Page 13 of Marrying the Guide
“Hope y’all are ready to get your hands dirty.” She sauntered over with a grace that defied her eccentric appearance.
“Absolutely,” Howell said, his deep voice bouncing off the clay-stained walls. “This is Onno, my—uh, we’re here for the class.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.” She took his hand in both of hers. “I can already tell you’ve got the hands of an artist, darling.”
“Or at least a farmhand,” Howell quipped.
“Ooh, I love a man who can handle some serious plowing.” Clara winked, and I burst out laughing.
Howell’s cheeks tinged pink. “Clara, you’re terrible.”
“Terrible, maybe, but never boring.” Clara sashayed back to the front of the room, where a row of wheels awaited our touch. “Now, let’s get started. Pottery is like making love—it’s messy, it’s passionate, and if you do it right, you come out with something beautiful.”
She also served amazing hors d’oeuvres and a delicious, bold red wine. An hour into our two-hour class, I was a little tipsy, had pain in my sides from laughing, and was well on my way to creating the ugliest crooked vase on the planet. The only vase that was worse than mine was Howell’s, and he laughed about it harder than anyone else.
We had a fun group of people—ten in total—and like us, most were new at pottery, but everyone approached it with enthusiasm and a good sense of humor. Once we shaped our wet clay on the wheel, the phallic jokes were inevitable, and the hilarity rose. This was the most fun I’d had in months.
“Move your hands like you’re following the shape of a woman,” Clara said to me. “Boobs, small waist, round hips.”
I snorted. “I’m gay, honey. Women don’t do it for me.”
“Well, use your man’s muscles as inspiration, then. Biceps, chest, and from what I saw when he walked in, a nice ass too.”
I burst into laughter, promptly fucking up my vase beyond all help because my hands were shaking. Howell’s cheeks turned bright red, something I wouldn’t have thought possible. He seemed so unflappable, but the jokes had broken through his tough exterior.
Clara wasn’t done cracking dirty jokes. “Remember, the clay is just like a lover. If it’s not wet enough, it won’t be much fun. And if it’s too dry, well…” She wiggled her eyebrows.
I almost snorted my sip of wine through my nose. My god, she was hilarious.
Clara patted Howell’s shoulder. “Sorry, dear. My mouth gets the better of me sometimes.”
He shook his head, laughing. “Yeah, I can tell you’re real sorry.”
She winked at me, and I loved her for it. I gathered my clay to create another clump and start again. “This is so much fun,” I said to Howell. “Best date ever.”
The way his face lit up, I would’ve thought I’d told him he won the lottery.
“I’m having the best time too.” He nodded at his vase. “Though this has to be the ugliest vase I’ve ever seen.”
I stifled a chuckle as Howell’s fingers, so sure and steady in the wilderness, fumbled with the unyielding clay. The lump on his wheel splayed out like an abstract expression of confusion rather than the elegant vase he’d intended. With each spin, it morphed into a lopsided hat, followed by a caricature of a mountain range. “It’s certainly…unique.”
“It’s hideous.”
“Original? One of a kind?”
“I think it might be a new art form. Postmodern dysfunction.” A twinkle lit up his eyes. His hands were a mess, and clay was smeared like war paint across his cheeks where he had pushed his hair back.
“Keep at it, boys,” Clara said. “Remember, it’s all about the journey, not just the destination.”
That seemed to have become the theme of my trip, a message I’d do well to remember.
I gently spun my wheel again, holding my hands the way Clara had shown. Molding wet clay was so much harder than it looked. She did it with such ease, making perfect shapes in mere minutes, while I struggled to form an evenly round base.
Clara’s suggestion to imagine Howell’s muscles was easy. His biceps were a work of art, even more drool-worthy in the tight shirt he was wearing. Hell, it looked like it would rip if he flexedtoo hard, and my stomach did a little dance. What would it be like to run my hands over those muscles?
His skin would be smooth on his biceps but rougher on his chest, with all the chest hair. He did have a nice, round ass. Clara had spotted that correctly, and I sighed at the thought of putting my hands on it and squeezing. Would he be into ass play? I loved it, both giving and receiving. Rimming was one of my favorite things to do, and even more when a man had an ass like that.
Was Howell a top or a bottom? Or vers? I wasn’t opposed to topping, but I preferred to bottom, especially with a strong man like Howell. It had been too long since I’d had a good, hard dicking, and funnily enough, my hole twitched at the thought.