Dr. Clarkson finished what he was writing.
He was not conventionally handsome. He was only about forty, if that. He had ginger hair, which didn’t appeal to me personally, but then again I wasn’t there for sex. Everything else was on the handsome side of plain—his nose, his lips, his chin. He had a great smile and, like Oliver, he had green eyes. I think it was his pasty white skin that didn’t appeal most of all. I preferred a tanned, more rugged looking man.
“I can certainly try,” he said. “I’m going to get you to do something for me before we meet next time.” He handed me a sheet of paper with what appeared to be a timetable printed on it. “I want you to keep a record of everything you do over the next week. Just mark it down in the appropriate column. And then I want you to write down the corresponding emotions and feelings.”
He handed me the page then stood. I took that as a sign the session was over. An hour sure went quickly when you were paying for it.
He walked me out to the small reception area where I paid him.
“Just take this to your insurance company,” he said. “You’ll get most of it back.” He passed me the receipt. “Another appointment next week?”
I nodded.
“When would be good for you?”
“Any day. Any afternoon.”
“How about Wednesday afternoon?”
I nodded again. Dr. Clarkson filled out a small appointment card and handed it to me.
“I’ll see you then,” he said with a quick smile.
I left the building feeling as though a great weight had been lifted. I looked at my homework. Each square on each day represented an hour. It was going to be tough to do that for a whole week.
Chapter 4
I filled out my mood diary diligently and whether it was the constant need to remember what I was doing and what I was feeling, or whether the meds were finally kicking in, I couldn’t say. All I could say was I was feeling a little more positive than I had been for the past few months. I said a little and I meant a little. There were still periods of gloom, dark thoughts, and a desire on most days to stay in bed with the covers pulled over my head, but even the briefest of breaks were like a breath of fresh air; a palpable relief from the weight of the black dog.
The improvement in my mood motivated me to paint. I went through some photographs to find inspiration for a new picture. The kitchen table had become a collage of coastal scenes. I was after something different. I wanted something nautical, but something that was a departure from my usual paintings. I had a lot to choose from. I sometimes drove for hours along the coast, taking photographs here and there. At least I used to. Since my depression I hadn’t felt much like leaving the house.
I knew I had a series of photographs I’d taken of a crumbling light house standing at the far end of a finger of rock which poked out into the wild ocean. The sky had been grey. Great, voluminous storm clouds hung heavily in the sky. Enormous waves crashed on the rocks, spraying white foam and water up like a fan behind the derelict building. It would make a dramatic picture if I could only remember where the photographs were.
I went out to the studio, to the biscuit tin of photos, and soon found them. Wonderful. I took one of the canvases Oliver had delivered and, using some Blu-Tack, stuck the photo I’d chosen to the easel. As I was preparing the canvas, painting in a rough background to give me an idea of where everything would go, my thoughts turned to Oliver. I’d been thinking about him a lot over the past few days. I couldn’t get the fact he’d had a hard-on out of my mind. It wasn’t exactly the erection itself which fascinated me, but the cause. I had been the cause, and if Oliver liked what he’d seen, then why shouldn’t I explore the possibilities?
It wasn’t long before the painting drew me in, absorbing all my thoughts and concentration. I was in a place of peace as I worked, painting in the rocks, then the sea, and finally the lighthouse. My technique was to build the painting up, adding more and more colours, and more and more details as I went. Block in the shapes first, then the light and shadow, then start on the details. It could take up to a month, sometimes two, to complete a picture, and even then I might continue to add the odd embellishment.
I managed to paint through lunch and it was mid-afternoon when I arrived at the point where I couldn’t do any more until the paint had dried. I cleaned my brushes, took one more look at the painting, and locked up the studio.
