Finding Picasso Ch. 08

Fetishes make the world go around.

Feet. Lips. Tits. Pain. Tickling. Asses. Legs. Hair. Age. BSDM. Lingerie. Role play. Incest. Voyeurism. Control. Choking. Cougars. Twinkies. Size. Exhibitionism. Golden Showers. It goes on and on.

My bike tour was conceived as a quest to find exceptional young artists. Surely, my slow motion, seat-of-the-pants tour of European cities will leave no stone unturned. But it seems that every time I turn over a new rock, I find a fetish, rather than the next Picasso.

"Want me to wear some of Lilli's lingerie while we fuck?" Lysa asks with doe-eyed innocence.

"What?" I stammer. "I mean, why? Why would I want that?"

"An erotic totem?"

"I don't get it," I tell Lysa. I really don't.

"Well, something sexually significant, to get you aroused. I mean, we both know you have the hots for my big sister," she says.

"Half the male population of Frankfort Main has the hots for Lilli. But I'm so over her."

"Really? But if I wore her panties or bra? Maybe if I get something from her laundry hamper? With her scent?"

"No way, Lysa. Lilli is a selfish, self-absorbed lover. And you, little sister, are the opposite. Caring. Sensitive. Thoughtful. I understand you want to make our sex exciting. But I could care less about her panties," I say, moving close and whispering in Lysa's ear. "If you want to make me hot, just let me watch you undress. Let me see you!"

Which is what Lysa does. She is sheepish as my gaze travels up and down her wonderful body with upthrust breasts, narrow waist and hips and long, very muscular thighs. Her pubic bone protrudes above a baby smooth mons.

"How do you get so smooth?" I ask without taking my eyes off her pussy.

"I shave very carefully."

"Could I shave you sometime?"

"Oh! That sounds nice. Maybe I can do you too?"

Lysa may not have Lilli's outrageous figure, or Sugar Magnolia's Barbie-Doll proportions. But what she has is infuriatingly sexual, the way some girls are without even trying. Thin, but not skinny. Tanned, except for a bikini line on her hips and lower abs. Sexual forthright, but with a shy smile.

"Jason," she says softly. "You aren't the only one who might enjoy the view."

It takes a moment to compute. "Right," I reply, doffing my polo shirt and undoing my shorts, which I push to the floor along with my briefs. My cock springs into view with a series of playful bounces that elicit a wide smile from Lysa. Her deep blue eyes sparkle at me with erotic intent.

"Nice. Very nice," she says. Then she changes the subject. "You must think I'm such a slut for the way I masturbated where you could see me."

"It never crossed my mind. Really!" I tell Lysa. "What I was thinking about is what a mess Lilli is in. Always horny because she's afraid to masturbate. But it's OK if she uses me like a convenient sex toy, as long as we don't 'touch below the waist.' I was thinking how warped and hypocritical that all is. When I saw you, I was blown away by your honest sexuality. I wish I could be that authentic and uninhibited."

"You are too sweet, Jason. If I'm going to be completely honest, I'd better make a confession."

"What's that?"

"I'm bi. I like girls as well as guys. Most of my sexual experiences have been with other girls. I mean... please don't laugh, but I've never given a blow job," she confessed, her eyes lingering on my cock.

"Do you want to learn?"

"Of course!"

"There're lots of different techniques. But since you are so incredible with your hands, play to your strength. Use your fingers to get me close, then finish off with your mouth. Does that make sense?"

"I think so. Let's try."

I sit on the edge of Lysa's bed while Lysa kneels between my legs. Just looking down and watching her big blue eyes focus on my cock as she reaches out to caress it with feathery fingertips, makes me shiver with excitement.

"Like this?" she asks with a naughty smile as one fingertip traces the underside of my cock while her other hand brushes and kneads my balls.

"Exactly," I sigh. Lysa's magical fingers have an instinctive understanding of how to arouse me. Not only does she use feathery caresses to build the tension, but she knows exactly when transition to a faster pace and more forceful grip. And there's something new. Her tongue explores my cocktip. The sensitive underside, the super sensitive ridge, and the tiny slit at the very tip.

"Tastes good," Lysa murmurs.

"Feels delicious," I say as her fingers hit second gear, the grip is still loose but the speed accelerates. Little tremors race down my cock as the tip slips into the warm gulf of her mouth. Lysa's lips wraps around my cock head as her tongue continues its exploration of my most sensitive zones. A tiny involuntary contraction rolls visibly up and down my abs.

