by Tiana Laveen
“Yeah…” she whispered as he coaxed her to lie down.
“I’ve never gotten so horny just by kissing someone. Damn, you turn me the fuck on, Suri.”
Hands all over one another, they became entangled like grapevines, crushing each other, making fine wine. It wasn’t long before he had her on her knees, doggy-style, shaking and cursing as he fucked the shit out of her from behind. His balls slapped loudly against engorged, dripping pussy lips, and he put his all into each damn stroke. Her back arched to his bottomless plunges, her pussy stretching, taking him all in, giving him everything within her that he could ever need and want. They came at the same time, yelling and cursing each other out as their climaxes intersected, making them fall over the cliff of sanity. Their bodies were slick with sweat by the time he finished with her, his last condom gone. He wished he’d brought more.
They fell to the bed, listless. Breaths shallow, eyes glazed, high as kites as that chemistry, lust, crazy, sexy, cool, deviant shit took flight.
“There’s magic in art. I think that’s what I loved about what you painted tonight, King. It was surreal, without trying to be. Unpretentious.”
“It has to be unpretentious. Authentic artistic expression is spellcasting.”
“What do you mean?” She seemed genuinely intrigued.
“Music. Books. Movies. Artwork. It all uses a tempo, repetitions, beats. They are prayers. Bewitchment. Conjuring. Sentences have a rhythm. We are addicted to rhythms and reiteration. A song, no matter how bad or silly is a spell, especially if you listen to it more than once. That’s why poetry is so poignant. There is power in lyrics. Words. Pictures. They alter the brain. Train it. Cause a craving, like dopamine. Art, music, books and movies are loved all over the world. They are universal. They are medications. Remedies can be helpful, even a blessing, or they can be harmful and have irreversible effects. It depends on one’s drug of choice. That’s why we dance. Our souls need it. That’s why we stare at art, gravitate towards it. That’s why we read tales of enchanted places, of lives that are not our own, and feel peculiar, in a good way, after we finish reading it. We seek out these spells, these drugs, on a daily basis. That’s why I said art is God. And art moves. It never stays stagnant. We create prayers, and we answer them. Artists are magicians. The work we create is the church. Our audiences, the congregation. Most times, the artists are both. We get high, too.”
“That’s deep. You know, I never really thought about it that way, but I can see it! That’s wild.” Her tone was so animated. “You must smoke.” Her jovial expression changed on a dime. Her eyebrow rose to the point it reminded him of McDonald’s arch. “You’re probably high right now,” she teased.
He laughed again. She made him feel good all over.
“I’m not high.” Actually, yes, I am… but not off weed. He chewed on his lip. They lay there, resting their heads together, fingers intertwined. The music played, the melon scented candle flickered and scented the air. Human flesh, their mixed essences all over each other’s skin. Wrapped in the white sheets. Her brown limbs, bent like angel wings, peeking out here and there.
Don’t. It’s not a good time in your life, King. Fuck how gorgeous she is. Fuck this dope ass conversation. Fuck that she has an artistic eye, a job, her own place, and style. Damn it! Worst of all, overthinkers are exhausting, but they’re my weakness. They like using their brains so much, they actually go too fucking far. Suri is that and then some. I know I didn’t expect this, and I usually am happy to go with the flow when an opportunity presents itself, but this isn’t a good idea. I might get too close to her, and then there’ll be no turning back. I have to stay focused on getting my money in order. Leave her alone…
“You said you’re called the deviant artist. Why?”
“Because of some of the pieces I’ve done.” He knew she wasn’t satisfied with that answer, but he hesitated to offer more.
“I want to know why. Do you have any of your art online or on your phone or anything?”
The hell with it. She wants to know, so she’ll know. “Yeah. Hold up.” He got up and reached for his phone, then slid back into bed next to her. She sat up and leaned in close to him. He saw her eyes widen.
“These are… damn. I’m speechless, King. Is that a pussy?” She pointed at the one called, ‘Cream.’
