by Celia Styles
They stood, still plugged, spent in each other’s juices. Still behind Meena, Jett used his hands to turn her head backwards towards him and kissed her most lovingly on her lips. Meena closed her eyes and let herself drown in the sublime feeling. It was a long, meaningful kiss. Just like the kiss in the very beginning. Meena understood now. He had opened up so many new dimensions to her. Learning through opposites. Like the paradox technique. She had been wrong about him. Jett was different; he expressed himself in a way much more differently than others. Even his affections were different. She just had to learn to read them. As they finished their long kiss, he smiled and looked at Meena and asked,
“How ‘bout we paint this bitch?”
Meena still, strung up with the rope, smiled and nodded.
*****************
Meena walked down the long narrow staircase of the building down to the basement. She took each step carefully, taking care not to fall over on her sharp stiletto heels. Looking at the bare cement walls as she went down, she felt completely out of place in the elegant black evening gown she was wearing. He did say dress formally. And he did say this was the place. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, a man who was not visible before, stood round the bend in front of a double panel wooden door. He wore a suit, was fantastically tall and had the most neutral look on his face. He looked at her inquisitively.
“I’m here for the exhibition.”
A warm smile appeared as he nodded and opened one of the doors, letting Meena in.
Inside, the scene had no semblance to the rough, bare cement staircase Meena had just descended. The room she had just stepped into was a huge one with high and wide walls. There were no doors in the room - it just had bends which led to similar other big rooms. There was nothing fancy. The only colors Meena could see were grey and white, giving a very stoic feel to the whole place. The ceiling was fitted with numerous focus-lights with their beams pointed to the hundreds of paintings that lined the walls. Roaming around this vast expanse were hundreds of people. Meena looked around. So this is what an underground art exhibition looks like. Nothing different from a normal art exhibition. All the people were dressed in formal or semi-formal clothes and they all looked wealthy. As Meena walked into the melee, she became engulfed in the mellow chatter. From the overlapping stream of words that reached her ear, she could make out it was all about art and paintings. She noticed the champagne glasses doing rounds and picked up one from a passing tray. The only difference between this and a normal exhibition was the fact that these kinds of exhibitions were never advertised, they were never announced in public. Only the people who were deeply into art, and knew what was going on, came. All the people in the room knew exactly what they were looking at, mostly collectors and many of them being artists themselves. Today, they knew, just like she did, that it was a most special and rare occasion. An exhibition showcasing Jett Fisher’s work. Meena walked along the breadth of the first room sipping her champagne, glancing at the paintings on the wall and soon turned a corner to enter the second room. It was a little less crowded. She looked around. Just like the previous room it was a testimony to the incredible work Jett was capable of. She swiveled around, somewhat absent mindedly, to the wall behind her and her eyes unknowingly rested on a series of paintings - seventeen to be exact - kept in a line. Meena realized at once what she was looking at and felt a wild flutter start up in her stomach. On a board kept in front was a placard. It read “MOVEMENTS OF THE MOON”. Meena understood the pun immediately. It was the first time she had laid eyes on the paintings. Jett had insisted she not see them till they were all done, as it would help her stay true to herself and not get influenced by some external image. Her eyes skimmed over the paintings and it was extremely difficult for her to look at any one for too long. They were all her, naked and bare. All in states of wild erotic passion. In some she was in defiant erotic poses, some were of her evidently spent and limp after a sexual encounter, while others clearly betrayed her enjoyment of dominant sexual abuse. It was very raw, very visceral. The quality of the paintings were stupendous, the style brilliant. If was as if one could smell the sex and wild liberated ways of the woman in the pictures – her. If it was of any unknown woman, Meena would have been keen to examine each of these fantastic pictures in detail, poring over them for hours, studying the marvelous method. But standing there in that crowd, with so many strange people inspecting the paintings with her, fully privy to her naked womanhood and the very private erotic emotions that she so shamelessly displayed in the paintings, was enough to set her cheeks blazing. There was one incredible thing however, and she noticed it just then – in none of the paintings was her face seen. It was either turned the other way, or eclipsed by the posture of her hand or made indistinct by strong sunlight. As the realization dawned on Meena, her composure changed. The stiffness gave away to warm comfort and suddenly Meena basked in her new found anonymity. She felt somewhat powerful in a way, to be able to please the senses of all the spectators, the onlookers, the voyeurs, but remain hidden in this mischievous and novel way. As she took in a deep breath, now being able to admire the paintings for what they were, a voice spoke out from beside her,
“What do you think about the woman in these painting? Is she real or the painter’s imagination?” It was the artist. Meena looked up at Jett and smiled.
“I think she’s real. The artist must have really enjoyed himself.” said Meena coyly.