"Amazing," she laughs, backing off my cock for a second. I can feel you tremble against my lips and watch your body quiver."

"And I can see the excitement in your eyes," I tell her.

"Not just my eyes, I promise!" I'm working out what she means when Lysa's head dips back onto my cock and she shifts into third gear. Her fingers squeeze me tight and she continues to build speed. Her mouth slides along my shaft this time, and I respond by gently undulating my hips.

She looks up at me with her eyes crinkled in a knowing smile.

Lysa finds a rhythm with both fingers and mouth that matches my hips, pulling back as I thrust. Bobbing up and down as I pull back. We go at it like this for a long time, gradually picking up the pace.

"Getting close," I say with a moan, just as a little spasm races along my cock. Without missing a beat, Lysa nods her head and takes it into fourth gear.

She finds her own rhythm, fingers and lips flying up and down my cock, tongue pummeling the tip. Her free hand cups my balls, then squeezes. Hard.

Hot cum rises and I try to pull out of Lysa's mouth. But she has other ideas and her hand grips my shaft and holds me hard against her tongue.

"Holy shit," I groan loud enough to wake the neighbors. Or Lilli at the very least. The first shot sprays across her tongue. Lysa is still struggling to swallow when the second volley of ejaculate hits her throat, but somehow she gobbles it down, along with the others that follow.

When I finally go still, she swirls her tongue, takes a final gulp and beams at me with a heart-winning smile.

"How'd I do?" she giggles. I'm suddenly too tired to even answer, but merely collapse onto the bed with what I'm sure could be described as a satisfied shit-eating grin. But one glimpse of her panties tells me I wasn't the only one getting off on Lysa's first blow job.

Her juice has turned the crotch panel nearly transparent. Underneath I can see a creamy-white tan line and the dark gap between her wet and swollen outer lips.

"Mind if I take care of that," she says, following my gaze to her panties.

"Only if I can help," I say, recovering enough to slide down between her legs and take a deep breath of her wonderfully pungent scent. "This is a job we need to do together."

###

Yes, the sex is amazing. But it's Lysa's amazing local knowledge — back roads, camp sites, weather, eateries and all the other small things on which the success of a bike tour can turn — that was the reasons I impetuously invited her to join me.

And Lysa suggests a new fetish. In Paris, I had gone down the voyeur-exhibitionist rabbit hole. I wasn't about to add Lilli's used lingerie to the list. But I appreciated Lysa's inventiveness.

It takes her just two days to get ready for our departure. She could have done it one, but we couldn't seem to keep our hands off each other, and spent most of the time fooling around in bed.

On the road, if the weather cooperates, we'll camp two or three nights for every one we spend in a hotel or hostel. Contrary to biking myth, camping in some farmer's field after 12 hours pedaling in the hot sun is not entirely conducive to hot sex. Or any sex. Getting to know each other in the sheltered privacy of her bedroom is not a bad thing.

Lysa's wall is covered with abstract paintings. During our pillow talk, I learn her love for abstracts evolved alongside cycling. In winter, when she could no longer lose herself in thought on the Frankfurt bike trails, she turned to painting.

But it was now late Spring and the sun hangs in the European sky for 16 hours a day. Far longer than any sane cyclist wants to spend on a skinny bicycle saddle. While Lysa prepares for a 1000 km trip to Berlin and on to Prague, I pedal into Frankfurt to visit an up-and-coming painter whose work my local art contact, Gustave, admires.

Her name was Una and her thing is Magical Realist oil paintings in the style of Rene Magritte. Her work is sophisticated and catchy, although her ideas are far from original. In the end, I'm impressed enough to purchase a canvas with a vibrant green landscape populated by a herd of wooly sheep that turn seamlessly into fluffy white clouds against a Cerulean blue sky, and ship it home.

There is no denying Una's talent for draftsmanship and brushwork. But her choice of subject and visual concepts have been used over and over again. Perhaps with time, she will mature enough to discover whatever rare muse it is that inspires an artist to push into the uncharted territory of original ideas.

But I'm not hopeful.

Una is already winning awards, joining elite exhibitions, and selling plenty of canvases. Still, at it's core, her work is "decorative." And I'm looking for something more. Something fresh and original that make you wonder aloud, "Why didn't someone think of that before." You know. like the next Picasso.

