Even with the bubble music, we’re still not friends, sex and me, and all those fancy clothes in the closet belong to the person W.T. made, not the one I want to be. I look at myself in the mirror in my panties and bra and try to imagine that woman.
The doorbell rings, and it’s a good thing, too, because I’m not making a bit of progress.
I answer the door in my robe. It’s Swan.
“Girl, you ain’t ready yet?”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Lead me to your wardrobe, child. Swan is here. I can make magic out of the matronly.”
“My own fairy godmother,” I mumble under my breath and direct him to my dresser.
After twenty minutes, Swan has found a pair of dark jeans, a fuchsia blouse, silver pumps and a light gray, silk scarf that was stuffed in my sock drawer. He pulls it all together with tasteful makeup and glossy lips to make me look Bohemian chic in springtime.
“Finally,” he says with all the drama of a vexed drag queen. “Darling, you look even good enough for me to fuck!”
I take that as a compliment, and we’re out the door.
Swan pulls his black BMW in back of a small art gallery in a secluded area of town surrounded by dense woods. The gallery itself seems to be built into the landscape with natural woods and local rock. It’s styled like a high-end log cabin with a few nude statues of gods and goddesses carved out of polished oak and granite scattered around the grounds. The place alone puts me at ease, and as weird as it sounds, knowing that Swan dressed me and is my date, makes me feel even better. I blend with the other people going in, an interesting mix of finely dressed folks getting out of luxury cars with Fulton and Cobb County license plates—professionals from around Atlanta. And the best part is that I know for certain my date is not going to try to get into my panties tonight. Swan takes my arm (like I’m his man), and we go inside.
The entrance of the gallery is enticing. Small, potted bushes of night jasmine sit at the door; their fragrance fills my head and intoxicates me with their spicy-sweetness. I can almost see their scent thicken the air and drift up the wood-planked walls covered in honey-colored shellac. Abstract sculptures undulate and curve and hug negative space like flesh and bone, and the light is so soft and warm, it feels like candlelight. A sudden tingle runs from the back of my neck down my spine and between my thighs. Angels are walking through me. For the first time in a long time, it feels good to be some place. Swan walks us up to the hostess, who is checking in guests. She‘s a sweet-looking girl with round cheeks, heart-shaped lips and heavy mascara, dressed all in white.
She tells us kindly, “All of our guests tonight are invited to create art pieces themselves. Supplies will be provided for you, should you decide to join in.”
The thought of actually making something seems like fun to me. I smile and thank her, and Swan guides me down a small corridor. As we reach the main gallery, I can hear a few voices, but it’s mostly quiet—art gallery quiet—the kind of quiet that says people are deeply pondering the pieces and whispering about what they like and hate about them. When we enter the room, I hear the words, “fuckable art” and then I see. The art pieces are free-standing men and women perched on small pedestals throughout the gallery and covered in nothing but what the Good Lord gave them. I gasp, and I guess Swan hears it.
“They are the canvases, darling. Isn’t it a delicious idea?” His eyes are as big as mine, but for a very different reason. “Close your mouth, darling. Someone might think you’re a prude.”
I have never felt like such a prude in all my life. I am THE prude. I was raised to be a prude. I don’t know how to be anything but a prude. All of the “canvases”—about twenty men and women of all shapes, sizes and colors—stand in neutral positions with their hands at their sides, waiting for their artists to transform them into “art.” While a few budding artists dive right in, most people stare in amazement with dirty little grins on their faces. Others pretend like they don’t even see them, and instead talk to each other about the inanimate works dotted around the gallery. But it’s all sex—photographs, sculptures, framed poetry—and milling around are stark-naked waiters and waitresses carrying flutes of champagne. (I’m sorry, but the black bow ties around their necks just don’t count as a uniform.) A striking woman walks up to a female canvas, gently brushes the hair off her shoulder, and lets her hands fall down the curves of the canvas’s teardrop breasts and the hourglass of her waist and hips. My fingertips start to sweat. I raise my hand for a waiter’s attention.
