Faith in the Flesh

by Maira Isabel Pita

  The arms of a centuries-old tree welcomed us beneath it and it wasn’t at all easy to escape its dark, deep hospitality. At one point I separated myself from him in order to caress his broad shoulders, in awe of their strength and firmness, such an arousing contrast to his lean hips and long legs.

  “It’s no wonder you’re a sculptor. You’re built like a classical statue yourself,” I told him, reaching up to caress the freshly-shaved smoothness of his face with both hands. His cheeks were just the slightest bit plump, like a boy’s, a totally endearing complement to his firm mouth and elegant nose. “You have the most beautiful body, John.” I slipped my hands into his suit jacket. I felt my way down to his belt and then impatiently past it to cup his hard-on in my right palm while my other hand reached behind him and grasped one of his tight ass cheeks. “Mm! I don’t think I can wait anymore.” I snapped open his belt and fumbled with the button holding his pants closed.

  “Ariana, are you sure—”

  “Yes, please,” I begged. “You didn’t buy me dessert—it’s the least you can do.” I wrested the button free and yanked down his zipper. He was wearing black underwear through which he pulled his cock out for me with one hand and lifted his balls out with the other. His male organs were shoved enticingly up and out by the tight elastic and I promptly sank to my knees.

  It was so dark beneath the canopy of leaves I wouldn’t have been able to see anything if hadn’t been for the diffused golden glow of a streetlight. I couldn’t help thinking that for some reason his cock was much more beautiful and more sensitive-looking than Eric’s, perhaps because of the way the head distinguished itself from the shaft, giving it more of a mysterious personality. Its impressive length wasn’t a straight shaft but rather thickened somewhat toward the middle in a way I knew would feel wonderful inside me.

  I felt perfectly happy kneeling in the grass at his feet as I allowed his cock to slide slowly between my lips. It thrilled me to experience his mental surprise and physical pleasure when I took his full length into my mouth and let his head nuzzle my throat.

  “Oh, Ariana,” he whispered and gently took hold of my skull as though he were afraid of going to far. Yet he was also giving himself the power to go too far if he couldn’t resist.

  I relished the taste and feel of him for a moment before letting him slide all the way off my tongue so I could look up at him and beg, “I want you to fuck my mouth. Please, John, fuck my mouth.”

  “Ariana, I—”

  “Oh God, just fuck my mouth, please! I mean it, just fuck it. I want you to. I want you to fuck my mouth! Please fuck my mouth. Please fuck my mouth,” I whispered like a mantra.

  He took firm hold of my hair with both hands and did as I asked. He thrust his erection between my lips and gently eased my head back so he could push his erection down into my throat.

  I thought I would die from the pleasure as he fucked my mouth just like I wanted him to. He roughly stimulated his head with my throat and caressed the full length of his cock with my tongue and lips by pulling almost all the way out of me after almost every one of his hard, fast strokes. I was forced to cling to his pants to brace myself. The arduous exercise made my heart race with joy because the longer it lasted the more I belonged to him and the more deeply I knew he felt for me. I was sacrificing comfort and breath for his ultimate pleasure and it brought us together in the hauntingly absolute way I already longed for with him.

  When he climaxed it was so deep in my mouth I barely felt or tasted his cum spurting down my throat. The helpless pulsing of his hard-on, resting on my tongue and trapped between my lips, was exquisite. It filled me with a profound satisfaction that defied all logic.

  He had come with just a sexy catch of his breath and he remained silent as he reached down and helped me to my feet. He seemed to understand that my knees were stiff from kneeling and also a little weak from the intense satisfaction I had taken in pleasuring him. I watched regretfully as he somehow got his still-rigid cock back in his underpants, and the sound of his zipper was a strangely exciting electric note added to the sexual symphony of crickets and cicadas calling to potential mates in the darkness.

  He took me in his arms and crushed me almost painfully against him, once again taking my breath away. Then he walked me up to the front door of the house.