###

On the ride back to Lilli and Lysa's apartment, I realize I'm going to have to explain something to a Lysa. Not that it is any big deal. But l've always been reluctant to reveal too much, too soon about my plans. Call it superstition, but I've noticed that the people who make the most noise about their ambitions, often accomplish the least.

So far on the trip, I'd been purposely vague with everyone, including Gustave and my late aunt Bea's other friends, lovers and art dealers. But for Lysa to be truly helpful, she needs to know the full scale of what I want to achieve.

Over dinner, I outline the entire project, starting with the deconsecrated gothic stone church I quietly purchased in Gloucester, MA, with part of Bea's legacy. The vestry has already been turned into a frame shop, and a father-son carpenter team is currently removing pews to make room for 12 gallery spaces. Each space will be devoted to the original works of a talented emerging artist. The gallery itself will be called Bea Plymptom in honor of my aunt and mentor.

"This is extraordinary," she exclaims with an enthusiasm that confirms I've made the right decision by asking Lysa to join my slow-motion expedition across Europe.

I also show Lysa the bios and sample paintings of the four artists I've already signed to contracts — a young woman from Mexico City, a French-Canadian boy from a small town near Quebec City, and two American oil painters, one from Wood's Hole on Cape Cod and another, who specialized in surf art, from Santa Cruz, CA.

As for how to find exceptional young artists, I'm open to anything. Art dealers, online galleries, teachers and professors, group shows in small museums and community art spaces. There's just one thing. I'm concerned that as a painter herself, Lysa may feel conflicted about helping me promote the careers of others. I needn't worry.

"Let me guess," Lysa says over a slice of fresh Bienenstich. "You exclude abstract artists from your stable because you don't possess the critical tools to evaluate their work."

"My, God, Lysa. How'd you know that?" I'm shocked that having known each other for only a couple of days, she can be so perceptive.

"In addition to recumbent touring, I've been painting abstracts since I was a wee grom, too," she jokes. "You, Jason, are a leg and ass aficionado, but definitely not an abstract art guy."

"Touché," I reply. "Guilty on all counts. I'm totally curious, though. How can you recognize an 'abstract art guy?'"

"It's all about how the mind is wired and the way you think. People who are looking for some kind of order in the universe, who need precise and clear cut answers, generally prefer representational art," Lysa explains. "And you, Jason, are the very definition of a sequential thinker.

"There's actually a study at Heidelberg University on this," Lysa continues. "It found individuals who enjoy novelty, ambiguity, and dissonance, and are sensation seekers, openminded thinkers, and possess a low desire for orderliness, also tend to prefer abstract over representational art."

"Someone quantified all that?" I ask in astonishment.

"Sure. And how much do you want to bet he, or perhaps she, prefers representational art?"

"I'm sure you'd win. But what about things like appreciation for creative expression?"

"Creativity and it's expression are independent of style, don't you think."

"I do," I tell her. In a few moments of conversation, Lysa has blown me away. "This is going to a fascinating trip, Lysa. I can't wait to hear more of your ideas."

"You definitely will, Jason," she laughs. "Whether you want to or not."

###

By an hour after sunrise, the sidewalk in front of Lysa's building is crowded with well wishers. Lilli and Gustave, of course. But also around a dozen of Lysa's fellow college students, several of whom I recognize from her bike touring snapshots. I'm surprised and impressed by how many people have risen at the crack of dawn to see us off. There's no doubt that Lilli's little sister is a remarkable young woman in her own right.

Lysa speaks in German. I don't understand much, but her words have a powerful effect and I see tears pouring down Lilli's cheeks and several other girls daubing their eyes with handkerchiefs. When Lysa finishes, there are spontaneous cheers and everyone gathers around us for a goodbye hug. Lilli and several girls I'd never met before give me warm embraces and whisper in German what I assume are admonitions to look after Lysa.

Eventually, Lysa breaks free, we mount our bikes, and start pedaling to a burst of cheers and the wail of an air horn.

A moment later, the little group vanishes from view behind a hilltop, and the finance-industry skyscrapers of the greater Rhine-Main metro region unfurl in the hazy morning sun. Lysa smiles up at me and we choke back a little shiver of emotion and sweep side-by-side onto the nearly empty pavement of the Oeder Weg.

A touring cyclist lives a like a turtle, hauling everything on his, or her, back. Every ounce matters, as does reliability. There are bike blogs where the debate rages for pages as to whether it's worth the extra weight to carry an eight-blade Swiss Army knife rather than the basic six-blade model. My style of touring, credit-card cycling as it is known, with regular hostel and restaurant stops, is far less demanding than full-on self-supported touring, or poverty cycling.

