner bacon bits yearned to be ravaged by the lupine lothario.

Gloria left the giant bed and wiggled her little pork butt over to her own construction site, where her new home was being built with sticks.  Unlike Buelah’s hands-on style, Gloria favored having paid construction professionals doing her heavy lifting.  She sat in the shade of a nearby elm and watched the team from Seven Dwarfs Construction as they worked weaving the sticks together to make the walls. It was a hot day, and the little men glistened from their efforts in the afternoon sun.

Gloria tickled her cheek with a piece of grass and wondered if what they said about dwarfs was true.  She thought the one named “Dopey” looked especially virile.  She dozed off and dreamed of two or three of her hot little laborers and B.B. Wolfe, all together with her back in the giant bed.  Stubby little fingers pulled at her pink pigskin and a long hairy tail wagged in delight at the orgiastic scene.

When she awoke, the construction workers had left for the day.  The house was nearly finished, except for the thatching of the roof.  Gloria could plainly see that her money was not all that well spent.  The house would never hold up to B.B.’s hot, powerful breath.  Maybe Wolfe would show up at the exact moment she was meeting with Doc, the construction foreman.  The wee builder could see for himself how little protection the house provided.  One thing would lead to another, and Gloria would end up as the suckling pig centerpiece at the feast of their attentions.  She smiled to herself and her pork belly jiggled just a little as her mind went back to her naughty fantasies.

Francine was happy to finally have the giant bed to herself.  She rolled around in the cool sheets happy as a pig in poop.  Her brick villa was finally done, and she would most certainly have the safest house of the three.  She had a soft spot for both Beulah and Gloria, and they would be welcome to seek refuge in her home once theirs proved to be unsafe.  She thought of the three of them together and cozy in the bed again.  While their company was always welcome, Francine had a weakness for bad boys, like Wolfe.  The very thought of him made her hog jowls flush and her chitlins churn.  She put on her thigh-high stockings and her sexiest 12 cup Victoria’s Secret bra and waited as patiently as she could.

Beulah in waiting – Illustration by the author

Francine was roused from her fantasizing by the squeals of her two friends.  She thought that perhaps B.B. Wolfe had already chased them to her, but saw not a trace of him when she flung open the door.  Before her stood Gloria and Beulah, their tails still very much intact, but their faces streaked with tears.  She ushered her dear friends into the house to find out what was the matter.

Gloria started, “It’s that B.B. Wolfe!” she cried, “I was ready for him.  My house of sticks is nearly done, at no small expense, I might add, and there’s no sign of him.  I could have stayed in my old place and saved my money”

Beulah cut in, “My straw house was all set too.  I waited and waited, but B.B. never showed up.  When I spoke with Henny Penny in town, she told me what she had heard.”

“That B.B. is a kinkier rascal than we knew.  He got us all worked up and worried about our tails, then he went and shacked up with Little Red, over in the hood.”

Gloria sobbed,  “It turns out, B.B. is some kind of transvestite freak who’s into dressing up like Grandma and doing the whole role playing thing!”  She wailed in falsetto “Oooh, what big eyes you have!  I tell you it’s just sick!”

Francine knew there was no chance B.B. would be stopping by now.  She said, “Cmon girls, I’ll make us some slop, we can climb into my bed and watch some cable to get our minds off things.  Maybe there’s an old episode of  ‘Sex and the Sty’ on.”

The three pigs walked into the brick house and soon forgot their disappointment.  They lolled around on the satin sheets and watched the TV as Carnitas, Hamantha and the other characters negotiated the social world of the sty and vied for the attention of a guy named Mr. Pig.

The moral of the story: A wolf in sheep’s clothing may just be into that sort of thing -or- You can’t make a silk thong out of a sow’s ear.

Art school psychology

Sure it’s a dark and eerie looking drawing. What did you expect, a clown portrait?   (Drawing by the author, a long damn time ago)

As an undergrad, just a million years ago or so, I majored in fine arts.  My concentration was in printmaking.  While my friends with “real” majors had exams and quizzes, I mostly had “crits” which is cool, art student slang for critiques.  On crit day, we’d all hunker down in the printmaking studio with a proof or two of our works in progress tacked up on the wall.  Just to give you business and nursing majors a general understanding, art majors don’t all have talent.  Some of us were just weird and didn’t fit in anywhere else.  The people with incredible talent made beautiful prints and drawings and paintings, while the talentless made ugly junk.  In the spirit of full disclosure,  my talent level was closer to talented than not, my motivational level was pretty close to “none”.

The woman who taught most of the printmaking courses may have been a frustrated psychologist.  She’d look at a student’s print and ask things like “What is this about?” or “What are you trying to say?“.  My unspoken answer was “You told us we were having a crit today, so I had to hang something up“.   My actual answer was usually not a hell of a lot better and was generally along the lines of, “I dunno, it’s just people in a subway“.