  After one last lingering kiss he said, “Good night, Ariana, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night,” I echoed. Worn out from servicing him, I found the strength to let go of him for a few hours.

  When I entered the house I saw the back of Mami’s blonde hair. She was watching television just as I had left her with the only difference being there was now a man’s dark-haired head resting beside hers on the back of the couch. I paused on the threshold, not quite able to register the sight of my mom’s head resting on a man’s shoulder. My emotional software performed an immediate emergency upgrade as I stood there taking in the innocent yet distressingly significant scene. I suffered a stab of irrational jealousy at having to share my mother’s love and affection with someone else but fortunately my totally fulfilling evening with John clipped the rush of selfish emotion right in the bud.

  It also felt strange to step inside from the dark, jungle-like yard where I had just sucked a man down—where he had just fucked my mouth and throat as hard as a pussy to be more precise—and suddenly land in the midst of content domesticity. The serene atmosphere in the living room was completely different from the sexual tempest I had just experienced outside.

  The couple on the couch hadn’t heard the key turn in the lock or the door open and close but the man’s hearing seemed instinctively honed to the sound of high heels crossing ceramic tiles because he turned his head and smiled happily when he saw me.

  “Hola, Ariana. Did you have a nice time?”

  “Ernesto!” I cried.

  My mother smiled dreamily over at me. “Why are you so surprised?” she asked mildly.

  “Because…because you’ve been friends for years!”

  “Can you think of a better foundation for a relationship?” Ernesto asked reasonably.

  Rosa’s tone sharpened. “So where did you finally decide to eat?”

  “A little Italian place that specializes in brick-oven pizzas.”

  She beamed at me. “Oh yes, I know the place, it’s very nice, although Café—”

  “Well, good night!” I declared before she could launch into a full-length description of her favorite Italian restaurants and the best dishes to be found at each one. “Um, I’m glad…I’m glad it’s you, Ernesto,” I added awkwardly.

  His grin softened into gentle smile that made me feel like a little girl at heart even with my hair wantonly disheveled and my face flushed from the arduous blowjob I had just given another man. “I’m glad too, Ari. Sweet dreams. By the way, that’s quite a nice…shirt.”

  “Good night, Ari,” my mother echoed peacefully, her head coming to rest on the strong shoulder beside hers again. “That’s a corset shirt,” she explained. “She ordered it from a catalogue.”

  “Mm, I like it. Maybe we should order you one…”

  “Good night!” I repeated loudly and escaped to my side of the house.

  Chapter Nine

  John was right on time. The antique clock in the hall had just struck nine when the doorbell rang, a beautiful symphony to my ears. I was ready to go and starving. Last night’s clam sauce had been good but there hadn’t been enough of it to satisfy me and I had seriously exerted myself afterward.

  I had chosen to wear a relatively short black cotton skirt that fell loosely over my bare thighs and a short-sleeved navy-blue V-neck cotton t-shirt that looked very cute beneath the ponytail I had gathered my hair up into. And since John had warned me his studio resembled a bomb site, I was wearing black sneakers. If I had had any doubts about my appearance, the expression in his eyes as I opened the door and he looked me up and down would immediately have dispersed them.

  Mami was still in bed,
alone. Ernesto’s car was no longer parked behind hers. I had been so completely wrapped up in John last night I hadn’t even noticed the driveway on the other side of the house, much less the extra car in it. Ernesto would be back that afternoon. He was picking Mami up and they were spending the weekend down in Key Biscayne, which meant I would have the house all to myself.

  I fervently hugged and kissed John in the foyer but we didn’t linger.

  “I really need some coffee,” he confessed. “So if you don’t mind…”

  “Not at all, I’m ready to go.” I snatched up my purse.

  He smiled. “Only how beautiful you look is keeping me awake. I’m afraid I’m not a morning person.”

  “I would love some coffee myself, and some food. Let’s go.”

