It was a dimly lit room; a paintbrush slid sensually down the canvas, the paint squelching as it conformed to the movement's of the painter's wrists. Spurts of monochromatic colours ejected from the brush tip, creating strange, three-dimensional shapes on the canvas that one had to peer closely to discern figures, to make sense out of the work. With a gentle smile, Pablo flicked his brush up sharply to end his signature at the bottom of the canvas, and stepped away from the easel. He looked past the now-finished work to a dark-haired man sitting on the recliner, his curly hair gently hanging messily around his eyes. He was stark naked, but yet he made no attempt to cover up his bareness; no pink tinge coloured his cheeks. Rather, he simply raised one questioning eyebrow in Pablo's direction, and, seeing the lack of action at the easel, slowly rose up and walked into Pablo's welcoming arms. Looking over his shoulder, Georges quickly studied the painting, which was of his own figure and whispered in Pablo's ear, "I hope my package isn't all that square. Imagine the horror: it would be like making love to a pencil box!"
"You know just as well as I do that it's all in the name of Cubism" Pablo, replied, chuckling, "I can assure you that your manhood is perfectly regular."
"Speaking of which", said Georges, a smile creeping onto his face as he felt something sharp poking into his thigh, "Is that a paintbrush in your apron, or are you just glad to see me?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," said Pablo cheekily. Georges launched himself towards Pablo, their lips entangling in a frenzied, animalistic way, like two lions battling over a zebra carcass. Their lips entwined, battling for domination, both men's hands travelling over each other's bodies, exploring eagerly. A hand crept behind Pablo's back and untied the paint-crusted apron – it fell to the floor, discarded. As they kissed passionately, one by one Georges undid each button of Pablo's white shirt, and then, as it joined the apron on the ground, slowly pulled down his trousers down, and past his legs. The two men now stood naked in the middle of the studio, a singular beam of light illuminating them in their heated caresses. As Pablo's stay hand lightly brushed against Georges' crotch, he let out a loud moan in return….
Pablo held his paintbrush, starting to drip with wet, creamy white paint, carefully in his hands. With careful deliberation, he gently inserted the brush tip, much to the pleasure of his partner. Inch by inch increasing the length of the brush stroke, he continued to brush into it until he could not brush no longer. Rashly taking the paintbrush out again, he slammed it back in violently – back out – back in – in rough motions, until the canvas was battered from the impact. Then finally, with a spurt of ecstasy from the artist, an enormous streak of paint exploded across the canvas, covering it from head to foot in liquid that ran, oozing, down the canvas. Breathing heavily, Pablo replaced his paintbrush in its proper place and leaned against his partner. Looking across to his painting, next to which they had done their sinful acts, he, for the first time, registered the smudged canvas; the still-wet paint now creating shapes in complete abstraction; the greys and browns mixing with sweat and other bodily fluids. He sighed contentedly and looked across to Georges. Grinning, he said, "Now that is what I call art!"
