Bill lay there breathing very deeply and the hot sun shone through the window sadly with expectation.
We were expected to get out of bed.
Anytime now.
It was noon after all.
But the sun was wrong.
It wasn't time to get out of bed.
It was time to hold each other tight and feel the sweat roll down our sides and soak the bed.
Margaret walked in and told us that breakfast was ready. I guess I hadn't locked the door after all.
She pinched Bill's butt and then went back downstairs.
That was when we could hear the expectations of the pots and pans being thrown around downstairs. We hadn't noticed them before, but now with both the sun and the pots and pans trying to get us out of bed there seemed little doubt that we would indeed be rising soon.
Bill rolled off after a prolonged kiss. He smiled and helped me out of bed. My legs were stiff from having held them up over his shoulders for so long. I wasn't young any more, no siree.
"Lets just go down like this," said Bill "I don't want to get dressed anyway."
"I'm sure the girls would just love that, but I will not be picking quiche out of your pubic hair if you make a mess darling." I retorted.
In the end we both were silently picking out skimpy shorts to wear anyway. Though it would have been fun to see their faces I guess.
"Dave" began Bill.
"Yes Bill." I said patiently.
"I love you." Bill smiled and kissed me again. This was not going to be a normal morning after all I guess. This was the first time Bill had used the L word. We had been talking around it for about three weeks now.
"I love you too, Bill." I said smiling and kissing him much deeper and more passionately to the absurd point of throwing him back down on the bed.
"Come and get it!" shouted Margaret's lover Babs from the bottom of the stairs.
"Coming!" shouted Bill.
"So's Brad." I quipped.
We finished dressing and went down to breakfast. The fish had cooked a humongous meal of eggs, bacon, toast, jam, juice, potatoes, coffee and New York Times. Where in the world had they gotten a New York Times? I hadn't seen one since we had boarded the train leaving England.
After breakfast we all discussed our plans for the day. For once our plans all seemed to coincide. This was amazing. Since we had gotten to Germany we had all tended to go our own way most days. We would meet here and there during our days and evenings, and ending up ever night as late as possible sitting out on the back porch talking with the neighbors in what ever language we could best communicate.
One night the language had actually been French. Unfortunate for me since I knew no French and was being pretty much left out the conversation entirely. But boy that couples young son was a looker. He spoke a little English and when he spoke I completely forgot that Bill was sitting next to me stroking my ass playfully.
But most nights the language was either English or German, or some variant of the two. I liked the English the best. My mother toungue, and the only language I did not make a fool out of myself speaking.
The Fish and Bill and I decided to spend the day together. We all wanted to take drive up to Trier and sit out in front of the Porta Nigra with good German beer and our sketch books.
Who would have ever guessed that four artists could actually get along long enough to spend an entire month together in a small townhouse. Or worse than that, be sleeping and having sex with only a short hallway in between. Actually some nights there were actual contests to see who could make more noise than the other couple.
Loading up the car we all threw in our easels just in case. No one was expecting to do anything more than pencil sketches, but we would all hate ourselves if we missed a perfect opportunity for a great painting. Of course four easels was probably overkill, but we also had tubes of oil paint, acrylic, water colour, pastels, pencils, and even spray cans in our four big art supply chests.
The trip was uneventful except that Babs had rolled two great big joints and forced us all to smoke with her. By forced I don't really mean to imply she put a gun to our head, but if she hadn't kept all the windows closed we might not have been quite so inclined to join in.
When we reached Trier two hours later Babs was completely stoned. She of course was the only one of us who did her best art in that state. She wasn't a realist by any stretch of the imagination. Her version of the Porta Nigra would probably be a giant black splotch spray painted onto a torn canvas.
We all unloaded the bare minimums, our sketch pads and our little artist stools. We never expected to be allowed to sit in an outdoor cafe all day without buying more drinks than we actually needed. We always assumed they would kick us out. This way if they didn't we tipped well and thanked them graciously. Not all business owners are avid patrons of the arts.
We walked four blocks to the Porta Nigra and slowly walked through its monstrous bowels. We had all four come here at some point in the last two weeks, but none of us had grown tired of admiring the anciant Roman fortress.
The Porta Nigra had once been the entrance to the anciant walled Roman city that had stood here. A huge four story complex towering over the neighboring buildings with it's darkened stones and stoic simplicity, the Porta Nigra was alone in its awsome beauty.
Only two blocks away were fantastic Gothic Churches and small architectural wonders that could stun any admirer, but the Porta Nigra was alone in it's character. All the way across town were the remains of the Roman Baths. A building that had once been so huge as to be disconcerting and unbelievable, but the Porta Nigra was still alone. Alone in its darkness, and it's immensness. It had usefullness and purpose in every broad stroke of stone and ever supple curve of arch and column. This building was a masterpiece.
When Bill had come back harping on the ugliness of the postcard pictures for sale at this monument he had not done the building justice. He had called it "this great black stone entrance way to the anciant Roman city." Now that doesn't sound very impressive does it. Well when I saw it I can tell you I was impressed. I probably stood dumb founded for minutes.
Anyway, we found our way to the little cafe we all knew we had chosen. We sat at a lonely table near the front and sat down looking around catiously. We would all drink a round before we pulled out our pads and pencils.
At four thirty they had still not asked us to leave and Babs had finished fifteen sketches of the monument. Margaret had gone and gotten her easel and we all had allowed her the honor of being the lone painter for a time. We didn't want to invade her space with the noise of tourists staring at four different paintings side by side. We all knew instictively that a crowd would form if we did that.
At Seven thirty Bill and I had moved away from the cafe to begin paintings on our easels over across the street. Babs had stuck with sketches deciding to do a very large scale piece tomorrow at home.
At nine thirty we all finished what we were doing to put our stuff back in the car and find some dinner. The cafe owner stopped us and asked us to eat with them. They fed the four of us in style back near the waiters station and glowed over the sketches that we all had to show. One young waitress was obviously enamored of The Fish and we all shared that joke later in the evening. By eleven we were on our way home.
It had been suggested by Bill that we go bar hopping, but none of the rest of us really felt up to it. Besides, I really had the urge to strip him naked and chew on his pubic hairs.
When we arrived home The Fish disappeared into their little room, and we boys went to ours and the howling began. God knows, which couple the little French boy down the street was listening to as he masterbated.
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