Oliver. There was probably no chance of anything happening between us. It didn’t matter. I wanted to see him again. That moment when our cocks had touched, I’d felt a tingle of electricity. A thrill. By the time I got to the house I was erect. I put one hand on the back door knob and the other on my cock. I hadn’t felt this aroused since I’d started my meds. Probably even before that. I went straight to my bedroom, to my bed, and lay down. I closed my eyes. Oliver was there. His handsome face, smiling, and his eyes, twinkling with mischief. His naked body by my side gate.
While one hand was busy on my cock, the fingers of the other hand gently tweaked my nipples. Every inch of my body tingled.
As I took Oliver’s cock into my mouth, my hand worked my own erection faster and harder. I could feel my climax approaching, but not yet. I wanted to explore Oliver some more, as best I could with the information I had.
I gripped his hips and turned him around until the twin orbs of his buttocks were centimetres from my face. I had to take my hand off my cock. It seemed the anticipation of what lay between those milky white buns was going to be enough to make me ejaculate. My mind didn’t stop, though. It couldn’t stop. I was greedy for more. For Oliver. I reached up and pulled his muscular arse cheeks apart, revealing the most perfect deep pink pucker, thinly ringed by a few dark hairs. I leaned in and kissed it. I felt it twitch beneath my lips.
As my fantasy Oliver bent down and lifted me to my feet, spinning me round and pushing me up against the side gate, my left hand went from my nipple to my anus. His hot breath was on the back of my neck. His sweaty torso was pushing against me. I could feel the hairs of his chest scratching against the smooth skin of my back. His manly scent filled my nostrils. I inhaled it deep into my lungs. As he pushed his thick, hard cock into me, I gasped. At last he was inside me, penetrating me, impaling me on his beautiful, veined manhood. It only took three powerful thrusts for him to produce in me a climax such as I hadn’t had in months, perhaps even years. I felt my cock swell and pulse half a dozen times, each contraction sending another ribbon of cum shooting across my abdomen and chest.
Both arms flopped onto the mattress beside me. I was in a place of absolute tranquillity. I kept my eyes closed as the image of Oliver and I by the side gate faded into a haze of other assorted thoughts and images. I could feel small rivulets of cum running down my sides to the sheet beneath, tickling as they left their silvery trails behind. One day that would be Oliver’s cum.
How would we meet? I couldn’t very well order more canvases. Not yet. And even if I did, there was no guarantee Oliver would be the driver selected to deliver them. Nor did I want our meeting to look obvious. I didn’t want to call the courier company and actually ask to speak to him.
I reached across to my bedside table and grabbed a handful of tissues. I wiped myself clean and put the wadded up ball back on the table. I rolled over. Perhaps I was completely mistaken. It had been such a brief encounter. Maybe Oliver had got erect because he hadn’t cum for a while. I knew from experience that anything could trigger a hard-on if you hadn’t cum for a long time. Some people got erect at the drop of a hat.
The sound of the phone ringing tore through my thoughts. I hurried to the kitchen and answered it.
“Hello, stranger,” said Craig. “Sorry I haven’t had a chance to call you lately. I just wanted to know how everything was going? How was the shrink?”
Craig and I had been friends for a long time. We’d met at a club called Tank. I couldn’t remember the exact circumstances of our meeting—quite possibly it was through mutual friends—but for some reaso
n we really hit it off. We had actually shared an apartment together, not for reasons of lust or passion, because, as I’ve said, there was never anything like that between us. It was for financial reasons. Both of us were just starting out in life and every cent left over from paying the rent and the bills was spent on parties and clubbing.
“It’s taken a while, but I had a really good day today,” I explained. “Started a new painting.”
“The meds?”
“Seem to be working.”
“The shrink? Is he cute?”
“Not my type. But the first session seemed promising. He’s given me a sort of diary to fill out. A bit tedious, but if it helps…”
We carried on the conversation for another half an hour. I didn’t tell him about Oliver. What was there to tell? Nothing. He told me about a date he’d gone on. A disaster. Handsome but bad breath.
“Said he was a non-smoker but his breath said otherwise.”
I laughed. “Should have offered him a breath mint.”