“I do too. But looking at the paintings, I think the woman didn’t have a bad time either!” smirked Jett.
“So do you think the artist would be willing to paint me?” toyed Meena, not looking at him. “Do you think he would agree?”
“Hmm,” said Jett, also not looking at her, but straight at the paintings. “He’d have to test you out first.”
“A test?” asked Meena.
“Yes, a test.” said Jett.
“Sounds interesting!” Meena smiled.
“Does it now?” said Jett as he moved in close beside her, placing his hand affectionately around her waist. Meena squeezed in tighter. She remembered how the last few sessions with Jett had been different. It had been with a person who was slowly opening up, for the first time, responding back to her attentions. And Meena was willing to give him as much time as he needed.
They had originally planned to do nine paintings together. But as they met each other every day and discovered each other with every new session, they had stopped counting.
That evening before the exhibition, Jett had gifted Meena with a small blue box. It was ornate and lined with a beautiful silver insignia. Inside the box was a silver ring, crescent shaped. During their sessions together Meena had learned more about the women of the ‘Lune’. One of the most interesting things she had learned was that the special rings of the ‘Lune’ were not meant to be worn on the hand. As the chatter swirled around in the room and the tinkle of champagne glasses filled the air, Meena stood there, in her stepbrother’s arms, a crescent shaped ring hung, tingling delicately between her legs.
“As a thanks for checking out my book, I’d like to give you access to my Fiction Insider’s List. As soon as I come out with another hot & sexy new-release, you’ll be the first to know!” – Celia Styles
(Simply Click the Link Below)
TOXIC
By Celia Styles
When my mom broke the news over Spring Break that she was going to get married again, I have to confess that I wasn’t exactly thrilled for her. I told her it was a mistake, that he couldn’t possibly love her the way my father did and all that, but mostly I was afraid that she’d disappear into a world of designer dresses and limousines, a world that I’d always watched on TV but never dared to think that I could be a part of. I looked the part, sure--long blonde hair that curled in those perfect ringlets that women spend hundreds of dollars trying to blow out (or would that be blow in?)--and wide blue eyes. I ran cross-country in high school and in the junior-varsity team for my college. If you dressed m
e up in a designer dress you'd have no problem putting me in a five-star restaurant, until I opened my mouth. But I couldn't afford designer dresses, so that world might as well have been in Bangladesh for all I could care.
“Him”: Bryce Rowan Waterhouse III, a very rich man. That was about all I knew about him for sure. He was some kind of investor who did “things” with large quantities of money. I met him for the first time the day after finals, when he drove up in front of a U-Haul to help me move out of my room. He at least had the good sense to be embarrassed that everything I owned fit neatly into the trunk of his car. We didn’t talk on the way home--to our humble little ranch house in the suburbs of Trenton. He didn’t belong in our world, and we didn’t belong in his.
He paid for the wedding. He flew the entire wedding party to Hawaii and put us up in a resort hotel for the entire week, all so that they could have a sunrise wedding on the beach. I, surly and annoyed at all these changes being made without any consideration for my own plans--tutoring kids in Princeton over the summer, finding a job somewhere while getting a master’s so that I could teach high school--found the gesture pointless. At least the wedding was a small, intimate ceremony, and I recognized a lot of my mom’s friends there. Seeing her walk down the aisle, though, I realized that I couldn’t hate him--so much of this was done the way my mom had always wanted her wedding to be, right down to the wispy, pastel tie-dyed dress and a white wreath of flowers in her hair. But it didn’t make it any easier to believe my mother was now Anne Mayberry Waterhouse, even as they read their wedding vows, even as they exchanged rings, even as he kissed the bride.
After the ceremony, both sides of the aisle mingled a bit, but only for a little while--the scorching tropical sun was starting to penetrate the canopies we were sitting under, and the promise of air-conditioning and icy margaritas drew us all back to the hotel like bees to honey. The official reception would be that evening, and I was already grumpy about it.
“Hey, it’s a wedding. Cheer up,” said a voice.
I looked up. The voice belonged to a surfer, which was surprising enough. Even more surprising was that I found myself really wanting to like him for some reason. It could have had something to do with the fact that he was wearing a sleeveless wetsuit that showed off his sculpted arms and left little doubt about the condition of the body that was underneath. Between the sun and the salt water, though, his hair had turned an odd greenish-brown that resembled nothing so much as vomit. But that was something I'd only notice later, lost as I was in those twinkling brown eyes that seemed to exude smiles. “You’ve been watching?” I said.
“Not really,” he said, shifting his board to the other side so that he could accompany me on the way back. “Usually I’m the only one out here at this ungodly hour.”
