Last 'Chainsaw Pete' Installment

Trying to get published can be a bastard of an experience. I thought I was lined up then it fell through. I think I have another pretty good lead. Not holding my breath. Here's the last bit I'll put on the blog. Hopefully the rest is a purchase necessary situation.


Sam stares up at the ceiling. I stare at Sam. I can't see Cleo, as she's at our feet. I feel Sam's breath on my arm. Even her breath feels sweet. How the hell could that be? I don't feel the need to ever speak again, laying there with Sam. Just laying there makes for an alright life. We'll order in when we're hungry. Get bedpans. Just lie together forever.
“You know anything about art?” Sam asks, a little sleepy
I go, “I know beauty when I see it.” Sam rolls her eyes. But she's smiling. She's smiling.
“Cheese Louise. Seriously, do you know art at all?” she asks again.
“I know the famous paintings,” I say. “Mona Lisa, The Screamer, or Scream, or whatever that depressing looking one is called. Last Supper. Why?”
Sam goes, “Have you ever looked at that Picasso guy's stuff?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Most of it is all whacked out, screwy looking.”
“The very one,” she goes. “Some of his stuff, though, is more sort of realistic. Like, you can see what he was going for.” Her energy level is way up all of a sudden. Apparently, Sam has a thing for art. Good to know, come special occasion time. “I went to an exhibit once with my old man,” she says. “On a rare sober day, he took me and my sister.” I learn two things in one sentence. Her father is a boozer and she has a sister.
“I didn't know you had a sibling,” I say.
“She's in Sweden. Going to school,” Sam says.
“That's wild,” I say. It kind of is, too.
“Not really. They favour her terribly, being the youngest and all,” she says. “So anyway, Picasso. Me and my old man are at this exhibit at the art gallery. I'm going along, pretending to get what I'm seeing, and then we come to this one group of paintings he did near the end of his career,” she says. Her breathing is up, kind of sexy.
“Uh huh,” I say, cupping her breast. She doesn't mind. Sweet. Thank you, Picasso.
“So we come to this one painting called 'La Fleur',” she goes. “It's just that, a flower. Except it's the most beautiful flower I've ever seen in my entire life. At the bottom he wrote, 'Pour ma Femme Jacqueline',” she says. She is getting kind of hot. I don't think it's the blanket either.
“That sounds like a pretty nice flower, alright,” I say. I'm kind of hot now, too. I move my hand lower. Her reception is warm.
“But that's not it, see,” Sam says. She spreads her legs for me. “He painted the flower and wrote that on a cardboard box. He just fired it off like he was writing a grocery list. And it's one of the most beautiful things I ever saw,” she says. We are very close to intimate, there on the couch.
“The ease of it, Pete,” Sam says. “How easy it was for the guy to just fire off that kind of beauty on a cardboard box.”
I go, “That sounds really interesting.” My real concern right now is the nipple in my mouth. Sam's nipple. I have its attention.
“So, what's my gift like that, then?” Sam asks. “What do I kick ass at like that?”
I stop my stimulation for a sec. This question seems important to Sam. I should give it some energy here. Except, all I can think of is how warm she is down there, and how good she tastes, and especially smells. The way Sam's hair smells right now makes me weak.
“We all have a special ability,” I say. I turn my oral attention to her other breast.
“No shit, Sherlock,” she says, stimulated like. “So what's mine?”
I go, “I don't know yet. I don't even know mine yet.”
Sam laughs at this. I love to hear her laugh. “Your gift is your tongue, Buddy Boy. Now put it to work.” She pulls the blanket over our heads. I do as I'm told. Picasso and Jacqueline probably did the same, somewhere, way back.