The Deviant

by Tiana Laveen

  “All of the above.”

  He shrugged. “I cannot judge you for something I have myself done. I have a history of not only collecting bodies, as they say, but of being the head body snatcher in charge. Serial killing the pussy.” The woman arched an eyebrow, her eyes dancing with mirth. “Shit, it’s true. I’m not ashamed of it. I enjoy sex so I acted accordingly. It is what it is. Now, here’s my stance on this, since you brought it up. I don’t believe in promiscuity just for the sake of it.” She cocked her head in question. “It doesn’t flow well with my current agenda and how I want my life to flow and grow. Even my one-night stands have to be on point. I’m picky. I believe we sometimes give ourselves to the wrong people. I don’t want to keep doing that.”

  “I understand. I feel the same way.”

  He had no clue what she was thinking, but he hoped she was vibing with him.

  “If I ever get into another relationship, it won’t matter if my woman had a past. That’s crazy. Pointless. So no, you being free and feeling comfortable with your sexuality, as you say, doesn’t bother me at all. It’s unrealistic for me to expect you to be a thirty-two-year-old virgin, or to not have explored this, just as I have, all of these years. It doesn’t mean shit to me. All I care about is right now. If I get with someone, and we’re exclusive, then she better only be fucking me, and me only. I’ve done a lot of messed up shit in my youth, okay? I didn’t see things the way I see them now, but what I’m not is a cheater.

  “I don’t cheat people out of their money, and I don’t run around on my girlfriend and one day, in the future, my wife. I’ve never cheated on any woman I was in an exclusive relationship with once I got out of my early twenties. Now, if we agreed to see other people, that would be different, but otherwise, no, and I just won’t tolerate that.” He couldn’t help but notice her smiling at his words. Perhaps they were on the same page after all.

  “Would you consider yourself controlling in relationships?”

  “Controlling? Nah.” He shook his head. “I’m sexually and romantically possessive, though. One hundred. I don’t try to control who I’m with. I want her to do her thing, be her own person, but I don’t share their pussy, mouth, tits, ass and heart with ANYONE. EVER. Simple as that.” She nodded in understanding. “I see sex as more important now than, say, even a couple years ago. Meaning, I don’t want more of it; I want better sex. Quality over quantity. I no longer sleep with women who have a personality I find objectionable, either. It has cost me an opportunity to get laid sometimes, but so be it.”

  “Uncalibrated individuals.” She laughed.

  “Exactly.” He smiled back at her, though he knew his words had hurt her that evening since she’d brought it up multiple times.

  “So, switching directions, the job thing… I never took you as unemployed. You’re an artist and you make money doing that.” She fluffed her hair, sniffed her drink and winced. “Damn, this is strong, King. This whiskey has been pumpin’ iron at the gym. This whiskey has entered strong man competitions, winning the gold medal.” She cracked him up. “I’m going to have hair on my chest before the night is through.” The woman was funny down to her core.

  “Trust me, that’s quality whiskey. Just nurse on it. You don’t have to take it all in at once.” Their eyes locked. He was certain she’d caught his sexual innuendo. “Well,” he said with a shrug, “I always have my art gigs, ya know? No matter what. That’s true. The problem is that the money coming in for it isn’t always consistent. That’s the same situation for most artists, actually. Until I get a deal that’s more reliable, like having my own gallery or being hired full time in a company’s art department, I will need another job to make ends meet. I refuse to be a starving artist. I want to eat, and eat well.”

  She nodded. “Cheers on your new job, King.” She brought up her glass, he did the same, and they clanked them together. “Here’s to a steady paycheck. A damn J.O.B.” She chuckled.

  “Would it have mattered if I wasn’t an artist and didn’t have a job, too?” He winked at her, then took another taste of his whiskey.

  “Honestly? Yes.”