“You got the ‘ungodly’ part right,” I agreed. “I hope I never have to see 6:00 am for the rest of the summer. What’re you doing up at this hour?”
He laughed. “Before the tourists arrive is when it’s safest for pros to practice,” he said.
“You’re a professional surfer? Get out!” In retrospect, I should have realized that, if I was going to meet a professional surfer, it would be in Hawaii. “You mean like Kelly Slater?”
He shrugged and shook his head, sprinkling salt water drops around us. “I get by--you know, win a few tournaments, teach a few tourists,” he said. “It’s not much, but it pays the bills, and it’s something I love.”
I nodded. I could understand--my mother had (strangely) despaired the most of my decision to go into teaching, saying that I could make so much more money as a lawyer, that the hours were better, and on and on. Eventually, though, she got the point--“It’s your life,” I said.
“You get it,” he said, grinning. “My name’s Blake.” We’d reached the hotel’s beachside entrance.
“Lila,” I said.
We shook hands, but even though the sun was starting to bake the sand I was standing on, I couldn’t quite get myself to break the contact. His hands were rough, but careful, as they held mine. “Can I see you again?” he asked.
Just like that. I couldn’t believe it. After so many “uh”- and “um”-filled “Do you want to maybe meet for coffee” propositions for dates, I was starting to think that guys were just naturally horrible about asking girls out. A guy who clearly knows what he wants. I felt a smile spread over my face.
And then I found myself wondering what the hell I wanted. I could hear, in my head, my mother’s voice, telling me Be careful, men are like dogs, trust him only as far as you can throw him and all the other platitudes that she’d admonish me with whenever we talked boys. And her cautionary warnings had actually stood me in good stead when I went to school. But this wasn’t school, and if I was ever going to have a great time with a cute guy who seemed like a gentleman, Hawaii seemed as good a place as any.
So I told him, “Yes.”
***
We made plans to meet just outside the hotel. That way, I could just quietly ghost--give a quick toast, endure the first round of drinks, hope that the newly-married couple would be too busy opening their presents and dancing to corny music to notice that I wasn’t there. I knew my mother would eventually notice that I was gone--I just hoped that she wouldn’t see me leave.
I had a hell of a time trying to figure out what to wear, though--I hadn’t thought to bring anything date-ish or super-flirty, and I still had to look dressed-up enough for a wedding reception. In the end, I went to a nearby shopping boutique, where I paid too much money for a demure lace dress with some sheer patches cut away dangerously close to some unmentionable areas. It was just risqué enough to hold a guy’s interest, not quite tawdry enough to warrant getting me kicked out of the reception.
He was picking me up at 7:30, and I began to realize what a stupid idea this was--a guy whom I’d just met, a guy whose car I was going to get into based on nothing more than “I liked his smile”? As the minutes ticked by I began to get more and more nervous about the whole thing. “You seem preoccupied,” said Terri, one of my mother’s friends. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m just thinking about applying to Teach for America.”
“Oh. Well, good luck with that.”
She’d plainly had more than a few drinks already, and I dropped her off at the bar and said, “I’m going to the bathroom.”
I slipped outside instead. He wasn’t there. I found myself wishing I smoked--at least then I’d have an excuse to stand out there like a fool, hoping desperately that this guy--this cute, hot, nice guy--actually meant it when he said he’d be there--
“Hi, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”
He’d pulled up in a silver sports car, and revved the engine a few times. “I’ve got reservations at this really nice little place just down the way,” he said.
“What’s it called?” I asked, as I got in.
“McDonalds,” he said. “Just kidding!” he laughed, when he caught my look of utter disbelief and shock. “It’s called Tropic Thunder.”
“That sounds like a burger joint,” I said.
“Well, I’m sure burgers are on their menu sometimes,” he said.
“Is this really your car?”
He cocked his head and shrugged--I could tell he was flushing red even in the flashing orange of the streetlights. “Well, to be completely honest, it’s my buddy’s. He owns a gym that I refer clients to if they want to work out, and in return, he lets me use his car.”
“That sounds like a most perverted car-share.”
“No, you see--perverted would involve chickens,” he said.
The line outside Tropic Thunder had maybe thirty people in it, and as we parked I became a bit worried that maybe there wouldn’t be enough seats for us. The restaurant was tiny, wedged between a bank and a hardware store. Blake didn’t seem a bit worried, though. He took his time finding a parking spot in the crowded garage and we joined the line. We were behind an old couple from Kansas
and in front of a young gay couple, also from Kansas. “I guess it’s lucky we’re here,” Blake murmured, after hi’s and hello’s were exchanged. “Nothing to ruin an evening like politics and gender.”
