Painting the Rack
By
LaloGS
By
LaloGS
A few years ago, I found myself out of a job. I’d been assisting with a training program for Southern California Edison, but that had come to an end. I sent out a few dozen résumés, but had had no responses to my history. I was pouring over the job classifieds in the LA Times one Sunday, when I noticed a position as an art teacher for a private school in the city.
My original background education is in the fine arts, and I have a degree from the Kansas City Art Institute, and Cooper Union in New York City. I mulled it over for a bit, and then circled the add. Monday morning, I went to the nearby post office and mailed out another batch of résumés, and then went back to my San Pedro apartment. I was having a third cup of coffee, sitting on the balcony watching the traffic over the Vincent Thomas bridge, when I remembered the ad for an art teacher. There had only been a number to call, so I went inside, and dialed it after I found the circled ad in the dog eared classifieds again.
The woman who answered was nice, if a bit harassed. I told her why I was calling, and she explained there were several people already on the waiting list, and that they were revising their procedure about how they would hire for the position. She asked what my background was and why I thought I might be qualified to teach children to paint. I kept it brief, and to the point, and she asked me to come to the school at three that afternoon, when I would be given a chance to compete for the job against several other qualified people.
I toyed with the idea of not showing up, but then I was in the seventh week without work, and I figured I’d better leave no stone unturned so-to-speak. I parked my car in the teacher’s lot as I’d been instructed, and went into the building. There was a crowd of about seventeen or eighteen people milling around obviously waiting for some directions or something to happen. Most of them reminded me of arty types, you know, berets on the guys, and loud colorful scarves on the women. Me I was dressed in slacks, a button down shirt, without a tie. After all, this was LA. My loafers were pretty casual for a job interview, but I thought they completed a picture of my personal outlook on life. I’m a straight forward what you see is what you get kind of guy.
A bit after three, a man and a woman came through an office door near where the crowd was waiting, and announced that they had decided to put us to the test for the position. They asked us to follow them to the art room, and we all trooped after them, in what amounted to grumbling silence. I don’t think a soul in the crowd fancied taking a test.
Once in the room, I saw it was set up as a traditional painting studio with easels staggered around a central table under a skylight. Each easel had a small 18” X 24” canvas waiting on it, and their individual work table held a palette, small tubes of raw umber, and titanium white oil paint. A few brushes, and a jar of turpentine. Uh oh, I thought, this might be fun.
The two from the school began to take turns explaining that there had been an overwhelming response to their ad in the paper, and that even though they had tried hard to eliminate the clearly unsuitable applicants, they were left with this group who had all passed the academic requirements for the position. They explained further, that they had struggled for a fair way to award the position, and had hit upon this test. What they wanted each of us to do was to paint something. They would allow three hours from start to finish, and then we would all participate in the judging of the works, with the one chosen as best by the group, receiving the position. There were a few groans from the group, and two people bowed out and left.
“What the heck,” I thought, “I’ll give it a try.”
They instructed us to select an easel while they brought out the subject they wanted us to paint. They explained that it wouldn’t be fair to have everyone competing with different subjects in their work, so they had made the selection of “The Rack”. Traditionally, in the old days of apprentices working in an artist’s studio to learn to paint, they worked their way up a specific set of problems which they had to master before their “Master” would allow them to work on his paintings. The toughest and most telling about talent and ability, was called “The Rack”. It generally consisted of a simple white cloth napkin, dropped haphazardly onto a plank. The young apprentice was expected to render the napkin as faithfully as he was able in a specific amount of time.
The guy who had introduced himself as Charles, stepped into a back room, and returned with a napkin and a square of Masonite. He laid the Masonite on the setup table, and shook the napkin out and dropped it onto the surface of the Masonite panel. He stepped back, and presented it to the group by offering it to us with his hands spread.
“You have three hours.” He glanced at his watch, and he and the woman who’d said she was named Sherry, stepped back amid more groans from the group. Another man left the room, and that left fifteen of us competing. I studied the napkin from my position, and then picked up a piece of charcoal, and began a rapid sketch on the bank white canvas. Once I had the basic shapes blocked in, with charcoal, I sprayed the surface with the fixative provided to seal the charcoal dust from mixing with the paint. I stepped back and took a look around the room.