  He eyed me suspiciously as I locked the front door behind us. “You’re much too full of energy for someone who hasn’t had any caffeine yet.”

  “Oh yes, I’m a morning person, I’m afraid.”

  He groaned as he took my hand. “My brain doesn’t kick into gear until afternoon.”

  I laughed, surreptitiously looking him up and down as we walked. He was wearing a short-sleeved black t-shirt over old blue jeans, black sneakers and dark sunglasses he had slipped up onto his head when we were inside but which he immediately pulled down over his eyes as we began walking. He looked good enough to eat, literally. “That’s a good idea,” I said, fishing my sunglasses out of my purse.

  “Hmm, I like those,” he admitted, “which is strange because normally I despise leopard print on anything.”

  “So do I, believe me, but for some reason these appealed to me.”

  “They look great on you but then you could make anything look good.” He squeezed my hand again affectionately, possessively, and the gesture made me inexpressibly happy.

  It was a beautiful day in south Florida. The radiant blue of the sky was strikingly enhanced by the tinted lenses over my eyes. The deep green of Coral Gable’s splendid old trees was outlined against the Earth’s atmosphere with such stunning clarity that every individual leaf seemed significantly visible that morning. Even the temperature was cooler than normal for that time of year, even though I knew that in an hour or two it would once again be hellishly hot beneath the sun. Yet in those moments as we walked in the direction of Miracle Mile intent on getting some breakfast, everything looked, and felt, perfect.

  “I’m warning you, Ariana, my apartment isn’t exactly what you would call cozy.”

  Now it was my turn to squeeze his hand reassuringly. “I know, John, you told me. It’s your studio.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked because his mouth had hardened almost imperceptibly but in a way I was already sensitive to. The slightest sign of his displeasure upset and worried me.

  “I’m just thinking,” he replied ambiguously.

  “Thinking about what?” I queried anxiously.

  “I’m thinking about the fact that you live up in Boston and that where I live is barely big enough for me and my statuesque roommates.”

  “Oh… I told you in the funeral home that I was thinking of moving back down to Miami, John, and now…well now I’m not just thinking about it. I mean, I really want to move back down now.” I held my breath.

  “Good,” he said firmly. “I’m licensed to drive a truck. I can fly up to Boston with you and help you move your stuff down.”

  I laughed. “Really?”

  He flashed me a luminous smile beneath the dark panes of his sunglasses. “Really.”

  “That would be wonderful! But you don’t need to—I could just hire professional—”

  “Ariana, what did I tell you last night?”

  “You told me a lot of things, John,” I pointed out, buying myself some time.

  “Yes I did but you know what I’m referring to”

  To my surprise I realized I did. “You said you never did anything unless you really wanted to.”

  “Very good. Try to remember that.”

  “I will,” I promised. “It’s just that I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

  “I’ve been married once,” he confessed out of the blue. “It was a long time ago and I was very young. It ended quickly and badly.”

  I almost said “I’m sorry” but stopped myself from uttering such an obvious hypocrisy. I wasn’t at all sorry he was divorced. I was very glad his marriage had turned out badly even if I was sorry he had had to suffer as a result.

  “I’ve been a bachelor for years,” he added.

  I remained silent, encouraging his confidential mood.

  “And I haven’t exactly been celibate, if you know what I mean.”

  “I can imagine!” I said with feeling. A man as good-looking as he was could be sleeping with half a dozen women at a time if he really wanted to. Not to mention the fact that he was a sculptor and they were notorious for seducing their beautiful naked models… I felt the green serpent of jealousy painfully uncoiling in my belly and tried desperately to stamp it down before it got its fangs of fear and insecurity into my heart. “I haven’t been exactly virginal myself,” I confessed shortly.

  “Virgins are highly overrated.”

  I glanced at him, remembering Eric had said something similar. When I saw he was smiling softly at me, everything was all right with the world and I felt less guilty about Eric. If he tried calling me today, he would get my voicemail because I had deliberately left my cell phone at home.

