Page 50 of Afterglow
“Alright, have a seat on the stool. You’re left-handed, right?”
“Yep.”
“Lemme move the pedal” —Bea lifts the metal lever and wire over my head— “this is the pedal, by the way. It controls the speed of the wheel.”
“Like a sewing machine.”
“Kinda. That’s your water.” She points to a cloudy bowl. “Put a couple drops on the smallest circle in the middle there, then rub it around, enough to get it wet.”
Fuck me. This was such a bad idea. I follow her direction, failing to subdue my horrendous blush.
“And here, here’s your clay.” She unwraps and hands over a formed ball. “Get a feel for it.”
“It’s heavier than I thought.”
“Yep. Now here’s the fun part. Slam it down into that circle as close to the center as possible.” My arm lifts and turns to whack it onto the surface. “Easy, killer.” Bea manually turns the wheel and adjusts the clay slightly to the left. “Your dominant hand will go here. But before you press the pedal, give that clay a smack.”
I clap the top of it.
“Harder, Fletcher.”
I’m so fucked.
“Like this.” She demonstrates by raising her hand and slapping the clay so hard, it flattens.
“Jesus.”
“That’s how it’s done.” After putting a second stool down with a thud next to me, she sits. “Bring the water bowl to this side. Then start the pedal, and push all the way down, or else it’s more work for you up here.”
I do as I’m told. “I like when you’re bossy.”
“Stay on task, please. This clay is pricey, and it’s all I’ve got left. Now, dip your fingers in the water and let it drip down your palms.”
Yeah, I’m too immature and horny for this activity.
“Put your hands on it,” she adds. “I’ll show you how to make a cylinder first.”
The clay is cool and firm and stays put, despite the high speed. Her hands join mine, keeping the round from going wonky under my heavy hand. “Not too hard. It only needs gentle encouragement. Use the heel of your hand to push upward.”
It grows, taller and taller, but when Behraz lets go, I squeeze too hard, and the clay elongates into a flaccid penis flopping around everywhere. “Ahhh!”
“Let go of the pedal.”
The spinning ceases, limp clay dick still staring back at me.
“Rookie mistake. Alright, that’s okay. We’ll start over.” We repeat the same steps after Bea brings the clay back to a flattened ball shape. “Dip, drip, wet,” she directs.
I clear my throat with a cough. “Has anyone ever told you that throwing pottery is strangely…suggestive?”
Her focus shifts from the clay to me, a wry smile perking the corner of her mouth. “Never heard that.”
“You knew this? You’re messing with me?”
“No, no. This is the terminology. Stop the pedal for a second. It’s really uncomfortable to help you from the side.” She ducks under one of my arms. “Sit back.” Bea wiggles onto the stool between my legs, her back to my front, the ass of her jeans rubbing right up against…oh, no.
I contract every muscle, trying to give her some space, but there’s none left on the wooden surface.
“Please don’t move.”
