Chapter One
I saw my first Paintini last summer at Golden Sands beach.
Of course, I didn’t know it was a Paintini because—just like the ads
promised—it looked exactly like the real thing. The girl’s blue-and-white
bikini didn’t look any different than any other swimsuit on the beach, bikini
or not. I only knew it was painted on her bare skin because the news flashed
from beach towel to beach towel until she might as well have been naked,
because everyone knew. Every single one of us squinted and stared, hoping to
see a tell-tale nipple, or her butt crack, or something . Even me.
Needless to say, I was curious. From behind dark glasses, I
watched the girl and studied her paint job. I knew something about art and
about painting, having just completed my second year of art school, and,
believe me, whoever painted her had done a fantastic job. The lines of
her fake bikini followed and accentuated the contours of her body, hugging the
curves of her breasts and tantalizing the eye where it disappeared between her
legs. How did they do it? How could impressionistic dabs of blue, green
and turquoise paint look so real? The optical illusion was so expertly done
that there was no hint of her vulval cleft. The painted-on swimsuit bottoms
looked exactly like a smooth triangle of fabric stretched over her shaved
mound, making me wish she’d turn around so I could see what her ass looked
like. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Obviously, much thought and care had
gone into the creation of such a beautiful work of art.
I had to know more. I walked right up to her, wending my way
through her clump of admirers, and stuck out my hand. She regarded me warily.
“Yes,” she said, cutting off my greeting, “It’s a Paintini!
Leave me alone.”
“Please. I’m an artist,” I said, wincing. “Your Paintini,
it’s…it’s wonderful. It’s a work of art. I just wanted to tell you.”
She touched my arm as I turned away. “Sorry. I’m nervous, is
all. This is my first time out. People have been pestering me since I got here!
I guess I should have expected it.”
“No. People are rude. I was rude. I was staring too.”
She smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “But
you’re an artist. You don’t count.”
We went for ice cream. She threw on a gauzy skirt and a tank
top, and that amazing Paintini disappeared and I never saw it again. She licked
her scoop of chocolate mint and said I had to go to Paintini Paradise and
nowhere else—it would be an experience I’d never forget. Getting a Paintini was
expensive, took twenty-four hours, and I’d be achy and exhilarated and
exhausted afterward. I couldn’t imagine why. But it would be worth every penny
because it was waterproof and would last an entire year. A year! And by
the way, I had to get the Deluxe Package—I just had to.
“They’re really good at what they do. They’re
unbelievable. Believe me.”
I believed her. I’d seen her Paintini.
“You won’t mind if they touch you a little, will you?” she
asked, almost as an afterthought. “Or a lot? I mean, it can be…rather
intimate.”
I told her I’d be fine. How else were they supposed to paint
me?
She nodded. “Okay, then. Call them. Tell them Claire says
‘hi’.”
And so, here I am. It’s eight in the morning. I arrived
fifteen minutes early, like they asked. I filled out the intake papers and paid
my three and a half thousand dollars. I’ve done my homework. I’ve brought
magazine photographs, swatches of fabric and, of course, a few of my own
sketched bikini designs. I’m so excited I can hardly stand it.
A tall, lovely, long-haired woman calls my name.
“Gabby, right? Welcome to Paintini Paradise. You’ve
requested the Deluxe Package? Good! You’ll like it. I’m Leena, one of your
practitioners. Randall is in the back putting warm towels in your room. Are you
ready?”
I nod. I am. A shiver goes up my spine—I can’t wait for my very own Paintini. I follow Leena
I saw my first Paintini last summer at Golden Sands beach.
Of course, I didn’t know it was a Paintini because—just like the ads
promised—it looked exactly like the real thing. The girl’s blue-and-white
bikini didn’t look any different than any other swimsuit on the beach, bikini
or not. I only knew it was painted on her bare skin because the news flashed
from beach towel to beach towel until she might as well have been naked,
because everyone knew. Every single one of us squinted and stared, hoping to
see a tell-tale nipple, or her butt crack, or something . Even me.
Needless to say, I was curious. From behind dark glasses, I
watched the girl and studied her paint job. I knew something about art and
about painting, having just completed my second year of art school, and,
believe me, whoever painted her had done a fantastic job. The lines of
her fake bikini followed and accentuated the contours of her body, hugging the
curves of her breasts and tantalizing the eye where it disappeared between her
legs. How did they do it? How could impressionistic dabs of blue, green
and turquoise paint look so real? The optical illusion was so expertly done
that there was no hint of her vulval cleft. The painted-on swimsuit bottoms
looked exactly like a smooth triangle of fabric stretched over her shaved
mound, making me wish she’d turn around so I could see what her ass looked
like. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Obviously, much thought and care had
gone into the creation of such a beautiful work of art.
I had to know more. I walked right up to her, wending my way
through her clump of admirers, and stuck out my hand. She regarded me warily.
“Yes,” she said, cutting off my greeting, “It’s a Paintini!
Leave me alone.”
“Please. I’m an artist,” I said, wincing. “Your Paintini,
it’s…it’s wonderful. It’s a work of art. I just wanted to tell you.”
She touched my arm as I turned away. “Sorry. I’m nervous, is
all. This is my first time out. People have been pestering me since I got here!
I guess I should have expected it.”
“No. People are rude. I was rude. I was staring too.”
She smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “But
you’re an artist. You don’t count.”
We went for ice cream. She threw on a gauzy skirt and a tank
top, and that amazing Paintini disappeared and I never saw it again. She licked
her scoop of chocolate mint and said I had to go to Paintini Paradise and
nowhere else—it would be an experience I’d never forget. Getting a Paintini was
expensive, took twenty-four hours, and I’d be achy and exhilarated and
exhausted afterward. I couldn’t imagine why. But it would be worth every penny
because it was waterproof and would last an entire year. A year! And by
the way, I had to get the Deluxe Package—I just had to.
“They’re really good at what they do. They’re
unbelievable. Believe me.”
I believed her. I’d seen her Paintini.
“You won’t mind if they touch you a little, will you?” she
asked, almost as an afterthought. “Or a lot? I mean, it can be…rather
intimate.”
I told her I’d be fine. How else were they supposed to paint
me?
She nodded. “Okay, then. Call them. Tell them Claire says
‘hi’.”
And so, here I am. It’s eight in the morning. I arrived
fifteen minutes early, like they asked. I filled out the intake papers and paid
my three and a half thousand dollars. I’ve done my homework. I’ve brought
magazine photographs, swatches of fabric and, of course, a few of my own
sketched bikini designs. I’m so excited I can hardly stand it.
A tall, lovely, long-haired woman calls my name.
“Gabby, right? Welcome to Paintini Paradise. You’ve
requested the Deluxe Package? Good! You’ll like it. I’m Leena, one of your
practitioners. Randall is in the back putting warm towels in your room. Are you
ready?”
I nod. I am. A shiver goes up my spine—I can’t wait for my very own Paintini. I follow Leena
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