The first sweep of the paintbrush at my apex sends me reeling, all of my nerve endings firing at once. A desperate moan escapes me unbidden, but I can’t bring myself to care. Trembling with want, I lift my head, pinning Phantom under my gaze, only to find them grinning.
They waste no time, teasing me with another expert, feather-light brushstroke, and then another, and another, until the ecstasy has my eyes rolling back in their sockets. The moment the length of their finger, and then a second, enters me, moving at the exact rhythm my body needs, meeting my hips motion for motion—all the while torturing me with tantalizingly soft strokes of that infernal paintbrush—I know I’m a goner. My heart, my soul, and now, my body, belong completely to this other being. Imperfect and broken and so gloriously human.
When the soft heat of their mouth replaces the paintbrush, stars flash behind my eyelids and my fingernails dig encouragingly into the back of Phantom’s scalp. Their guttural, pleading groan, the vibration of which reaches all the way into the marrow of my bones, sends me over the edge.
The steady rhythm of Phantom’s tongue and fingers carry me through waves upon waves of pleasure, until sated, I melt intothe bed at my back. I make a valiant effort to rally, wanting desperately to bring Phantom to the same euphoria, but as they climb back into bed beside me, molding their body against my own, they quietly decline.
“If we don’t sleep soon,” they mutter against my hair listlessly, “we’ll die.” Nuzzling deeper into the crook of my neck, they continue, “I don’t think anything could bring me as much pleasure as that just did anyway.”
Smiling, I whisper into the covers, “Is that a challenge?”
After a few quiet minutes, I wonder whether or not they heard me as Phantom’s breaths grow deeper and more even, confirming their journey into unconsciousness. I relax, knowing that, for the moment, they’re sleeping soundly.
Despite my own weariness, sleep never comes. Instead, I remain stuck in a tangle of thoughts, impatiently trying to tease them apart, as I listen to Phantom breathe.
What started out as Phantom’s cage became their key.
Their parents laid the foundation with unrealistic expectations and forged the walls with conditional love. Then they trapped an innocent child in that cage and told them to fly with the birds. See that bird up there? The rainbow-colored one? Be more like them. More bright, more colorful, more graceful.More.
But it was an impossible task. A bird in a cage can’t soar through the clouds. They set Phantom up for failure from the start. And yet, somehow, the art that originally chained them to the ground, melted and morphed into something new. Something lifesaving.
Whenever the cage felt too small, or the hungry hands of the shadows came reaching for them, Phantom used art to break out. The reprieve didn’t last forever. Sadly, nothing ever does. But it provided small moments of freedom. Moments that are likely the only reason Phantom’s lying next to me now, still drawing life into their lungs.
I lift my head to gaze upon their sleeping face. Their hair is greasy and the dark circles under their eyes are stark against their pale skin. They look a little unwell, and yet, they have a faint hint of a smile upon their lips, even in slumber. Gently, I lift my hand to trace the scars around their mouth. They’re uneven, covering more skin on the left side of their mouth and jaw than the right. The healed skin is of a pinkish hue, the color of a garden rose in spring.
Phantom must view these scars as a ball and chain. A constant reminder of their flaws and failures. Maybe they even see them as ugly. But I see them as battle scars. Proof of battles hard fought, and while lost at the time, damn worth fighting again.
They shift beneath my touch, momentarily stirring from their sleep, so I remove my hand until they still again. Dried paint still covers the side of my palm. The sight brings a new question to the forefront of my mind.
What is painting tome?
For the longest time it felt like a means to an end, a plot for attention. But what did it start out as? I think back to my early childhood, to the first memories I have of painting. In my mind, I relive moments in art class making handprint turkeys and filling in paint-by-numbers prints. We took a field trip to a nearby art museum in second or third grade, and I remember crying quietly in the galleries, overwhelmed by all the beauty surrounding me. I did love it once. And thanks to Phantom, I know I love it again.
My gaze drifts back to them. Their mouth has fallen open slightly, and I suppress a giggle.
I’d forgotten how much joy painting brings me. The internal kind of joy. Not the external gratification I got from all the likes, comments, and shares. I’d convinced myself that was joy, but I was wrong. Phantom reminded me what real joy from art feels like.
Thanks to them, my love for art was reborn.
I might’ve used art for attention, acknowledgment, and recognition, but that’s not what Ineededfrom art. I had what I needed from it all along. Passion, inspiration, creativity. So, from now on, I’ll paint just forme.
And now, with Phantom, I have someone to share it with. All of it. The good, the bad, the ugly, and the breathtaking.
Looking back to our canvas I smile to myself. Phantom was right. They may have provided unique opportunities for me to succeed in the art world, but I was only able to persevere because of my passion and skill.
Nobody else can do what we do.
Our talents and hearts deserve to be nurtured, and so, tomorrow, we will.
One kiss and one brushstroke at a time.
34Dreams
The earthy aroma of freshly brewed tea wakes me up in the morning. Gray, dim light is filtering in through the tall studio windows, and when I look to the sky, I find rain clouds. The perfect weather for painting. I stretch and quickly realize the bed is empty except for me. Sitting up, I search for Phantom. They’re already mixing paint together on a palette. They’re clean and in a fresh change of clothes with their mask back on. I frown.
Getting out of bed, I ask, “What’s going on?”
“I got us breakfast,” Phantom says, gesturing to the other end of the table they’re standing at. There’s a to-go bag and two steaming mugs. I walk over hesitantly.