“Yup.”
“And what is that?”
“Intercourse. From the inside.”
“Wow. It’s beautiful. I’m so glad you’re not letting your talent go to waste. So many people do.” She didn’t appear shocked or offended but genuinely impressed with his explicit renditions. The art that he pulled from the recesses of his mind. “Were these for anything in particular? A specific show or just something you wanted to do?”
“I did a highly acclaimed show last year in Soho. The theme was, ‘What sex looks like.’ I even had one piece in the lobby of the Museum of Sex to help advertise it. I did everything from the inside out, versus what people expected. What sex feels and looks like internally, but not from like a medical and anatomy perspective. It was an abstract interpretation.”
“Did you come up with that?”
“Yes. I didn’t do it for shock value, although I got some of that reaction, too. It got a lot of attention. Praise.”
“They’re actually really striking, King.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you get any awards or anything? I mean, that may not be how the art world works, but—”
“I was featured in several international magazines. Like here, for instance.” He pointed to his phone. “I showed body heat in this one, see? The way our temperature rises during foreplay… the pinnacle of arousal. And here, I showed the release of—”
“Sperm flowing to the egg, creating life.”
“Yup. But not just biologically. This is depicting a planned pregnancy. Two people who are intentionally constructing a new existence, and that’s what I wanted to get across. All life, whether intentionally made or not, is beautiful. But just, you know, the thought of planning the conception of a baby and doing it in the moment, knowing exactly the end result, to me, is extraordinary.” Her fingers sprawled as she gripped the sheet between them. He watched her do it over and over. She’s even got nice hands.
“This is your calling, King,” she finally said, after a bout of silence. “The colors, the blending, everything. That takes skill and God given genius.”
“Thank you.” He put his phone down on the nightstand.
“You’re welcome.” She yawned. “So, if music, books, and art are like spells, oh, and movies, then how do you break a spell?”
He pulled her close, letting her rest her head against his chest. Stroking her arm, he looked up at the ceiling, trying to figure out the best way to answer the question.
“Never really thought about that. I guess it’s because I like being under the spell.” She smiled up at him. “But, if I were to really want to do that, we might need to look at the core components. In order to deconstruct something, you have to look at how it was created, how it was made. To tear something down, you must know what built it up. Spells are words. So, you have to find something stronger than them to topple them over.”
“Action.”
“Exactly. Actions speak louder than words. Words stay with us forever, but actions completely change the narrative. We react with a response. A change of behavior. A metamorphosis.”
“A… metamorphosis…” she repeated before yawning once again.
“Yes… like my stepfather’s last name, and now mine. Change is inevitable, baby, good or bad, whether we want it or not.” He kissed the top of her head. Why did I do that? Why do I feel so comfortable here? Why do I not want to leave?
It wasn’t long before Suri was asleep on him. Her thick, long coils were so soft to the touch. He played with them, then pulled away. At that moment, he didn’t like how she made him feel. All she was doing was sleeping, but with that one action, she tore him apart.
> She’s comfortable. She trusts me now, regardless of whether she consciously wants to or not. I don’t want anything serious right now. Nor does she. I’m crossing the line by even still being here. Damn, man…
He looked down at her and tried to resist, but gave in to his desires to press one final kiss against her delicious lips. With expert stealth, he managed to wiggle from beneath her, keeping her undisturbed as she now lightly snored. Creeping out of the bedroom with his wallet and phone, he made quick work of putting his clothes back on, then blew out the candle on the coffee table and snatched his satchel from the couch. He grabbed his jacket from her closet, approached the front door to leave, then stopped.
Panic crept up his body.
His heart beat damn near out of his chest. Taking a deep breath, he rested his head against her front door.
Fuck it.
He went to the kitchen and found a pen and an old notebook in a drawer. He quickly jotted down his name and number, then tore the piece of paper out, leaving it on the kitchen counter.
