“Which one?” I asked.“The one where whenever somebody asks me what something is like that they think we do together, that I tell them all about ...t.”“I thought you didn’t like that because you don’t know how to describe any of that stuff.” I was confused now.“Everybody thinks we’re doing stuff. So why don’t we actually do some of it. Then I’d know how to describe it.”“Do some of it?” I felt numb in a lot of places. My cock was not one of them. It started getting hard.“Yeah, you know ... some. .. you, I think," Ellie said. "When I painted him, he was just... an ideal." An... ideal? Your ideal?" The concept seemed strange to me, on several levels. First of all, the young man in the portrait was pleasant-looking. He looked sweet-natured, peaceable -- even handsome. He was the kind of young man that three waitresses, in a small cafe, might giggle over, behind the cash register, as he drank his morning coffee and read the sports pages of the local paper.But... an ideal? Hardly! It was a. More

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