Still, like Lysa, I'd spent years of trial-and-error refining my cycling kit. Without discussion, we'd both settled on the same summer bike outfit. A long-sleeved, moisture-wicking jersey with a colorful design for visibility and a pair of black nylon "Spandex" shorts. My shorts had extra chamois padding, which is unnecessary for Lysa, since her recumbent mesh seat is the ultimate in support and comfort.

For visiting artists and galleries, or just hanging out, I pack two pairs of khaki-colored nylon pants, two light-weight cotton polo shirts, and one collarless black Dacron t-shirt. A pair of zippers located mid-thigh converts the long pants into cargo shorts.

I don't know if Lysa has brought pants, a skirt, or both. I'll let that be one of her many surprises.

From the get-go it's obvious that Lysa is in superb physical condition. If anything, I'll be the one holding us back on the grueling mountain climbs. I can't help but smile at her oversized bike helmet and big aviator sun glasses with extra large lenses. Along with the reclining seat, at first glance Lysa gives the impression of a pilot in the cockpit of a some kind of exotic, pedal-powered fighter jet. I grab a quick photo on my phone to send to her friends.

By mid morning, we have left the last of the Frankfurt suburbs, and enter a series of little-trafficked back-country roads that roll alongside miles of neatly furrowed farmland. Lysa suggests we stop for lunch at the Gasthause Elizabeth Cafe in the little crossroads village of Poppenhausen.

The Cafe exterior resembles a low-budget Swiss chalet with brown-stained pine lumber and flower boxes full of red geraniums. Inside is a classic bourgeoise Bavarian restaurant. But if the conservatively dressed patrons mind a couple of Lycra-clad bicyclists dining in their midst, they don't show it. The menu is heavy on traditional dishes like Rinderroulade, Bratwurst, Kartofgelkoesse, and Kartoffelpuffer. It's the very antithesis of the trendy East Village eateries I frequented so often in New York, but is ideal for a pair of ravenous cyclists.

As afternoon turns to evening, I watch Lysa maintain a steady cadence, her body relaxed in the recumbent cockpit, her eyes half-closed in the rapture of her own thoughts.

I have no such luck.

Pain radiates across my back and down my legs. My butt aches from pressing on the narrow bike seat and my balls have long ago gone numb. The road itself is narrow, but little traveled and we can hear on oncoming cars or trucks while they are still miles away. The most common vehicles, however, are tractors and combines, which often take over both lanes as they crawl from field to field.

I can't help but wonder what kind of person devotes a life to sitting in a tractor cab, plowing, planting and harvesting the same plot of land year after year? Probably the same kind who sits in a cubical year after year, dreaming of a four-week August vacation.

I count myself lucky that my aunt Bea left me enough of a nest egg to try and follow in her footsteps as a financially-independent collector and trader in contemporary art.

A few miles beyond another crossroads farm town, notable mainly for its towering grain elevators, Lysa becomes fully alert, paying keen attention to the side of the road. "Down here," she shouts, hitting her brakes.

I circled back and follow her through an overgrown opening in the hedgerow. Beyond is a narrow fisherman's trail the ends at the side of a mossy-banked creek. It's as pretty, private and idyllic as J.M.W. Turner painting.

"Local knowledge?" I ask, amazed at the natural perfection of the campsite Lysa has so effortlessly discovered.

"Definitely. Some friends shared it last summer."

"Any insects?" I start to ask, but my legs buckle the moment I swing them off the bike frame. I sink to my knees, the heavily-loaded bike collapsing on top of me.

Lysa drops her recumbent onto the moss and jumps to my aid, lifting my bike off my torso and leaning it against the trunk of an old shrub oak. I gingerly get to my feet as she rubs my calves and thighs.

It takes about 30 minutes, a lot of stretches, a handful of NAISDs and a couple of codeine tablets, but eventually my back and legs return to something approaching a semi pain-free condition. Tomorrow, I'm either going to pedal slower, travel a shorter distance, or trade my bike in for recumbent like Lysa's HP Volentechnik. Or, perhaps, do all three.

While I tarry, Lysa unpacks two panniers, rolls out a ground cloth, opens a self-inflating air mattress and sets up her sleeping bag. She then fires up thr camp stove and begins heating our pre-cooked dinner. The aroma is delicious.

My entire contribution is to retrieve a bottle of Bordeaux and pop the cork with my Swiss Army knife.