Then, as quietly as possible, he closed the door behind him…
CHAPTER SIX
A Black Hair on a White Pillow
“911, what’s your emergency?” Suri leaned back in her cubicle seat and crossed her legs as ‘Lovely Day,’ by Bill Withers played on low volume on her computer.
“Yeah, I’m over here on uh, on uh, shit… Where the fuck am I? Okay, I got it now. Canal Street, yeah, on Canal Street, and this son of a bitch rear ended me. Send the fuckin’ cops.”
“I didn’t rear end you, you idiot! You pulled out in front of me!”
“Like hell I did! You’re going to jail!”
“Okay, sir, please stop speaking to the other gentleman and tell me what’s going on. First, I need to know if you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, but this bastard won’t be for long. He’s got a piece of shit car, barely a scratch! Meanwhile, mine looks like a smashed tin can. He’s got no fuckin’ insurance either, probably. I’m about to beat his fawkin’ ass!”
“Sir, I will send the police so you can fill out a police report about the incident. Please just—”
“We don’t need the cops!” The guy in the back yelled. “This isn’t an emergency, waste of tax dollars. It’s a little bump. He’s exaggerating.”
“This is definitely an emergency because his keister is going to be in the E.R. I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch! Where’d you learn to drive? Underwater? You totaled my Audi with your little wind-up toy Nissan, fuckin’ asshole!”
Suri ran her hand along one of her bubble ponytails. She had her hair braided on the sides, the ponytails threaded with gold ribbons and clay beads. After a good yawn and having had enough of the back and forth bickering between the two guys, she interrupted.
“Sir, please stop cursing and don’t threaten the other party. It’s understandable that you’re upset, but in order for me to assist you, I need you to try your best to stop engaging. Tune him out and answer some questions for me.” Suri went on to confirm the additional information she needed, send out an officer, and finish the call. When it was all said and done, her damn ears were practically burning from the guy’s screaming and carrying on. Not only that, her stomach was growling. She remembered her breakfast had been nothing more than a cup of tea with honey.
To top things off, she’d hardly gotten any sleep the last couple of days, and work was moving at a snail’s pace. It wasn’t even ten in the morning yet, but it felt as if she’d been at work for twenty hours straight. Perhaps she was distracted… She closed her eyes and squeezed her thighs together as the memory of King knocking her walls the hell out flooded her mind like the Hudson. Even after two days, she could still feel where he’d been deep inside of her. Long. Fat. And that hook of his… whew!
Damn.
He knew exactly how to work it, too… Amazing lover.
Thoughts of King kept dancing in her head like sugarplums the night before Christmas. Since that night, she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
“Simone.” She popped up out of her chair, ignoring her pulsating peach and the heat that now radiated through her like a struck match, and waved to her co-worker one cubicle over. The gorgeous ebony woman with long ginger-red braids reared back in her seat, pink paper straw in her mauve-painted mouth as she sucked hard on a Sprite soda. She clutched the can with nails that looked like black eagle talons.
“What’s up?”
“I’m about to go on break. If Trice asks, tell her I’ll be right back.” Simone nodded then scooted back into her cubicle, out of sight. Suri slipped her gargantuan thrift store boho bag over her shoulder, grabbed her beige corduroy jacket, and headed towards one of the lesser used conference rooms. Once she ensured it was empty, she crept inside and locked the door. She looked out the vast window, catching her reflection. Her head looked as if it was filled with clouds. Lips curling at the ends like sun-dried scrolls, she recalled the painting on the wall, done in her image.
She is me, I am she. We are we.
She took in the view of the city. Striking. Though she was born and raised right there, she never got tired of admiring the cityscape, travelling to the various boroughs, finding new places to dine, explore, and unwind. She had become one with the beauty of the noise, hustle and bustle, and day to day grind. At times, she resented the city for life here was always an uphill battle, but in the end, she knew the climb was worth it. On a sigh, she pulled out one of the mulberry colored chairs that smelled as if it had just come from a furniture showroom and plopped down into it, placing her big jalopy purse before her on the long, glossy wooden table.
