What Happened When the Painter Took Off His Overalls

That light blue envelope showed up in the mailbox on a Thursday afternoon, lost among the usual junk mail. I opened it while I was riding up in the elevator, not expecting much. It was a simple card, printed on white cardstock: “Trusted Painter. Clean, affordable work. Phone…” Nothing else. I left it on the hall table and almost forgot about it.

The winter had been long and damp, and my house’s walls were showing it. Damp stains in the corners, gray rings on the living room ceiling, a yellowish blotch over the kitchen that already seemed like part of the decor. June began with stifling days, and I kept going over the painting issue in my head. One morning, while I was having breakfast, the card found its way back into my hands.

I dialed the number.

“Hello?” answered a deep male voice, that of a mature man.

“Hi. I found your card in my mailbox. I wanted to ask for an estimate.”

“I’d have to see the job; otherwise it’s easy to get the price wrong. Does Saturday at ten work for you?”

“Perfect.”

I gave him the address and hung up with a strange feeling, as if I’d taken a step I didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t much, of course. Just an estimate.

On Saturday, five minutes before ten, the intercom rang. I opened the building door and went down to the landing. When he came up the stairs, I saw a stocky man in his mid-fifties, with graying hair and enormous hands. He wore a gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and worn work pants.

“I’m Ricardo, the painter.”

“Nice to meet you. Come in, please.”

I held out my hand and his wrapped around mine as if mine were a child’s. He smelled of cheap cologne and tobacco. Nothing out of the ordinary, but something about the way he looked at me—directly, without trying to hide it—made me feel as if we were already in a longer conversation than it seemed.

We went through the house room by room. He was jotting notes in a small notebook, commenting on the damage in a calm voice.

“The two bedrooms, the living room, and the kitchen. The hallway and the entrance only need some touch-ups. Materials included, it’ll come to nine hundred and fifty.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“I should warn you, you’ll have to wait until the beginning of August. I work for a company during the week and only take my vacation in August. I do small jobs on weekends, but an entire house takes me several days.”

“Understood. Early August, then.”

We shook hands again. This time it lasted a couple of seconds longer than necessary. Or that’s what I wanted to believe.

***

When there were three days left until August, I started getting the house ready. I took down the pictures, removed the curtains, covered the lamps with plastic bags, and piled the furniture in the middle of each room, draped with old sheets. I moved to sleep in the little room above the garage, a kind of loft that I used in summer because the air moved there and it was easier to sleep.

On the last day of July, Thursday afternoon, the phone rang.

“I’ll be there Monday at nine. Does that work for you?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

That night I didn’t sleep very well. I kept telling myself it was anxiety over the inconvenience, over having a stranger in the house for an entire week. But I knew perfectly well that wasn’t it. It was the way his hand had stayed in mine longer than necessary. It was the look on Saturday when he walked out the door.

On Monday, exactly at nine, the doorbell rang. I went downstairs to let him in. He arrived wearing a spotless white overall, a folding ladder over one shoulder and a cloth bag hanging from the other arm.

“Good morning. I’m going to get the rest. I parked a bit far away.”

“Take your time.”

He went up and down three more times, carrying buckets of paint, brushes wrapped in paper, and a pair of blue-handled putty knives. When he finished setting up the equipment in the master bedroom, he stuck his head out into the landing.

“You’ve prepared everything very well. I’m going to close the door so no dust gets out, and I’ll open the window wide. If you need anything, let me know.”

“I’ll be downstairs, in the courtyard.”

He closed the door. I sat under the awning with a book I couldn’t make myself read. The scraping of the putty knife against the wall mixed with the distant hum of some neighbor’s air conditioner. Around noon, the heat began to become unbearable. The patio thermometer read thirty-four degrees.

I poured myself a glass of water and went upstairs. I thought he might want something cold too.

I knocked softly on the door and went in without waiting for an answer.

I froze in the doorway.

Ricardo had pulled down the top half of his overall and tied it around his waist. His broad, hairy torso was shining with sweat. He had gray hair on his chest, darker hair on his lower belly. He smiled at me as if nothing were happening.

“I made myself a little more comfortable; it’s very hot in here. Does that bother you?”

“No, no, not at all,” I stammered. “I just came to offer you something to drink. Soda?”

“If it’s no trouble, cold water. In the morning I only drink water.”

“I’ll bring you a thermos.”

I turned around, but before I closed the door he added, without raising his voice:

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to take off the rest of the overall too. No one’s here anyway, and this heat is hell.”

“Whatever’s more comfortable for you.”

