Reggie Doesn't Like My Painting

Reggie stood back. He shook his head. We were at the Vida Ellison gallery, on the seventh floor of the main library where my work is on display (text me for more info).

"I don't like it."

"Why?" I said, blowing out a breath of relief.

"It's your face, man! Why do you always have to paint yourself? There's a whole world out there of beautiful ladies! And this..." He waved his hand at my faces. "This is what you decide to paint?"

"Yeah. Pretty great, huh?"

"No. Listen to me. A woman is beautiful. She is art. You should be painting beautiful ladies! And unicorns!"

"Well, maybe next time I'll paint a giant vagina."

Reggie smiled. "Yeah. And titties, don't forget those."

"Right. Some ta-ta's and cunt. Art, in other words."

Reggie looked at me. "Didn't your mom tell you to stop using that word on your blog?"

"True," I said. "She asked me why I was using the c-word. Did I need a woman, was that it?"

"Lay good pipe, son. Your momma is right."

"Mm. So no more c-words. Or f-words. Or x-words. No schwa-words, either. The whole gamut of filth. Mom wants me to write, in her words, pinafores."

"Pinafore?"

"Laura Ingalls Wilder fan fiction, apparently."

Reggie was quiet. Then he held out his hand. "Loan me four bucks for cigarettes?"

"Nigger, please."

(Sorry, Mom!)