Swan comes to my rescue with an equally sweaty glass of champagne. I’m not much of a drinker, but Jesus drank wine, and well, desperate times call for desperate measures. I take a hearty swig, and Swan leads me toward a man-canvas. At first, I can’t see anything but his nakedness. His skin looks like red clay mixed with dark chocolate; it’s both dark and bright with fire at the same time. I try to look at his eyes, but I can’t turn away from the flame in his skin. Then a chorus of angels flows through me, and this time, they stay between my thighs to frolic with my yani-girl for a while. I give her a gentle squeeze. It feels good. I close my eyes and lick the remaining bubbles of champagne from my lips. My mind is starting to get sudsy. When I open my eyes, I realize the man-canvas is about six feet tall. His chest is toned but not too muscular. His stomach is flat and defined but not “cut.” I glance down below his stomach, and…oh, my goodness! I keep going to his thighs and then his calves. Even when he’s standing still and relaxed, I can see the contours of his muscles. He isn’t just perfect; he’s a god!
“Gracie, this is Barrett Gold. He’s a friend of mine.”
When I turn to Swan, my face flushes hot. He sucks his teeth at my blushing and sighs.
“Barrett, don’t mind her. She’s just hard up ’cuz she ain’t had no dick in a long time, and you the first real man she’s seen in years, and she don’t know how the hell to act around a naked man, especially one as fine as you. Barrett, this is Gracie. She’s my friend, too.”
What kind of introduction was that? My heart drops into my stomach. But before I can react, Swan shoves a hand caddy full of body paints and brushes into my arms and makes a grand bow.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I think I see me a new papa bear in search of a beautiful cocoa twink, and you both know I am made to fill that order!” And he saunters off just like that. No apology; no nothing, just an embarrassment and good-bye. I can’t stand him!
After that introduction, all I want to do is run away like a schoolgirl. I look down at the caddy in my arms, and as if he knew what I was thinking, Barrett says, “Don’t go yet.”
I smile a nervous smile. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I have to make a mental note to find a friend with a filter.”
“Oh, he’s all right. That’s why he brought you here. Tonight is not about filters. It’s about what you would do if you had no filters.”
“He told you about me?”
“Only that this show is what you needed. He said you were—”
“Uptight,” I huff.
“‘Closed up’ is what he said. He wants you to open up, so, he reserved me for you.”
I glance over at Swan running his finger across some old, fat man’s chest, and I shoot daggers at him. I turn back to Barrett. “And you think you’ve got what it takes to open me up?”
“Gracie,” he says, slipping submission into the sex in his voice, “it will be my absolute pleasure to try.”
I take a swig of champagne. “I don’t know what to do…with you…I mean, here. I mean—” I shake my head and close my eyes, hoping for a do-over.
He saves me. “Well, you can pose me any way you like and paint me any way you like.” His voice deepens with an air of naughty professionalism. “You can touch me anywhere you like. I’m your subject, your model, your canvas. While we’re here, I’m yours for you to do with whatever you think is beautiful.”
“Do you have any clothes?” I wince, already knowing the answer
.
“No. I’m sorry, I don’t have any available for you.”
“Why?” My curiosity speaks before me. “I mean, what makes somebody want to stand naked in front of a room full of people?”
“It’s a long story, but the short version is, I’m curious. People kind of lose their minds when it comes to sex. The body and mind want to do so many creative things, but there are all of these rules. ‘Do not,’ ‘Thou shalt not,’ ‘Restricted,’ ‘Prohibited.’ The only rule should be consent. I just want to see what people will do in a space where it’s okay to let their imaginations run wild.” Then he leans in and whispers in my ear. “What’s going through your mind, Gracie?”
My yani warms and loosens. I have a flash of vision and almost feel him moving inside me. I take the last gulp of champagne from the flute and let the bubbles work their magic.
I sit the caddy down on the floor and walk around him to see what I’m working with. He’s just as perfect on the back side as he is on the front. I look at the muscles in his back and how they dip and rise and roll from left to right when he moves. The small of his back curves down and out to the most perfect roundness I have ever seen. It’s full and tight and caves in at the sides. I want to touch him right there, but it’s too much for me. I just might kiss the spot. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears and pulsing against the band of my panties. I squeeze my yani one more time. My toes tingle, and I feel my panties get warm and sticky.
“You know, God made rules for a reason,” I say.