  “I would feel the same as you I believe, but playing the Devil’s advocate.” He leaned back into his seat after taking a swig of his drink. “I was supposed to be a one night stand, remember?” She blushed. “You just wanted me for one thing. And that’s fine. No problem with that because the feeling was mutual. A penis doesn’t need a paying gig. Right, Suri? It only has one job that involves pleasure. To fuck.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered, technically, but it would have mattered as far as my libido. I can’t fuck lazy men. It’s a turn off. It means they’ll probably be lazy in bed, too. I can, however, fuck starving artists. Build a life with them?” She grimaced. “Mmmm, probably not.” Her nose wrinkled. “I respect art though. Love it. I admire people who can do things I can’t do.”

  “So, the fact that I’m artistically inclined turns you on?”

  “Definitely. I have a thing for artists. Not only did I find you attractive, but to discover you are so talented was an added bonus. I personally feel it to be an insult that artists and performers in general are not fairly compensated. Thankfully, you do have other useful assets, and yes, you were supposed to be a one night stand, but I was only supposed to be a one-way ticket for you, too.”

  “True.” He hesitated, wondering if he should say what had just popped into his mind. Instead, he kept it to himself. For now. They continued to vibe, laugh, talk about all sorts of things.

  But then, at some point, her face turned serious.

  “I was a late bloomer,” she blurted, getting back to the previous topic. This didn’t surprise him for their discussion had felt unfinished. She fidgeted with her glass. I knew it. She cares about how I perceive her. He waited for her to go on. “I finally gave myself the freedom to explore.”

  “Your body? As in masturbation or as in having sex with others?”

  She shot a look around them, to make sure they weren’t being overheard, then said, “With others. I’ve always been adventurous, but sometimes, I cared too much about others. All you had to do was be good to me one time,” she held her finger up as her eyes narrowed, “and I would feel indebted to you for a long time, way past the usefulness of the connection.”

  Confessions? Vulnerability? She feels she can trusts me.

  “The world eats people like that up, your former self. Good thing you snapped out of it.”

  She gave him an inquisitive look, then tentatively took a sip of her whiskey.

  “I’ve heard you say things like that before.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Words that prove that you have absolutely no faith in humanity.” Her smile had to be deceiving, because she was definitely serious.

  “I don’t. My faith is in whatever force created us. Whatever force created us is inside of us, too, so my faith is also in me. People have to earn my trust and even then, there is no guarantee they won’t cross me. I don’t waste tears, time, or tender moments on people who have proven they don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves.”

  “So, you’re despondent? Emotionless. You have no hope in humankind?”

  “Art is my hope. I find hope inside of me. I don’t look for it externally.”

  “Do you believe that’s productive?”

  “For me it is.” He sucked his teeth and felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He’d answer the call later.

  “It keeps the world out, right? While you stay wrapped safely in your artistic cocoon.” She hooked her fingers in a quotes gesture, her gaze growing darker and smile growing wider, wilder.

  He stared back at her for a spell. She makes me uncomfortable, in a strange way. I like that, in a strange way…

  “Maybe if you’d kept the world out a bit better, you would have avoided some of the users and abusers who entered your realm and took advantage of you, Suri.” He tossed her a condescending smile. On purpose.

  “But then
I wouldn’t be the woman I am today, King. I wouldn’t have known that Pete, for instance, a pathological liar, could play the violin so beautifully and then teach me the basics, too. He gave me something new. I have an appreciation for orchestra because of him. I wouldn’t have discovered that my emotionally wounded mother was deeper than the eye could see, helped me develop my love for architecture and design, jazz, and movie soundtracks. She taught me how to cook shrimp scampi and the perfect grilled cheese sandwich, and gave me permission to be ME. All of the flaws, faults, flowers. Had it not been for many of the horrible people, and the just misguided people I let in for perhaps far too long, I would not appreciate a man who can be cold as ice, yet painted me as clouds drifting amongst the hot sunrays. A fine specimen of a tatted-up, pierced, tall and built ass motherfucker, who guzzled a beer in less than ten seconds and kisses like a soap opera star. A man who knows big words, has big plans, big expectations, and apparently, big judgments of others. Especially those who, according to him, are not calibrated right.”