On the palette, I squeezed an inch of raw umber out, and thinned it with turpentine. I used a small fan brush to completely cover the canvas with a gray/brown shade thin enough to still see my drawing. Next, I squeezed an inch of titanium white onto the palette, and using the one inch brush provided, began to block in the forms of the napkin directly into the wet film of raw umber. In less than five minutes, I had the basic under painting done. Now all I had to do was refine what I had. I worked for another hour concentrating on the rack, using ever finer haired brushes to soften the blends from light to dark, until the painting was approaching completion. I stopped and stepped back and in my concentration, didn’t realize that Charles and Sherry were standing behind me. I stepped heavily on Sherry’s toes, and actually fell against Charles who caught me in his arms. I flushed with embarrassment, then compounded everything by smearing Charles’ white shirt with raw umber.
“God I’m a klutz!” I stepped back from them and apologized profusely.
“Not your fault,” Charles said. Sherry was sitting on an unused work table rubbing her crushed toes. “We should have let you know we were behind you.” Sherry nodded. “That’s quite a start you have there. What did you say your name was?” I introduced myself, and they asked me a few questions about where I’d studied, and how long I’d been painting. I was embarrassed to have to tell them I hadn’t painted in nearly ten years until that afternoon.
“Interesting.” Sherry said, standing again. “How close do you think you are to being finished?” I looked at her, and at my watch.
“Don’t I have until six?”
“Of course. It’s just that you painting is so far along we thought you might be nearly finished.” I looked at my painting, and sucked in my breath and held it for a long moment.
I took the number 4 brush, and picked up some pure titanium white with it. I looked over my shoulder at the two of them and grinned. “About one more minute.” I stepped to the canvas, and dabbed in the final highlights and using my thumb, softened an edge here and there, then stepped back again to see what I had accomplished. I smiled, and then using the number 1, I signed the work in the shadow under the Masonite panel on the canvas.
“Very good,” Charles said. “It’s 4:40 now. It wouldn’t be fair to the others, to call the test over just because you’ve finished. If you would like, I could show you to the cafeteria, and we could talk over a cup of coffee or a soda while the rest finish.
“Fine,” I said, and using the provided rag, cleaned my brushes, palette, and then followed Charles out of the room under the glaring stares of the other applicants. As I turned at the door, I glanced back at my work to see that three or four of the other people had gathered around it to gawk.
In the cafeteria, Charles got us both a mug of coffee, and we sat at a long table. He studied me for a moment while I sipped the steaming black liquid. Finally, he took a packet of sugar and tore it open. He sprinkled it into his steaming mug, and then stirred it with a spoon. “You have a lot of ability man.” He smiled at me. “Talent like that gives me a hard on.”
“What?” I almost burned my lips.
“You heard me. I’ve got a hard on in my pants right now. That’s why I had to get out of the studio. It’s fucking hot the way you paint.” I just sat back in my chair, and looked at him amused. This had to be the oddest job interview I’d ever experienced.
“So what do you propose doing about it?” I set my mug on the table, and leaned forward clasping my hands together.
“What? My cock?” I chuckled. He leaned forward toward me and grinned.
“Well, I was thinking about the job. I need it you know.”
“Oh, you got the job already. Those other poor jerks can’t paint the side of a house, we just have to see the test through so nobody sues. But about my cock. . .” He grinned again. I grinned back at him. I felt a kind of relief knowing I’d aced the test, and beat out my competition, but there still was this other thing standing hard between us.
“In that case,” I said. “What do you want to do with your other problem? And how did you know I was gay?
“Well, you don’t look too butch hon, for starters, but my gaydar went off the scale while I watched you paint. The way you handle a brush is like you were born to it. There’s an economy of movement when you work, and no wasted effort. I don’t know, I guess it just says faggot to me. Finish your coffee, and let’s go to my office where we can have some privacy.”
In his office, I realized he was the headmaster of the school. His large desk was clear of papers, and opposite where he would normally sit, was a large leather covered couch. There were several diplomas on the walls, and a small watercolor of boats on a river. I stepped closer to the painting, and saw it was authentic.
“A Headmaster can afford a Monet?”
“I do alright, but that came to me as an inheritance. My late grandmother left it to me. I’ve always dug his work.”