I went downstairs with my heart pounding. I filled a thermos with ice and water, grabbed a wide glass, and went back up. This time I didn’t knock. I pushed the door open and went in.

He was on the ladder, with his back to the entrance, completely naked. One leg was braced on a higher rung than the other, and his weight was resting on his left thigh. From where I was, I could see everything: the broad back slick with sweat, the firm buttocks of a man his age, and between his legs, hanging there, what looked like it couldn’t possibly fit into any human body.

His cock hung limp between two enormous balls. I had never seen anything like it in my life. I was speechless, with the thermos in one hand and the glass in the other.

I cleared my throat.

He turned around slowly, as if he were dressed. His genitals ended up right at my face level.

“I brought you water,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“It’s nice and cold,” he replied, brushing my hand with his. “Do you want me to put something on? You seem a bit flustered.”

“No, no… whatever you prefer.”

I held out the glass. He took it without moving from the top step.

I turned to leave. I took two steps. And then, without fully thinking it through, I spun on my heels, went back to him, and ran my open hand over his balls. He was drinking water and stopped dead. He climbed down from the ladder in one motion, set the glass on the floor, and kissed me on the mouth.

His tongue was thick, decisive. It searched for mine and played with it while I kept weighing what he had between his legs in my hand. It was heavy, hot, with that rough texture of weathered skin. He smelled of clean sweat and something I couldn’t have defined, but that made me hard in seconds.

He pulled back a few inches, without letting go of me.

“We have to work, no matter how good this feels. Duty first.”

He left me there, breathing hard, and went back up the ladder as if nothing had happened.

***

I went down to the bathroom with trembling hands. I braced myself on the sink and looked at my reflection. My cheeks were red, my lips a little swollen. I pulled down my pants and jerked off impatiently, listening to his footsteps and the brush scraping the ceiling on the floor above. When I came, I bit down on the back of my hand so I wouldn’t make a sound.

You can’t go back up. Leave him alone. Let him work.

I changed clothes. I put on a white tank top and shorts, with nothing underneath. I waited. I reread the same page of a book twice and still can’t remember which one. At a quarter to two I went upstairs again.

I went in without knocking.

He was still naked. He was painting the corners now with a small brush, crouched over the baseboard. When he heard me, he straightened up.

“Feeling better already?” he asked with a crooked smile.

“What time do you usually eat?”

“In a while. Why?”

I didn’t answer. I went up to him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He responded by putting his arms over my shoulders. I kissed his neck, his collarbone, his chest. I went down slowly. I knelt in front of him and took his cock in both hands. It was no longer limp. It wasn’t fully hard either, but the weight was the same.

I started licking the head with the tip of my tongue, drawing slow circles. He stroked the back of my neck with one hand and gripped the window frame with the other. I took him into my mouth little by little, centimeter by centimeter. It was too much, I knew it, but I wanted to try. When I reached the base, a gag reflex jolted my throat. He noticed and withdrew slightly, without pulling out completely.

“Easy. Take a breath.”

I took a breath. I dug my hands into his ass cheeks, pulled him toward me, and swallowed him again. This time I held out longer. I stroked his thighs, squeezed his ass, kept his cock inside my mouth for whole seconds, feeling the pulse of his blood against my palate. Never before had a blow job given me so much pleasure. And I’ve given plenty.

His breathing quickened. He started pushing gently, setting the rhythm from the back of my neck. I followed him.

“If you don’t want to swallow, pull away. I’m going to come.”

I gripped harder, pulled him against my face, and made it clear I wasn’t moving. He came with an intensity I wasn’t prepared to handle. I swallowed, swallowed, and he kept pumping in short spasms. When I thought he was done, one last convulsion shook his hips and I felt the rest of it on my cheek and chin.

I licked my lips slowly. He was looking down at me, panting.

“What a blow job you gave me. Incredible.”

He gave a low laugh and helped me to my feet. He kissed my forehead, almost tenderly.

“I’ll paint a little longer and then I’m leaving. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

***

A while later he came downstairs with the overall on again and the bag over his shoulder. He had washed his face in the bathroom upstairs, his hair was wet, and there was a different glint in his eyes.

“Same time tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

I grabbed his neck with both hands and planted a long kiss on his mouth. He tasted of fresh water and sweat.

“See you tomorrow,” I told him. “I’ll be waiting impatiently.”

He left whistling a tune I didn’t recognize.

When I closed the door, I stayed with my back against it, listening to his footsteps recede along the landing. It was Monday. I had a stranger painting my entire house for a whole week. And I was already counting the hours until I heard the doorbell again.