Dame Crusty Oils Dr Christian

One was sitting, in one’s painting studio at one’s beloved Crusty Hall in a state of deep reflection. Adorned in one’s Vivienne Westwood painting ball gown, one stared out of the window and across the top of gardener’s greenhouse.

The previous night, whilst deep in slumber, one was embroiled in a hot and steamy session with one’s most gorgeous of poppets, Dr Christian Jessen (Mother always said never eat a block of cheese before bedtime and how right she was!).

Needless to say, one shall spare readers the full and graphic details of the Pere Ventura Cava fuelled dreamy encounter but sufficed to say, there was an urgent need for a member of household staff to replace one’s Egyptian cotton sheeting once one arose, slipped on one’s dressing gown and sashayed downstairs to the breakfast room.

As one sat there, munching on a thick, meaty pork sausage in a most undamely-like manner, one's faithful houseboy, Chu Me fussed about pouring tea , buttering one’s buns and banging his coarse, hairy nuts on a sharp point. The latter, in order for one to enjoy a pleasing mouthful of fresh milk for the day ahead. One read somewhere coconut milk every morning was good for one. Who was one to argue?

Anyhoo … still holding the length of sausage between one’s clenched hand and nibbling the end delicately with one’s teeth, the image of Dr Christian remained in one’s mind; standing by the side of the open fire, the orange and yellow light from the flickering flames dancing across the surface of his naked, muscular frame and refracted, like the light through a thousand diamonds, from the myriad beads of sweat droplets coating his epidermal expanse after our torrid entanglement in this ethereal locale. At his feet, one found oneself lying spent and undone on a silky soft sheepskin rug with just a Gucci pump, carefully placed, to keep one’s lady-garden out of sight and a sand filled length of draught excluder across one’s hooters to maintain one’s post-coital dignity (one did say it was a dream!).

Needless to say, one was eager to recapture the image in oils.

One had spent several hours of that day painting the majority of the body. His velvety-soft skin was looking rather good; one had managed to get his chiselled pectoral expanse just right and one clearly had success replicating the undulating 6-pack (one began to feel as if one was on a rollercoaster ride as one’s eyes followed the ebb and flow of undulationess). One was rather pleased with the effect I had created for the marble fire surround and one had also stuck a bowl of ripe fruit on the mantel shelf as part of one’s five a day. 

His legs were coming along magnificently; firm, muscular and looking like they could crack a walnut with one flex.

When the time came to complete the painting and concentrate on the … shall we say … centre of the piece, one closed one’s eyes to refresh oneself of the image held in one’s mind's eye, looked back at one’s paint pallet and after circling one’s index finger several times around one’s rusty box, realised one would need significantly more paint. One tube of each primary colour would certainly not be sufficient for the task in hand.

Deeply frustrated, one glided elegantly down the corridor in search of a solution. As one passed by Chu Me’s room, one could hear heavy panting. One knew he had just received a new exercise video from his cousin, sent express post from his village in a land far away. It was nice that his cousin took the time to copy such DVDs for Chu Me but one does wish he would pay more attention to his English and spelling. That being said, Quim Buddies II was clearly on and Chu Me was, evidently, having a thorough workout.

Not wishing to disturb him, one made one’s way to the garage and took the keys to GUSSET 2. The power of the Aston engine, throbbing under one’s shapely thighs, brought back happy memories of my dream that previous night and within minutes one arrived at the centre of the village and pulled up outside the Badger’s Snatch with a satisfied smile on one’s face and fresh nail indentations on the steering wheel.

As one clenched one’s knees together and swung one’s legs out to the side, one exited GUSSET 2 with grace and an expected demeanour. 

One heard a sudden knocking. Looking down at one’s knees, all appeared in order but after another, one looked up to see one’s dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, at the window of the our much loved public house waving out at one. She looked angelic in the crystal clear lead-lined window. Honestly, what that woman can do with a bottle of Windolene and a lint free cloth is the stuff of legend!

Minutes later, one was standing at the counter in the village arts and crafts shop, facing the wonderfully flamboyant owner, Abby Stract.

“Good morning, Dame Crusty! What a lovely surprise! What can I do for you?” Abby said.

“Good morning, Abby dear! One’s in the midst of an oil piece and need a few more colours to achieve flesh tone”.

“Oooo! A portrait. How exciting.”

“Of sorts, dear.” One clarified.

“Will one tube of each be enough? Is it a large piece?” Abby enquired.

“It would certainly make y’ eyes water, dear. You’d better give me a box of each.”

Soon after, one was back at one’s easel and painting furiously to finish. However, you can imagine one’s utter disbelief when after using up 8½ tubes of paint one realised one didn’t have enough canvas!!

An unrolled off cut of anaglypta stapled to the bottom (of the artwork and not Christian’s … or, indeed, one’s own) allowed one to complete the piece. Though it added a recollected stiffness and pleasing texture, it wasn’t the look one was going for.However, as it was for one’s private collection it was enough to record the memory.