“Who doesn’t.” Charles sat on the edge of his desk, and I glanced at his crotch. He was still sporting wood, and from the looks of the bulge, a pretty hefty limb was standing up down there. I stepped closer to him, and laid my hand on his hardness.
“Umm, you know what a guy likes,” he moaned in my ear as he held my head and began kissing my neck and cheek.
“What else do you like Charles?” He let me go, and stood up and dropped his slacks to his ankles. He was wearing a pair of gray boxers, already sporting a spreading wet stain.
“See,” he said. Indicating the stain. “My balls are so full of cum, it’s leaking before anything has happened.” He dropped his boxers, and his big hairy tool dropped down to the horizontal. “Suck me a bit,” he moaned, and I leaned over, and did just that. His big flair of cock head filled my mouth and I tasted the sharp flavor of man in heat. He leaned back, kicking his slacks off his feet, and spread his legs for me. My cock was going hard in my slacks, and I wanted to let it loose.
I reached for my belt, and at the same time began bobbing on him. I pushed my pants and briefs down over my hard on, and worked them down my legs. I started stroking myself as I sucked his big thick dick. He was at least eight inches, and cut. My own dick was about seven hard, but I still had my foreskin intact. I was oozing precum onto his carpeted floor in a steady stream as I jerked and sucked. He sat up again, and reached for my stiffness. I felt his fingers ripple through my precum, and then he was sucking his fingers clean of me.
“I gotta have that thing,” he hissed, and laid back across his desk. He told me to join him in a sixty-nine position, and I did. We sucked and played with each other’s balls for several minutes, until he pulled off my dick, and asked me if I’d fuck him.
“Sure. You got any lube?”
He rolled over, and opened a desk drawer and pulled out a tube of KY. After I lubed up his hole, I asked if he had a condom, which he produced for me in a jiffy. I rolled it on, and then stood between his legs as he stretched face down across his desk, and pulled his cheeks apart. “Just roll up onto me and shove it in. I haven’t been fucked in a while, but I can take it. I did as he asked, and once up on his back, I fucked him like a rabbit with him moaning so loud I thought for sure someone would hear us.
Once I came, he lay there panting, and as I pulled out of his ass, he rolled over, and I saw he’d shot his load all over his desktop. I leaned over, and licked the slick stuff up with my tongue. He smiled at me, and put his hand on my head. “We’re gonna have some good times while you’re working here.”
After several minutes while we got ourselves together, we talked about the duties the job entailed, and the other necessary stuff like salary and benefits, all to my liking. And then the other thing about how often we could get together and where. We both agreed that his office was too dangerous in general, and it was reinforced when Sherry knocked on his door just as we were finishing combing hair in his private bathroom. His office reeked of horned up men, so he spoke to her through the door.
“We’ll be right there Sherry.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a bit after six. The test was over.
“Well, Charles,” she said through the door. “I don’t think the others wanted to stick around for the judging after they saw Mr. Smith’s painting. They’ve all gone home. I assume you have offered him the position.”
“I have. It was so obvious he was the best qualified candidate. Don’t you agree?” I didn’t hear her reply through the door, but he stuck his thumb up at me. “Listen Sherry. I’m going to have Mr. Smith sign some papers, and then I’ve invited him to have dinner with me. Would you like to come along?” He opened the door, and looked at her.
“Oh. No thanks Charles. I’ve made other plans tonight.”
“Very good Sherry. There’s no need for you to stick around. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Apparently she left, because their conversation ended, and I heard her high heels clicking on the tiled floor as she walked away.
“How about it Mr. Smith?”
“What?”
“Dinner. Weren’t you listening? Afterward, maybe you would like to come to my house to see the other jewels my grandmother left me and we can see what other kinds of trouble we can get into. What say?”
“Sure. Why not. Is this sort of a ‘Come up and see my etchings invite?”
“You bet. I hope you like my dick up your butt. Because I’ll promise you right now, it’s going to be there before the night is over.”
“Humm… We’ll see about that. I usually top. I only bottom for the right dick.”
“Say, I’m your new boss you know.”
“Yeah, but you have to leave me some choices.” I stepped up to him, and squeezed his balls with my right hand. He grunted, and put his hand on top of mine. He took a deep breath, and started to slow hump my palm.
“We’ll work things out; I’m sure.”
The End
