Face the Rear

Story Sent in by Jeff:

I found Cheryl's profile online.  She styled herself an artist, and after I wrote to her to ask about her art, she sent me a link to her online portfolio.  She was primarily a sketch artist and painter, and I liked her work.  She otherwise seemed very nice, she asked me a lot about myself, and the next logical step was for me to ask her out, which I did.

We didn't have any disagreements, fights, or any kind of acrimony online or over the phone, before the date.  Everything seemed fine, and as far as I knew, we were both looking forward to meeting each other.

We met up at a restaurant, ordered dinner, and had good conversation.  Not long after our food arrived, she said, "Okay, I can't keep it a secret anymore: I made something for you."

I was flattered.  "Thank you very much," I said, "Some artwork?"

She said, "Yes.  I drew a picture of you."

No one had ever done such a thing for me before, and I took it as a major compliment.  "Oh, I'd love to see it."

She said, "I don't know if you'll like it."

"Don't be modest.  Can I see it?"

She reached into her sizable bag and pulled out a large folded piece of paper.  When she unfolded it, I beheld a painted picture of… well, my head, shoulders, and hair, but where my face would be, there was the distinct and detailed image of… well, an ass.  No eyes, no nose, no mouth.  Just two round, hairy cheeks and a vertical crack.

At first, I took it as a joke.  I said, "Is that how I look to you?  An ass-face?"

She said, "I just thought of you as having an ass for a face.  It's how I picture you whenever I think of you.  It makes me smile, but it's also kind of gross when you think about it."

"You think of me as an ass-face?  What are you trying to tell me, here?"

She shrugged.  "It's not meant as a joke.  I really think of you as having an ass for a face.  Do you like it?" she asked.

I said, "Well, the style is great, and you put in a… a lot of detail.  I guess I'm just confused, when you say that it's supposed to be me, and there's an ass where the face is supposed to be."

"That's you," she said, "An ass-face."

"Why?"

She shrugged again.  "I don't know.  It's just how I think of you.  I don't know why."

I thought for a moment, then replied, "Would it be okay if I thought of you as a vagina face?"

She said, "I can't stop you, but I'd know that you're saying that based upon what I drew here.  I'd come up with something original, if I were you."

I asked, "Are you trying to tell me something with this?"

Her patience ebbed.  "No," she groaned, "Just that you're like an ass-face, to me.  That's it."

"Okay.  I'm an ass-face."

"Yep."

She gave me no further explanation, and while I took the picture from her (as she had said, it was for me), I didn't really understand what she was thinking.  We paid separate checks for dinner and went our separate ways afterward. 

That was some time ago, and for some reason, I wasn't compelled to continue with any kind of relationship with her.  Very recently, however, she contacted me to ask if I still had it.  Her message said:

"Ass-face, do you still have the ass-face picture I drew of you?  I could use it for an upcoming exhibit.  Thanks, ass-face."

I didn't throw the picture out, although I never put it on display, and her guess was as good as mine as to where I had stored it.  I wrote back to let her know that I'd look for it, and that was that.