  She looked him up and down, and the way she looked at him wasn’t nice. Not nice at all. “So no, King, putting up a fortress wouldn’t have protected me from these people. It would have only taught me how to be angry, delay my spiritual, mental, and emotional growth, and leave me in a perpetual state of fear. Fear even of my own self. When you’re worried about all the potential snakes in the grass, head turned down, you miss all the beauty in the sky, the effervescent east and wonderful west.”

  Just then, the band began to play. She turned away, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in red. Pondering her cutting words, he enjoyed a leisurely sip of his whiskey. She smiled and clapped her hands to the rhythm, rocking in her seat. Bright, beautiful teeth glistened and the pure snow white of her eyes looked like clarity in glistening motion. With an unhurried hand, he lifted his cigar to his mouth and took a drag, then leaned over the table, extending his hand. Slowly, smoothly.

  “You want this?”

  She looked his way and a fresh smoke screen formed between them, temporarily distracting. Then, she smiled. Taking the cigar from his grasp, she placed it between her plush, juicy lips and drew from it. She coughed a little, and they both laughed at her inexperience. When the song ended, there was a bit more stillness as patrons spoke quietly amongst themselves.

  “I’m not afraid, Suri. Let’s continue this conversation.”

  “Oh, so you want to debate me, huh? All right.” She linked her fingers and sat up straight, clearly hungry for the hunt.

  “It’s not a debate. It’s a discussion. I am angry, and I have the right to be. As long as I use that anger for good, pour it into something that counts, I am free to be me as you are free to be you. Whoever doesn’t like it,” he shrugged, “fuck ’em. I’m fighting the system by not being a part of the problem.”

  “How so?”

  “By being an example—showing that there can still be anarchists who will go to war for peace. Deviants, social outcasts such as myself, contending against the messed up, socially twisted behavior of monsters. I refuse to reward sociopaths, and anyone remotely fitting into that category, with the honor of my presence, let alone my friendship. I retired from free dick samples, too. I told you, a woman has to do more than look good nowadays for me to give her what I have. I put a lot of time and skill into everything that I do. So, if I’m not fucking someone on those grounds, they most certainly will never receive my love. It’s a choice to love someone. It’s a choice to hurt someone over and over again. My behavior, Suri, is in direct reaction to the fucked up world around us.”

  “But not everything is messed up. You can find beauty and a lesson in almost anything and anyone, King. That’s all I’m saying. Ugliness sometimes provides beauty. It comes in the form of a raincheck.”

  “Life is not pretty. I don’t pretend it is, Suri. Simple as that. Why should I have to roll around in a dumpster on the chance of finding a fuckin’ ten dollar bill?” Her smile slowly faded. “I can appreciate a bee’s stinger without putting myself in a position of feeling the puncture. I can understand that fire is hot and can be harmful without jamming my fingers into a flame, to feel the burn. Every time someone stabs you in the back, intentionally hurts you, they leave a mark. You can’t see it, you may not even recognize it right away, but it has affected you, scared you. You start to trust a little less, become more suspicious. It’s the natural built-in mechanism in all of us, to learn from our mistakes and survive.

  “Sometimes we ignore that little warning though. We rip it off like the scratchy tag on the back of a shirt before we’ve read the laundering instructions. I don’t need emotionally stunted and low vibrational people in my life to teach me how to make a mean soufflé, simply because they taught me to hate myself, too. So, is that the price I have to pay? Providing benevolence to the unworthy in hopes of a plastic dime store prize?”

  “Is that what you think this is?”

