COLORED PENCIL

The first time I sketched Logan was after breakfast the following morning. He was sitting in my favorite chair, leather and dark wood… mission style... clean lines. Simple. Comfortable. Logan's coffee cup was balanced on the flat wooden arm of the chair and though he had the paper open in his lap, his attention was caught by the view outside.

The resident otter was sunning itself on my dock, lolling about lazily in the early autumn sunshine. Funny looking little thing, with its mischievous black eyes and long whiskers twitching as it rolled around playfully and eventually fell off the dock with an ignoble splash.

It was the perfect moment to catch; Logan with a hint of subtle amusement softening his stern features. Abruptly leaving the dishes in the sink, I flipped open the sketchbook I'd brought down with me this morning and grabbed a colored pencil from the cup on the counter. Red, naturally. A few quick scratches of the pencil and the moment was gone, save for the ghost of it I'd captured on the rough paper.

I heard the crinkle of newsprint as Logan's head turned my way. He realized what I was doing immediately, of course. Even knew I'd planned to do it today... but I could still tell it made him uncomfortable and even a little annoyed.

Man, we had such a long way to go and such a short time to do it in. I exhaled, blowing my hair from my eyes and tucked a long strand behind my ear. I also felt a bit uncomfortable, but excited in a way too... like I'd just gotten caught taking a picture of a stranger... and make no mistake, despite our recent physical intimacy, our long talks on the phone and our complicated history, we were still, in essence, strangers.

He folded the paper with precise motions and came over, his lips pursed slightly in a small frown as he looked at my work. Probably as Greek to him as reading the land and its scents would have been to me. I looked at it too, waiting for his pronouncement. I knew it didn't look a damn thing like him. That wasn't the point of the exercise.

It was the kind of sketch that captured the mood in a few quick scratches. It wasn't meant to be a perfect likeness— or anything close. The best portraits incorporate both those elements and the truth was I needed work on both, partly to get him comfortable with the process and partly to familiarize myself with his physical form and his moods. I'd come a long way from sketching his face in my notebook alongside my biology homework.

He took a sip from the coffee mug that was dwarfed in his large hand. Flash of amusement in his eyes... yes, amusement and confusion.

"Doesn't look a thing like me, darlin'."

Clearly, he was wondering what he'd gotten himself into here. Thinking he'd signed himself up for sitting for a portrait that would come out looking like a hyperactive two year old had scribbled it with closed eyes. I choked down a laugh. He was trying so hard to be honest but not hurt my feelings. Again, a glimpse at the heart of the mountain. It was gone again just as quickly.

I smiled, blushing a little as I always do when someone scrutinizes my work. "Watch," I whispered.

I returned the tip of the pencil to the paper and heard his quiet intake of air as with a few bold strokes and some artful shading, the picture jumped to life, like sand blown from the cracks to reveal a crisp image.

"Jesus. That's fuckin' amazin'." He looked from the page to my face and back again. "Do it again."

I laughed quietly. It wasn't exactly as easy as popping the claws and slicing something neatly in two. Again, there was that gulf between our worlds. I smiled inwardly, a little flustered by his compliment, profane as it was, and moved over to the stereo.

Mood music, hey? Logan made a face at the first CD I put in and by the third, had his arms crossed over his chest and was scowling slightly. He is not a patient man. I hesitated just long enough until I saw that little tic in his jaw. Perfect. A few seconds later, I had it captured on paper. His stiffness faded away as the few rough scratches I made bloomed into a familiar expression with a couple more deft strokes of the pencil.

He chuffed quietly in amusement as it took shape. Irritation. His raspy chuckle blended with the soft music as he realized what I'd done... and that I hadn't done it with any malicious intent. In essence, it was the rest of the 'mood' conversation we'd left unfinished the night before.

It was also a double-edged sword. It was a step forward, making him the slightest bit more comfortable with the notion of being watched and sketched... but it also handed him a great deal of power to know I could and would manipulate the mood. He would not be unaware of it again.

Logan isn't a man you can catch out twice.

A few more sketches brought with them another important lesson. The notion of sitting for hours while an artist painstakingly renders an image in perfect detail is archaic. No formal posing was required. It was actually a pretty fun lesson. I spent the morning sketching and he spent the morning relaxed in post orgasm lethargy, doing whatever the spirit moved him to do.

I had sketches of him watching the osprey hunt the lake off my back deck, scowling in concentration as he refilled his coffee cup from an unfamiliar carafe, fussing with the remote, head cocked with his tongue on his lip as he watched me watch him, sleeping reclined in my favorite chair with the newspaper on his chest... and dozens of others. Some to capture the mood, some to capture a particular physical feature, some just because I couldn't keep my eyes off him.

I could still taste him in my mouth and smell him on my skin. Talk about inspiration.

Little by little, I drew back into my own head, looking at him less and less as recreating his form became more familiar to my fingers. Slowly, I began to sketch him as I saw him in my head and let my mind drift... looking up only now and again when I needed a point of reference. Eventually, the work absorbed me completely and I stopped looking at him altogether.

He noticed.

I was startled some time later when his big hand covered mine and pulled the pencil from my fingers, stopping me from shading in the rest of the picture I'd sketched. I blushed to the roots of my hair when I realized what I'd done.

It was an image from the night we'd passed together, bodies naked and entwined. No faces were visible. No genitals either… and yet it was clear exactly what we were doing. Strange that most of the detail had been in the big, strong hands that had been wrapped around the slender cherry wood slats in the headboard.

Without so much as a single word, he pulled the sketchbook from my fingers and took my hands in his. The sketchbook fell forgotten to the floor when he lowered his head, pressed his mouth to mine, pushed me back on the couch and covered my slender body with his larger one. I arched under him, still aching pleasantly from our early morning lovemaking... and also aching for him in a different way. He mapped my body as surely as I mapped his, learning and relearning every inch with his fingers, just as I had done.

It was... well, quite more than I could ever capture on paper... with a brush or with words. We sweated. He grunted. I writhed. One of us, God only knows who, knocked over the cup of colored pencils. They rained down in a soft plink, plink, plink, rolling away in every direction. Neither of us noticed.

He dozed afterwards. That was the first time I sketched him in the nude. In blue. Delirious burning blue. Couldn't find the red pencil. Didn't even care.

Up next (another twofer): Gouache and Pastel. Logan begins to open up. Things start to get messy.