“That’s the scary thing,” he replied. “He’d already had one.”
“Glad it was you and not me,” I said. “What did you do?”
“Finished my coffee and when he went to the toilet I called Jackson to call me back with an urgent message.” He laughed. “An oldie but a goodie.”
“Never fails.”
When we’d finished talking, I hung up. Suddenly the house seemed like a lonely place to be. I felt incredibly isolated from everyone else. Completely alone in the world. The darkness came crashing back, bringing tears and nightmarish thoughts. I could hardly believe how far I’d plummeted, literally, in the blink of an eye. My mind had turned against me. Half an hour ago it had been playing scenes of Oliver and I, naked by the side gate. Now it was telling me I was a loser. Craig’s only being polite. Stringing you along. Probably laughing about it to his friends. If he was really your friend, he’d come around rather than call. It had been weeks since we’d seen each other. He’s had enough of your whinging. He’ll be out of your life soon. Like the others. Then you’ll really be alone. Like you deserve to be.
It completely ignored the fact I hadn’t made an effort to see him, either. It ignored the fact I hadn’t called him for weeks. He’d called me. It also ignored the fact Craig had made more of an effort in recent weeks than I had.
I fell into bed and cried myself to sleep. When I next awoke, at two in the morning, my eyes were crusted over. I padded to the toilet, bumping into the door jamb on the way, relieved myself, then washed the dried tears from my eyes. I returned to bed and fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter 5
A month later I was feeling about the same. Ups and downs. Two months later I was feeling more better than worse. I’d had my last session with Dr. Clarkson, who gave me his card “just in case.” I was still on the meds. I needed them, and was otherwise too frightened to stop taking them in case the black dog returned. I filled my days with painting and preparing for the exhibition. I wrapped each painting in protective bubble wrap and then accompanied them, in the small delivery truck, to the Delaney Gallery.
Stella Austin was an attractive, raven-haired ex-Goth in her early fifties. Her hero was Siouxsie Sioux from Siouxsie and the Banshees and she wore her make up in a way that wasn’t a million miles away from the way the Goth queen wore hers—pitch black eyebrows, thick mascara, and dark, heavy eyeshadow. She only ever dressed in black. I’d known Stella for years and had absolute faith in her abilities as a curator. I’d told her about my depressed state and so she insisted on handling the organisation and hanging of my paintings in her gallery. My trust was well placed.
I dreaded opening night. Naturally I was expected to attend, to mingle, and to give a short speech, although Stella explained it wasn’t essential for me to give the speech and as long as I was there to represent my work, she’d do the honours. I kissed her so hard on the cheek.
“Careful, darling,” she said. “Or I’ll have to re-apply.”
I got dressed for the opening at the last possible minute. I wasn’t a fan of clothing. It clung to my skin and made it itch. So much fabric, so close to me, made me feel uncomfortable, burdened. Fortunately, it was a balmy early summer evening and I was able to get away with wearing cargo pants and a collared Ralph Lauren T-shirt.
When I arrived at the gallery, the party was well underway. I hadn’t planned on making an entrance and when everyone turned and began to applaud, I wished I’d got there much earlier, to greet the guests one by one, gradually, rather than en masse.
My stomach lurched. My heart began to pound. I was sure I froze, standing like a statue and staring blankly at the sea of smiling faces and moving hands. Was I smiling? I couldn’t say. I forced my lips into—what I was positive—was a crazy man’s smile. I felt someone touch my arm. I turned. It was Stella. A vision in black velvet and black lace. My guardian black angel.
“Darling,” she whispered, “if you stand there much longer, they’ll think you’re an installation.” She smiled at the crowd. “Or start hanging coats on you.”
She led me through the crowd and my anxiety began to ease. I could feel the tension in my muscles draining away. My breathing returned to normal along with my heart beat. I was smiling more naturally and I heard myself thanking people for coming. I was looking at them, warm smiles and smiling eyes, and hearing their compliments, but it was as though I was viewing them online via webcam. I didn’t feel a part of the crowd. I felt separate and detached. Almost as though I wasn’t there.
