"We're going to be the Bob Ross of sex painting," my wife said as she rubbed a fresh coat of red paint on her naked chest, then topped off her wine glass with Everclear.
(We both quickly became too intoxicated to be proud enough of what follows for me to use my wife's real name, so we'll just call her Bob.)
Our apartment looked like it had housed a gang of preschoolers hopped up on fruit punch and coated in fingerpaints. Muddy prints of body parts smudged the couch, the wood floor, the mirror, and the coffee table. Our bodies were camouflaged in paint like some sort of elite commando sex team. The iPod randomly shuffled between songs like Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” and The Osmonds’ “Crazy Horses.” Artsy porn flickered on the TV. Bob pressed her painted chest on the splattered canvas and motioned me over.
This article appears in Sep 13-19, 2012.