How about you? Ever fucked a color?
This, the color asked him. They were in a bar with red walls, oak bar top, red stools. The color in question – or rather the color asking the question – being a wine-dark red with hues of blue and purple like a bruise. Maybe even burnt umber around the edges – which was surprisingly lovely in the way it worked in concert with the rest of its palette.
Have you ever fucked a color?
The graphic designer knew the question was supposed to take him aback, so he did his best to not immediately react. He tightened his expression the way it was and had been during the encounter so far – which was hopefully the easy half-smile of an open-minded man out with a coworker, whom he respected, for the very first time. But the question was not: Have you ever been with a color? or Have you ever made love to a color? or Have you ever found yourself attracted to one? Alternately, those questions might have appeared too coy, too forward, or maybe even accusatory in a way, depending on word-emphasis. No, the question was: Have you ever fucked one? Emphasis on the word fucked. It was said to make him uncomfortable – he knew that – but it was also to try him out, see what he’d say. Preempt any defensiveness arising from a word choice less blunt, and instead inviting conspiracy in the wide open sexual mores of contemporary milieus. Maybe even to turn him on ever-so-slightly, he thought, supposing he was in fact so-inclined.
Crimson, he said, after a while.
Well, well, well, the color said. Aren’t you the free spirit?
But he was wondering if it was an honest answer. He didn’t really count it in his head. He had been in college, both parties had been very drunk, and neither had orgasmed. Though sometimes, in the more heated and adventurous moments of his imagination, he fantasized about the encounter – about what he would do with a do-over.
It was the school mascot, the graphic designer said.
The color cackled, snorting.
Shut the fuck up!
I’m kidding, the graphic designer said. We were in Art History together. Study partners…
That’s funny! the color said, chuckling. You’re a clever guy, Tim.
The graphic designer was glad it went over. He had been afraid the joke was too off – …too indecorous. There was a long silence in which the graphic designer sipped his drink. They were both drinking a madras.
Crimson? the color asked.
Crimson, the graphic designer confirmed.
This color here, though, this one was more of a burgundy or maybe a maroon. A colleague, they had gone out for cocktails after a particularly hard day at the office. They worked for a graphic design firm and were on the verge of losing a big client.
I have to say, I never pegged a guy who wore a button down and khakis everyday to be so… liberal.
I try to be open, the graphic designer said.
In that case, the color whispered, winking. Have you ever been fucked by a color?
We’d all been fucked by green, he didn’t say. It was the first thing that came to his head, but he managed to stop himself. The joke made sense at the time, but he didn’t want to offend the color. He knew there was discrimination between colors too, but being colorless, the graphic designer was unsure if it would be taken in the good-natured way he would have meant it.
Not that this burgundy/maroon-ish hue seemed easily offended.
My wife once had sex in a lava lamp, he told it. Orange and yellow. She took ecstasy with her college roommate and one thing led to another…
That’s pretty hot, it said – this color did – this color which was the color of red roses.
Well, we met in art school, he said, as if that explained everything.
So, in other words, she’d probably be alright with it if you picked up some Amber or Clementine in a bar. As long as you brought them home?
I don’t know about that, the graphic designer shrugged, looked down at his drink.
You’re blushing, it said.
He shrugged.
Maybe as long as I came home after…
Really? Are you swingers, baby?
No, no. Nothing like that… it’s just she’s always said she didn’t want to know if I slipped. You know, as long as I wasn’t in love…
They paid their tab, went out. The weather was turning cool, and the bar had been on a busy street and now traffic was inching past, the remnants of rush hour. Under the street lights, it looked purple, the color did, and the graphic designer was admiring it when all of a sudden it turned, stepped to him, and kissed him.
My apartment’s not far, the color said. We’ll get an Uber…
The graphic designer paused, thought.
I don’t have a lava lamp, it said. But I just painted the bedroom wall…
The color kissed him again.
Guess what shade…
He stood looking at this deep red, the color of his favorite sweater – incidentally a birthday present from his wife.
He was not drunk, just buzzed. He was nearing forty and how many opportunities does a married man get? He had always been jealous of his wife’s experimentation before they met. Except for the drunken frustrated night he and crimson spent, he had only been with a few others, all conventional trysts. His wife and her boyfriend before him had called themselves swingers – had swapped palettes, gone to oil and canvas orgies. Surely, she wouldn’t begrudge him this.
In the distance now, he heard a siren. His head was swimming.
What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, the color said.
The graphic designer nodded.
He listened closely as the siren came louder. But he couldn’t be sure if it was red or blue.