A glass of wine made me feel more comfortable. Two glasses allowed me to converse with some of the patrons.
“You’re doing a sterling job, Danny,” said Stella, slipping her arm around my waist. She always smelled of expensive perfume. Whenever she stood so close to me I inhaled more deeply, savouring those Oriental scents she was so fond of. “I’ve sold half a dozen pieces already and the night has barely started.”
“Wonderful,” I replied. “That takes care of the mortgage for the next couple of months.”
“Oh Danny.” She squeezed my waist. “They love your work. Look at them.”
I cast my eye around the room, at the sea of chatting people. Thankfully I was pretty much being ignored and my paintings were bearing the brunt of their attention.
“It really is wonderful,” I said again, with more conviction. “And thank you for all your help.”
“My pleasure,” said Stella, kissing me quickly on the cheek. “Now let’s go and drum up some more mortgage repayments.”
She winked at me and led me by the hand to a plump couple discussing my lighthouse picture.
“A masterpiece,” said the plump lady. “I think we’ll take it,”
I smiled at them and took another sip of wine.
A little later, Stella made her speech. I stood behind her, to one side, doing my damnedest to blend in with the art.
“So it is with immense pleasure I present to you the artist himself, Daniel Greene.”
I stepped forward and took my bow. I think I managed a smile. I was so nervous I couldn’t remember. I bowed to the left and to the right then stepped back, desperate for the moment to end. My heart was pounding again and I felt as if I might faint. Fortunately, it was Stella to the rescue again.
“When can I go home?” I whispered.
Stella looked at me, surprised. “You don’t want to enjoy your moment?”
Her question made me squirm. Of course I wanted to enjoy my moment. I was just incapable of doing so. I might have been doing much better in my day to day life, but this was an unusual, out-of-the-ordinary situation.
I didn’t need to reply.
“Just wait for fifteen minutes or so, then you can go.” She looked around the room. “It wouldn’t look good to leave straight after the speech. It might look like you don’t want to be here.”
“I don’t,” I replied.
Stella looked momentarily hurt before her grin returned.
I smiled. “You know what
I mean. The big D. The black dog.”
“I know,” she said, squeezing my arm. “Fifteen minutes.”
I never realised how long fifteen minutes could be, and I was timing it on my watch. When the second hand reached the twelve and my fifteen minutes was up, I looked for Stella amongst the crowd and having spotted her, I made a beeline for her.
“That’s fifteen minutes,” I said. “Thank you so much for everything.”
I kissed her on the cheek.
“We’ve still got people coming in,” she said. “You’ve sold four more paintings. That’s just over half. You’re doing well.”
I took her hand and kissed it.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I felt instantly better the second I sat down in the taxi.
When I arrived home, I poured myself another wine and sat out on my back patio, staring up at the stars and reflecting on the evening. Now I was alone in the privacy and security of my home, I could finally enjoy the exhibition. It had been a good evening. I was pleased everyone had liked my work. It was nothing revolutionary, but I knew I was a good painter and it always made me feel better when I was validated by the buying public. I was an artist but I still had to be practical. A man couldn’t live on artistic merit alone.
* * * *
The cheque from my exhibition was more money than I’d ever seen at one time. I was able to put a large dent in my mortgage and put some aside to live on. Since my show had been so successful, Stella kept those paintings which hadn’t sold at the exhibition on view in the main gallery. I was happy about that since it meant more exposure, and more potential income.
I found if I kept myself busy, the good feelings continued. The worst times were at night, when I was alone. I could feel the black dog lurking in the background and it was hard work staying positive. Occasionally, I failed and the black dog attacked. Nothing I could do could shake it off. I’d cry myself to sleep, but wake the following morning feeling refreshed and ready to start the new day. Bit by bit, month by month, I was getting better. Or at least better able to cope with the task of living.
The Darkest Hour Page 3