This photo of one of my etchings isn’t the greatest, but if it was, it would just be that much more disturbing anyway. Count your blessings that my cell phone takes such crappy pics.

The Sigmund Freud wannabe was never satisfied with my answers, and the resulting criticism of my work was usually harsher than it was for other students who had better back stories.

None of these students were foolish enough to go with the really broad, basic issues as their chosen topic.  “Man’s inhumanity to man” and “The horrors of war” had already been pretty well used up by Picasso, Francisco Goya and Andy Warhol.  This one kid used to put these pointless pieces of crap on the wall, which looked like he had left his paper on the bottom of a puppy cage in the Pet Pavilion at the local mall for a few days.  The images were that bad, but then he’d tell these incredible stories of what the piece was about.  The teacher and her lemmings would all furrow their brows and nod and make sounds like they were savoring a fine cognac while having foot massages.

Is it a man on a subway with a jaunty cap, or is it something deeper, more troubling? (Detail of an etching by the author, done a long damn time ago)

I decided that my images wouldn’t change, but that my stories would.  A day or two before my next crit, I sat down with one of my prints and a few beers.  I looked at the piece and tried to decide what it was going to be about.  I came up with a few wild yarns and committed to one of them.  The problem was going to be my lack of anything resembling a poker face.  I decided to compensate by holding my hand over my lower face in shame.

Crit day came and we all posted our prints.  In defense of my printmaking instructor and classmates, my etchings were typically rather dark and strange.  Looking back, they may have wanted to know what they were about because they feared for their safety or mine.  Of course, they were totally wrong; John Wayne Gacy was the one painting clown portraits, not me.  I slunked back to my seat and waited.

The first student told us all about her etching.  She was a pretty girl who had no business being in art classes.  She had had a wonderful dog named Skippy or some such name, back in her childhood, which was really only a few years earlier (It’s funny to think of nostalgic 19 year olds).  Skippy had run away or was hit by a garbage truck or something, and the girl missed him.  Her print was a poorly drawn picture of a dog.  It’s face was asymetrical and the fur looked kind of like it belonged on a sea lion.  It was only marginally less trite than the sunset piece she had shown us at the last crit.  The instructor had to be wondering why she had pursued an MFA, that maybe she should’ve listened to her father and majored in accounting.  None of the criticism the girl received addressed the fact that her dog’s face looked like it was melting or that even if it was incredibly well drawn, it still would only be a picture of a seal-dog.  Instead, people talked about how to express the love and the empty pain of loss.

I sat there listening and silently rehearsing my story over and over again in my mind – praying for a poker face.

One of the really talented kids went next and it was hard for anyone to come up with anything to say beyond praising his talent and bravery for addressing his recent problems with bed wetting in such a graphically poetic manner.

The spotlight shifted to me.  Great!  You never want to directly follow one of the talented ones, because everyone has all kinds of pent up criticism at that point.  My saving grace was that my story trumped bed wetting, big time.

Dave,” the instructor said, “that’s a very intriguing image.  What’s the idea behind it?

Well, ” I began, unsure if I’d actually be able to get through it.  “When I was a kid, there was this lady.  She was kind of  strange, but my parents are in the theater, so we have some odd people hanging around a lot.”  It’s always good to pepper your far-fetched stories with some truth – my parents really were theater folk, but the strangest people I met usually had nothing to do with the summer stock cast of “The King and I”.

I soldiered bravely on after a dramatic pause,  “Anyway, this lady always paid more attention to me than to my brothers.  She had kind of big hands and her neck was weird.  One day, when my parents weren’t around…she..umm…

I couldn’t go on, I was trying so hard not to smile, that I actually looked like I was holding back tears.  The instructor jumped into the fray and started talking about the image and making sure that I didn’t have any more pressure to say anything.  The other students were sneaking nervous glances at me then quickly looking back at the print.   My long, complicated story about being molested by a transvestite could stay right where it was in my silly head.  My classmates took the teacher’s lead and all started talking about the image, and the haunting qualities and spirit of conflict in my lines. The pretty girl with the dead seal-dog even reached over and gently touched my arm as she commented.

I couldn’t believe my ploy had worked so brilliantly!  Amateur shrinks love nothing more than having one of their “patients” have a “breakthrough”.  My printmaking instructor was beside herself with the power of art and her apparent abilities to help troubled youth confront the demons in their lives with paper and ink.  The pretty girl probably thought better of anything more than an arm pat, as I was clearly damaged goods.

I still had to do lots of work creating and refining my prints as I pursued my degree, but I was excused from having to go into detail as to discussing the motives for my images.  I was allowed to just talk about the composition and other purely graphic qualities of my stuff.  Some newer classmates were undoubtedly quietly briefed by the few who were witness to my truncated tranny story.

I have to admit though, once in a while I’ll glance at one of those old prints and wonder what the hell I really was thinking of when I made it.  I’ve settled on the thought that whatever it was, it was likely so horrific that I should keep the memories repressed.