She rummaged through it and retrieved her cellphone, noticing a missed text message from one of her best friends, Mandi. She immediately responded:
Suri sat there laughing so hard, her head hurt. Once she got herself together, she made a call. It went straight to voicemail.
“Mom, it’s me, Suri. I, uh, haven’t heard from you in a few days.” She began to swivel in the chair, enjoying the view once again. “I know you were under the weather last week, said you had another cold, so I just wanted to see if you finally shook that cough and stuffy nose this time around. I’m at work, as usual.” She smiled and looked up at the ceiling. One of the panels was crooked. “Give your daughter a call when you’re up to it. Love you like a greased scalp on school picture day.” She ended the call, then took a deep breath, rummaging through her purse once more.
There it is.
She pulled out a folded piece of paper with his name and number on it and held it with both hands, staring at it with such intensity, her head began to hurt once more.
So, I was told as I was growing up into a young woman to never call a man right after something like that. Let a week or two, or three go by. It made sense at the time. Now I ask, ‘But why?’ It probably doesn’t matter. Either someone wants to be with you, share a bit of your time, or they don’t. No long grace period needed. But for some reason, I’m still glad I waited. Is it revenge for him leaving without saying a word? Maybe.
When she’d woken up the morning after and it registered that King was gone, the rest of her weekend felt surreal. Had he truly been there? Of course he had. It was the oddest thing. That morning, she’d been stupefied and troubled at his absence. She hadn’t heard him leave, and as she’d lain in her bed, feeling out of sorts, she’d understood that she was a little angry, too. She’d remained in for quite a while, still smelling him. His scent drifted like the clouds he painted, and what an intoxicating fragrance it was, with an earthiness mixed with all the smells she loved. She’d balled up the pillow he’d rested on and kept it close to her like a lover for the next two nights straight. King had left a bit more than that, too. He’d left a little piece himself at the scene of the crime: a strand of straight black hair on her sheets.
She’d picked it up and curled it around her finger, figuring she’d never see him again. This was it. After replaying the memory of her evening at The M
etric, then the incredible lovemaking and their amazing discussions that followed, she’d accepted it for the fleeting rendezvous it had been. Once I saw he left, I damn sure wasn’t going to try to find him on social media. That seems kinda stalkerish. He was gone. It simply wasn’t meant to be. So, she’d taken a hot shower, thrown on an oversized sweater and jeans, and had fiddled with her hair. But then, when she’d gone to the kitchen to make breakfast, she spotted the paper on the counter with his name and number. She’d stood frozen, chest tightening… but so relieved.
She’d picked up the piece of paper and read it twice. His penmanship was immaculate, not fancy but neat, the message concise. Full name. Number. The end.
Perhaps, him leaving his full name versus only his first was another dig at her for what had transpired during their initial meeting at the club. She found the thought of that actually amusing. Muscling out of her deliberations, she ceased spinning about in the chair and picked up her phone. She turned back towards the vast windows, watching the cars and people go by, tiny as they were, twenty floors down. She dialed.
“Hello, this is King speaking.” When he answered, her chest seized and a dull pain radiated across her breastbone. It was the oddest reaction, one that made her grab the fabric of her shirt and twist it in a firm grip. That deep ass voice on the other end rumbled through her like a damn train with no brakes.
“Hi, King. This is Suri.”
“Heeey, Red Riding Hood. I usually don’t answer numbers I don’t recognize, but I have some job interviews lined up, so I picked up just in case. This is nice, though. You called. How are ya?” She could hear the smile in his words and felt as if someone had dipped her in a tranquil stream and helped her float down it.
“I’m great. Did you enjoy the rest of your weekend?”
“Yeah, it was good.” She could hear Hiroshi Suzuki’s ‘Romance’ playing in the background, and damn near swooned. “I hung out with some friends of mine. You may have seen them at The Metric, actually. We got caught up, hadn’t seen a couple of them in a while and everything. It was nice. How about you?”
