by Rusk, Day
He took in the art. He wasn’t much for art analysis, but this was interesting and unexpected. Gail Russell had used the style of psychedelic rock ‘n’ roll posters of the 1960’s with their distinctive look and colorful presentation to focus on some of today’s modern images, such as President Barak Obama, Wall Street, the Twin Towers, Iraq, Afghanistan, and so on. As far as he could tell, and he had no idea if he was reaching and full of shit, Gail was using the simplicity and hope of the 1960’s and its artistic style and placing the horrors of today within that framework. It was an interesting juxtaposition of the perceived simplicity of a bygone era with the complications of life today. Surprisingly, it appealed to him. Whether he was full of shit or not, that’s what he got out of it, and wasn’t that what art was all about – each person’s interpretation?
As Leslie focused on the art, from time to time he’d glance over at someone who had called out his name and said ‘Hi.’ As a published author in the city, he had attended many of its cultural events and rubbed elbows with many of its elite, so he was well known to many. He’d throw out a quick ‘Hi’ and then return to studying the art, knowing the next question they’d throw at him would be, “What the hell happened to you?” He had no answer and just wanted to avoid the question. Focusing on the art seemed to give him perceived purpose and allowed him an excuse for being rude.
“So, what do you think?”
The question took him by surprise; he actually jumped a little.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said Gail Russell with a laugh.
Leslie, recovered, looked into her eyes – those beautiful eyes – and smiled.
“That’s all right; I was just engrossed in your work.”
“Really? So I’ll ask again, what do you think?” asked Gail.
“That’s a dangerous question, and coming from the artist herself.”
“Yes, they put my photo on the poster and in the brochures. Makes it much harder for me to get an honest answer from anyone here regarding my work,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Gail Russell.”
Leslie shook her hand. “Leslie Marshall. I’m with the Examiner.”
“Reviewer?”
“For today,” he said.
“So, what do you think?”
“I like it. It’s a throwback, isn’t it?” he asked.
“The 1960s. A homage to such artists as Rick Griffin, Bonnie MacLean, Stanley Mouse and others,” she said. “Artwork inspired by the psychedelic experiences induced by such drugs as LSD, mescaline and psilocybin.”
“And the use of modern images?” he asked.
“My comment on society today - our uptight ways,” said Gail. “The art of the Sixties represented a freedom of expression. It was bold and free. You could see the flow of it. Almost a celebration of life. There was an awareness there we lack today. A sense of carefree that has disappeared over the decades. Today’s modern images introduce the viewer to what we’ve lost. A simpler time we will never get back.”
“You’re too young to have grown up in the 1960’s.”
“It was a time my Father liked to talk about; a simpler time he said he loved.”
“And The Merry Pranked?” he asked.
“Yet another homage,” she said with a laugh. “To the Merry Pranksters of the 1960s. Founded by Ken Kesey, the author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. A group he founded that experimented with psychedelic drugs. Tom Wolfe wrote about it in his book The Electric Kool-Aid Test.”
“Interesting.”
“If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.”
She noticed the puzzled look on Leslie’s face.
“You’ve got a lot to learn,” she said. “The author William Blake.”
“I’m afraid he has escaped my reading list.”
“It looks like you should do a little more reading and a little less fighting. Is it that tough being an Examiner reporter?”
Leslie smiled; she’d noticed his face.
“What can I say; this is a tough town to be a critic in.”
“Well, write what you like, Mr. Marshall, I promise, I’ll go easier on you.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Just remember, art is subjective. It’s whatever you decide it should be. Whatever it makes you feel. Happy, sad, angry, disgusted. It’s all things to all people,” she said with a smile. “Now I have to mingle, but do promise, say good-bye before you leave, won’t you Rocky?”
Leslie laughed. “I will.”
He couldn’t help watching her as she turned and disappeared into the crowd. She was as captivating as the first time he’d seen her.
The gallery opening had been nice; nice, of course, being not great, but not entirely horrible and painful as well. Leslie had enjoyed it all a lot more than he expected. His mind just wasn’t built for interpreting art, but at least Gail’s had been a little less abstract and more straightforward; he didn’t know if that was good for the artist or not, but as a patron for the night it had certainly helped him.
Enjoying the show was only one of the surprises the night offered. Like, for instance, he’d never have anticipated Gail Russell would be sitting on his couch as he poured them both a glass of his best red wine.
Why she was attracted to him, he had no idea; he just knew that throughout the evening she had made a point of seeking him out and spending moments of time with him. They got along well, and when the night was finally wrapping up, and he anticipated going home to obsess about his Father some more, she had cornered him and asked him if he wanted to get a drink with her. He really didn’t have to think about it. The last surprise was when they left the gallery, and she’d suggested that rather than going to a bar, they retire to his place for a drink. He still felt in his heart that he and Donna were together, even though she’d left him; he’d yet to fully accept it, and accepting Gail’s invitation had seemed like cheating, but he had to remind himself he was in fact a single man. He still cared about Donna, despite the fact he had driven her away, but Gail was something special – just like at the Survivor’s meeting, he couldn’t help staring at her, drinking in her beauty. There was also something else there, but for the moment he couldn’t quite place what that something else was.