  “That’s what I know this is.” He chuckled dismally, shaking his head in disbelief. “If it cost a penny, the shit would still be too fuckin’ expensive. By avoiding bullshit, my peace of mind is free.” He flopped back in his seat, cigar in hand, and whistled as the crowd amped up to welcome the new song and encourage the band.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Suri run her hand along her knee, as if deliberating on his words. The sounds of guitars strumming and mic checks ensued as the band geared up to begin their second song. Minutes passed and the mood lightened. Just like her smile did to a room. It wasn’t long before he had her tasting Jim Beam Signature whiskey, and King’s Road, too. The woman laughed and shared hilarious stories, her tongue looser. She was free. She didn’t seem to have an unhappy bone in her body, and his bone was never unhappy when it was inside of her. He steepled his fingers and watched her, heard every damn word she spoke. And the way her body swayed, traveled her gaze and moved her limbs intrigued him, too.

  “I can’t stop sitting here, my mind wandering, wanting to get away somewhere and fuck you.” That was the truth. “I take you to one of the few places where we are allowed to both smoke and drink in New York City, show you a good time, listen to great music, and this is amazing, ya know? I’m feeling you, in every way.”

  Elbow on the table, she rested her face against her hand.

  “I’m feeling you, too.”

  “And even with the shit we don’t agree on, Suri, I like hearing your perspective because you’re intelligent, and you know how to present your case. I’m stubborn. I can be arrogant at times when it comes to my beliefs, I guess you could say.

  “And you rarely think you’re wrong.” She looked at him dreamily, admiring him, perhaps hating him a little, too.

  “I probably don’t like being wrong, baby, but if someone can show me proof that I’ve misjudged, mis-stepped, misconstrued anything, then I will stand corrected and take a bow at their feet.”

  “All of this, this shit right here… this vibe, this gift of friendship, lust and intelligence wasn’t supposed to happen.” He nodded in agreement. “Are we going to keep going forward, knowing we’ll probably bump heads, have ridiculously great sex and give each other headaches?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t motivated to move forward. It’s good… I like this, all of this, but, uh, my mind keeps going back to the darkest, softest, wettest parts of you.” Her eyes hooded as she smirked, looking him up and down as if he were made of all the bad things in the world combined.

  “Are you going to give me back my panties?” she quipped.

  “Nope.” He took a sip of his drink and glanced at the stage.

  “Those were one of my favorite pairs.” She feigned a sad expression. “Victoria’s Secret.”

  “Well, her secret wasn’t safe with me. Size large to accommodate that perfect ass of yours, cotton crotch, bright red against smooth as silk brown skin.”

  “You like underwear? You’re that type of freak?”

  “Yeah. I like underwear.” He shrugged, loo
king lazily at the band, then back at her.

  “Why? Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I’m just curious.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me if you found it strange, really. If you do, that’s fine. It won’t change anything. People are who they are. Anyway, yeah.” He stroked his beard and looked into her eyes. “I like knowing that it was close to the most intimate and sacred part of a woman I desire. That I had what was hidden away inside of it, what was rubbing against it. I like the way the fabric feels,” He began to rub his hands together, slowly demonstrating just how’d he do it. She visibly swallowed. “…The lingering scent of womanly sexual excitement… Excitement that I caused her to have…moisture… I enjoy it, until that is all gone, too. But I hold on to the panties, nevertheless. It’s an aide-mémoire, if you will, of your femininity. Something I am not, that I could never be, but appreciate and, I suppose, in my own way, worship.”

  A web of silence weaved itself between them, so thick it rivaled the fog of smoke. Her lips slowly parted, the sheen across her lower lip catching the light just so.

  “Just so I’m clear, you don’t go finding random underwear, right? It has to be someone you dated?”

  “Yeah. I don’t want just anyone’s dirty ass draws.” She chuckled and shook her head. “I mean, shit, I’m freaky, but I have boundaries. Anyway, the point is, I have to have been connected to the woman. Like we had chemistry, a connection, and I would have been with her intimately. You were a triple threat.”

  “How so?”

  “The underwear is good quality and pretty. It’s in my favorite color, red. Of course, the obvious. We fucked. So, I simply couldn’t resist.”

  “When did you realize you wanted to see me again?” She offered a crooked smile.

  He polished off his glass of whiskey, looked around them, then settled his gaze back upon her.

  “The better question is, when did you realize you were upset that I was gone?”