  * * * * *

  We had breakfast in a small Cuban café, sitting at the counter. The orange juice was deliciously fresh, squeezed right there in front of us and well worth the wait. The cafés con leche were wonderful, just the right blend of coffee and foaming white milk. Cuban toast is always good and my two eggs over easy were prepared perfectly. John ordered a second coffee and we lingered contentedly over the counter for a while even after we had finished eating. We had missed the pre-work breakfast rush but the place was obviously popular and it was fun people-watching for a while as we talked about everything and nothing. Then at last it was time to head for his studio.

  I braced myself for the daunting mess he had led me to expect there even as I could scarcely wait to see more examples of his work, especially the new piece he had begun, inspired by me.

  He lived on the same side of 42nd Avenue my mother did and we were soon back on the quiet residential streets west of Miracle Mile. His studio was located in a quaint old building containing only four apartments. The stone exterior was a faded buttercup yellow and I saw right away how the living spaces inside would appeal to an artist because every residence appeared to be graced by three lovely bay windows.

  “A friend of mine owns the building,” he told me as we made our way up the central staircase inside. “That’s how I can afford to live here. He doesn’t need to worry about renovating the apartment so he lets me have it for cheap. He also professes to be an art lover, although what I really think is that he’s gay and half in love with me not with my clay nudes.” He slipped off his sunglasses to wink at me as with his other hand he deftly thrust a key into the lock and opened the door.

  I stepped past him into a surprisingly spacious interior flooded with sunlight. “Oh my God,” I said beneath my breath, quickly removing my shades to better see all the naked bodies crowding the room. They weren’t sculptures in the classical sense of virtuous nudes standing with their hands modestly covering their sexes. The men and women in John’s studio were all overtly sensual, and many of them were engaged in some erotic act or another.

  “Oh my God,” I repeated.

  “I told you it was a mess,” he apologized.

  “That’s not what I meant.” I quickly put my purse down on one of the windowsills and reverently approached one of the clay couples. Their arms and legs were wrapped around each other in such a way that it was almost impossible to tell where the man ended and the woman began but their bodies were clearly masculine and feminine even though their heads were h
alf merged in an impossibly deep kiss. The piece was life-sized, the same highly polished black material of the piece I had seen in the gallery, and almost perfectly egg-shaped where it sat on a waist-high pedestal. It was at once intensely erotic and starkly metaphysical and I absolutely loved it.

  As I walked around in admiring wonder, I felt transported into an enchanted forest full of mythical lovers caught in moments of passionate union or lying alone, evocatively touching themselves while reaching out to their invisible heart’s desire. Their creator moved humbly over to a luminous corner of the room while I studied his work.

  It was a while before I turned to him and declared, “These are unbelievable.”

  “I’m glad you like them,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Like them?! They’re amazing!”

  He had slipped on a full-length white apron and was caressing a prone woman’s smooth, brown buttocks.

  I approached him curiously even as I fell respectfully silent. He had begun working and I sensed he was already only half aware of me. Most of his attention was now focused on my clay body. Even though all I could see was her backside I somehow knew it was my spread thighs he was squeezing and stroking.

  I watched him in reverent fascination, half hypnotized and half seduced by his hands’ constant back-and-forth motions, mostly concentrated on my hips and waist. He seemed to repeat the same procedures more than once, blurring and redefining my clay flesh in a process I gradually realized consisted of building up and carving away, smoothing over and roughening the surface until each individual element of my developing figure became part of a harmonious whole.

  “You know, Ariana,” he spoke abruptly without looking at me, “your mouth is the exact same shape as the mouth on all my female sculptures. Did you notice?”

  I looked around me again. I had thought I was only imagining my face smiling back at me everywhere. “Yes, I see…” I walked slowly around my recumbent clay form. One of my cheeks was resting on my arms, which were bent comfortably beneath my head. “I don’t have a face.” I was somewhat shocked by the featureless egg, not yet cracked by any personality whatsoever.