“I take it you must get tired of scenes like tonight,” said Leslie as he handed her a glass of red wine and took a seat on a chair beside the couch.
“They were a thrill at first,” she said, “but this is my second collection, and it does seem like I’m going through the same paces over and over again. You’re a writer. A Detective series, I believe. I take it you do readings and book signings? Does that ever get old hat?”
“People lining up to tell me I’m brilliant,” he said with a smile, “I tough it out.”
Gail laughed. “I’ve read your books.”
“And?”
“You go to some very dark places.”
“Crime fiction is not supposed to be a walk in the park,” he said.
“True,” she said. “Where does that darkness come from?”
“What do you mean?”
“You do remember me, don’t you?” she asked. “The Survivor’s meeting?”
So she remembered as well.
“How could I forget?” he said.
“That meeting was all about darkness. In one way or another, some darkness has touched all of us who attended. How much of that bleeds into your writing?”
Leslie smiled at her and studied her face. He couldn’t get a read on her; figure out what it was she wanted. Maybe she didn’t want anything; he did have a tendency to over think a lot of things.
“I’d imagine about as much as bleeds into your art,” he answered.
“A game of cat and mouse,” she said with a smile. “Two victims, I presume, not sure how much they want to reveal to one another. Both wary, but of what?”
“As they say, ladies first,” he countered.
Gail laughed generously at that one. “Nice try, Leslie. How very gentlemanly of you.”
The two of them took a sip of their wine, their eyes never leaving one another.
“You know, Leslie,” she said, “the problem seems to be a lack of trust. We’ve only just met one another.”
“Then it stands to reason,” he said.
“I propose we fuck.”
It’s very rare in life that one gets to perform a truly genuine spit take. Sure they’re used in comedies all the time, but rarely an occurrence in real life. Leslie didn’t perform a spit take, as when she’d mentioned fucking he hadn’t been taking a sip of his wine, but he knew in his heart of hearts that if he had been, he would have done so and stained his expensive throw rug.
“Excuse me,” was all he could think of to say.
“We should fuck, Leslie,” she said. “I’m sorry; I guess I could have put it more lady-like, like for instance, we should make love. I imagine that sounds more palatable, but it’s so wrong. I’ve just met you, there’s no way in hell we could make love, all we could possibly be doing is fucking. Possibly, once you’ve had your cock inside me, we can develop some trust and get to exploring some of those dark areas that haunt us both. So, what do you say?”
She was definitely something.
“Intimacy might just do the job,” he said. He wasn’t the type to normally jump at a one night stand, but somehow this seemed right; Gail was unlike any woman he’d met before; she was bold and direct and there was a certain appeal to that. And whether he admitted it or not, from the first moment that he had seen her, he’d wanted to have sex with her.
“I should warn you, Leslie, it’s my time of the month.”
He looked at her puzzled. He knew what that meant, but it had taken him by surprise; she was good at doing that.
“My period. I’m bleeding.”
“Is it advisable to...to fuck then?” he asked. He really felt awkward saying that word, but she was right that’d be exactly what they were doing.
“It’s just blood. If you don’t mind, I certainly don’t.”
It seemed like a challenge; was she playing a game? He didn’t know what to think, but somehow felt this was a pivotal moment in their short relationship, and a factor on whether or not that relationship would develop any further. She was watching him closely, as if trying to gauge his true reaction, he could see that.
“I suggest we fuck,” he said, placing his wine glass on the table, standing up and reaching out for her to take his hand. She smiled, put down her wine glass and stood up, allowing him to escort her to his bedroom.
Leslie had tried his entire life to be respectful to women. He didn’t want to become one of those men who treated them like sexual objects and only that. He didn’t want to be the kind of guy who would hoot and holler if a beautiful woman walked by; he didn’t want to be the kind of guy who enjoyed going to strip clubs; at the same time, he was the kind of guy who admired beauty. He respected women and knew they were more than objects to be lusted after; they had brains and were the equal of men; his editor at his book publisher was a very intelligent woman who helped him fine-tune his manuscripts; very perceptive. The President and CEO of his publishing house was also a woman, and seeing how she and her team marketed his books, making him independently wealthy, he could only surmise she was not only smart, but was a brilliant businesswoman. He understood that women were more than the sum of a swimsuit calendar, but he was also a man, and if he saw a woman he found appealing, whether he respected her as a businesswoman or not, he still couldn’t help imagining what she’d be like naked and in bed. It was a primal instinct that just couldn’t be entirely denied.
