A Practical Lesson in Colour Theory
By Smutette
Let me set the scene. It’s Halloween. The night begins with me, determined to be Smurfette, buck-ass naked as my flatmate paints my entire body blue. Not with body paint, but electric blue acrylic paint we’d used on our flat sign. In hindsight, there was probably no need for her to paint in between my literal asscheeks, but I’m nothing if not committed to Smurfette. Although I didn’t have a hat, I put on a white dress (that I actually quite liked, and ruined beyond repair that night), and we set out for our mate’s host.
That wrapped up with little fanfare, and we headed for town. Turns out my ex-boyfriend was DJ’ing at Carousel, and so, with him trapped in the DJ booth, I took my chance. I licked my hands, then rubbed them down his face, leaving blue streaks all the way down to his chest. That night he kissed his new girlfriend for the first time, and she asked him why he was blue. My bad.
Anyway, all night I’d been texting this guy that I’d been hooking up with every two months or so since first year. Eventually it hits 2am, and he invites me over. I tell my friends he’s meeting me outside, and they let me leave the club alone. They were all blissfully unaware that he was not, in fact, outside – but was at his flat in Andersons Bay.
The first 100m or so of my great walk felt good. I am fit. I am blue. I am Smurfette. An old man crosses the street behind me, and I freak the fuck out. I start absolutely legging it, full sprint, and as I run I call him and tell him to stay on the phone with me, convinced he’s about to hear the sounds of something deeply traumatic. I make it to The Oval, nearly a 2km run, before I realise the old man is not actually after me. I am by no means a runner, and I am now sweating blue paint and panting down the phone to this man I see maybe six times a year.
I sit down and call an Uber. The poor driver does a triple take at my blueness, and, I can only assume, my lack of smurf hat. The bro is still on the phone with me. A solid three minute Uber drive takes me the rest of the way, I arrive.
A fairly vital piece of information I hadn’t known all night: this man had dressed as Homer Simpson for Halloween. And apparently he was just as committed as I was to the cause. I’m talking completely yellow ALL OVER, including a bald cap he’s painted. The bro is yellow.
For this reason, he’s been waiting for me this whole time standing in his living room, not touching anything for fear of smearing his yellowness around. He takes one look at my sweaty, streaky, blue body, and immediately accompanies me to the shower. Long story short, we got green paint on the showerhead, on the walls, on the mirror, on the towels, on the roof. Drunk and slippery, we made that bathroom our canvas, and fuck if it wasn’t the best sex of my life to this day.
Bonus points: he drove me home in the morning because I was too embarrassed to call an Uber. Turns out acrylic paint doesn’t really come off, so I was still nice and blue. My bush, which I was growing out at the time and which was a point of pride, was dyed permanently and had to go.
Lesson learned.
Sketch Me Like One of Your Bruised Girls
By Hutter
In my second year of college at my home university I worked as a nude model for the arts department of my school. It’s a job I loved then and one I hope to return to when my exchange ends – three hours of posing where I could sift through my to-dos and to-thinks.
At the tail end of the second half of the school year, I started seeing this guy who I will henceforth refer to as Assferatu (for reasons soon to be obvious). He and I went on lovely dates, bonded over shared interests, and had great sex. It was during one of these dates, in the throes of passion, that he took the opportunity to bite my ass. We both learned something new about me in that moment, and Assferatu continued his carnage of my ass and thighs. The experience was very apparent the next morning when my roommate pressed me on the numerous green and purple circles on my legs. Nevertheless, I got dressed for the day and quickly forgot about the bruises.
Partway through my econ lecture, my coworker, another model, texted our model group chat asking for anyone to cover her shift for the night figure drawing session. Strapped for cash, I pounced on the opportunity. My manager put me on the schedule for that very night to nude model. It was a blissful couple hours before it dawned on me that I was totally screwed. Arriving at my shift that night I was MORTIFIED. Assferatu thought the whole thing hilarious, the fucker.
The shift itself was going down as normally as all shifts butt-ass naked do. There’s strict guidelines in place to keep the models comfortable and respected, so the bruises, in all their glory, were off-limits for discussion. I was still self-conscious, but hopeful I could put the unfortunate scenario behind me. In the quest for pleasure, one is often embarrassed.
The universe decided I could be more embarrassed. Suddenly, over the art room’s loudspeakers – which had been playing a steady stream of chill jazz music – burst forth Careless Whisper. I let out a pained wheeze and waited for an embarrassed art student to change the song. My knight never arrived. So there I sat, naked as the day I was born, bruises galore, serenaded by perhaps the most iconic sensual sax – all the while being sketched.
Just my luck.