Based on the short time he had spent with Gail, at the gallery opening and in his living room, he knew she was not some airhead to be taken lightly, but a strong woman, who from what he’d seen so far, could probably crush him with her will if she wanted to. At the same time, there was no describing the anticipation and thrill of seeing her naked for the first time, spread out on his bed, inviting him to join her. It was a wondrous sight.
Leslie climbed on top of Gail and they commenced kissing. Her body felt right under his.
She could sense his excitement, his hard penis, between her legs, pushing up against her sex, but without him making any attempt to enter her. He was in no hurry, which was refreshing. There was something about him; he was different than others she had been with and seduced. She wasn’t much for romantic crap or pie-in-the-sky thinking, but somehow, and she cringed when she thought of it, and cursed herself for being someone who could think that way, they were somehow kindred spirits.
“You don’t mind the blood?” she asked him again between kisses.
Leslie looked at her. This week life had taken some unexpected twists and turns; nothing was as usual, so what the hell.
He didn’t say anything. Leslie quickly moved down her body so that his head was between Gail’s legs. She watched as he made the move, unsure what to do - erotically surprised by his boldness. Without saying anything he kissed her sex, his tongue probing her, circling her clitoris, pleasuring her. He did so for a minute or two, before moving back up to look her in the eye, his body on top of hers, his erect penis pressing against her sex where his mouth had just been probing. She looked at him. His face was smeared with her blood; she knew it was on his lips and his tongue; he had tasted her blood and done so without flinching.
“Do you mind the blood?” he asked.
She didn’t answer him. Instead she raised her head and kissed him passionately, tasting herself on his lips. It was then that he slid into her.
The fucking had been great. As Leslie laid there, Gail by his side, he realized there’d be no saving these sheets.
What had he done? What in the hell had possessed him?
He’d never done anything like that before. It wasn’t like he’d never been adventurous between the sheets, just not that adventurous. It was almost as if in the heat the moment he wasn’t himself; he had broken numerous rules by which he had lived; not only had he had unprotected sex with this woman he really only met this evening, but the ultimate bodily fluid had been exchanged and consumed – blood. They were covered in it, as were the sheets. Anyone walking in on them would think they’d walked into a crime scene. What had possessed him and why was she so willing to take such a chance?
“What happened to you?” asked Gail, as her finger traced a bruise on Leslie’s side. “You look like you’ve been to war and back.”
“The life of a critic,” he said, “remember?”
He watched as she took the time to examine his body, seemingly fascinated by the various bruises it held. He watched as she traced many of them with her finger. She seemed lost in her own thoughts.
“It looks a lot worse than it is,” he finally said.
“Everything in life is a little damaged in its own way,” she said quietly, almost as if speaking to herself. “It’s beautiful.”
Gail laid her head down on his chest; Leslie just looked up at the ceiling. He felt damaged.
Gail had always been an early riser, something her Daddy had instilled in her from an early age. Seeing as they always seemed to be on the move, getting up and going early always seemed like the right thing to do. She liked the mornings and the promise of a new day; even overcast days or rainy days offered some possibilities if you were willing enough to look for them.
Rising early, in some instances, also offered the opportunity to investigate; a past time she enjoyed, especially when sleeping over at a man’s apartment. She was naturally curious, and seeing how she had given herself up sexually the night before, it only seemed fitting she was allowed the opportunity to look around and further evaluate whom she had come home with. As far as she was concerned it was her right; and any man who didn’t understand that a woman was going to snoop, well, he was a bit of an unrealistic idiot.
So she snooped.
The alarm went off at seven, rousing Leslie from a pretty sound sleep. He’d had an unexpected late evening and the activities it included had led to one of the best sleeps he’d had in a long time; his mind hadn’t been racing with questions about his past and his Father, but had given way to the simple joys of human pleasure.
He felt for Gail, as he slowly opened his eyes, but the bed next to him was empty; had she snuck out in the middle of the night? What had been the purpose of that? Things seemed to have been going well. It was when he finally sat up and his eyes adjusted to the morning light poking in through the curtains that he spotted her dress, bra and shoes on the floor by the bed where she had left them. If she did in fact sneak out in the middle of the night, it would have been a relatively cool and revealing walk back to whatever hotel she was staying at, he thought, as he got out of bed, pulled on a pair of underwear and started making his way out of the bedroom.
Except for Jude passing him by and meowing to remind him it was time he fed her, the apartment was quiet. If she was in the kitchen cooking him breakfast, she was being extremely quiet about it.
“Morning.”
Leslie almost jumped. He had been passing his office, the door half closed, when Gail had called out to him. He opened the door and looked in. She was in his office, at his desk, at his laptop.
“It appears I’ve startled you again,” she said as he leaned against the door frame.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Snooping.”
Gail continued moving the mouse, obviously looking at something on his laptop. She seemed not to care that he had found her sitting there doing what she was doing. Almost as if she felt she belonged there.