“Then God shouldn’t have given us imaginations and free will.”
Dang it! I’m out of champagne.
I look around for the waiter and see the spirit of the show has set in. Most people are finger-painting to create their “art.” Men are coloring breasts, caressing nipples to make them—and themselves—grow hard. One man has decorated a woman-canvas, who has an enormous, round bosom, as an elaborate dessert with two giant penises as the “bananas” on either side of her, the butts of two other canvases bent over her as the ice cream scoops, and her plump breasts portrayed as giant, glittery gumdrops. For a splash of color, the artist has placed huge cherries on the “scoops” and between her legs, and then he starts stroking himself in order to add the cream to top it all off. The less imaginative are cutting designs into pubic hair. Some other folks are erecting sculptures out of penises that curve this way or that. A few of the guests have taken off their own clothes and are painting each other. A couple in the corner is now naked and literally bringing to life the Kama Sutra photo above them. The temperature in the room has gone up twenty degrees, and I’m starting to sweat. I snatch the scarf from around my neck and fan myself with my shirt. I reach into my caddy and pull out a paintbrush—the longest one I can find.
I dip the brush into some black paint, and as I reach out for my canvas’s chest, my hand is trembling. Breaking all of the rules of a good canvas, Barrett gently takes my hand. His touch startles me. I like to think it’s because of his sudden movement, but I know that isn’t it. I jumped because he scares me to death. In five minutes, he’s got me thinking and feeling things that go against everything I know to be right and true and safe. I try to pull it together, but then he takes my other hand and puts it on his face. He closes his eyes and turns his head to smell the perfume on my wrist. It’s one of my spots, and a hot rush swells my yani walls. I lean forward to smell him, just him. He’s been chewing spearmint leaves, and his skin is slightly musky. I bathe myself in his scent as it floats out and wraps itself around me, cradles me and rocks me. I can feel the wetness building up in my panties, and I glance back at the Kama Sutra corner, wishing I was there with him. He lets go of my hand, and I look down at it. It has stopped shaking, but it is just as wet as every other part of me.
“Thank you,” I say.
I breathe one good breath and begin again. I position his body in the form of a matador taunting his bull, pour red paint into my hand and begin to create. I start with his chest and move across the contours of his body, all of the peaks and valleys of him, the firmness of where he is flexed and the softness of where he is relaxed, the bones in his feet, and the veins that connect everything. Nothing else matters right now except for him. When I think I’m done, I realize thirty minutes have gone by, and I step back to see what I have done. I’ve detailed him with bright, abstract designs over most of his body—a painted pony—but when I scan his entire body, I see there is one part of him that is noticeably unpainted, untouched by my hand. I laugh at how ridiculous he looks and how stupid I must look as his artist. I look him in the eye, then drop my gaze. Jesus, it’s a prize!
“Anywhere?” I try to contain my own dirty little smile.
“Anywhere.” There is no smile on his face. And this time, he glances at the corner.
I ratchet my brain to refocus. I have been so brave up to this moment, I decide to go for it and bend down to face my fear. The champagne is gone, but here they come anyway—the bubbles—happily popping like a kid blowing into milk through a straw. Pop, pop, pop! Then the raunchy, porn synthesizers bownchika-wown-wown in the background…and then the melodic horns. I smile with the sound of bubble music in my head, let some gold paint trickle across my fingers, and take my canvas’s penis into my hand. It’s long and fleshy-soft, but as I begin to apply pressure with my hand and rub the warm, slick gold all over his shaft, I can feel my canvas come alive, inch by inch, in my hands. The harder he gets, the harder my clit gets and it sends little shocks of electricity through me. I imagine him taking it in his mouth and giving it a little tug just to drive me crazy. I gently run my fingers back and forth over the tip of his penis, and he flinches just a little. Just by touching the smooth roundness of his head, every nerve ending inside me is anticipating its entry into me, and my desire for it comes down and makes me wet. I open up and ready myself to take him in, all at once getting looser and wetter, swelling and dripping. The rush is like a flash flood. I want him inside me so badly, I can’t take it. I can’t stop. I just keep painting and painting, and I can feel him getting not just harder, but swelling bigger, wider. He starts breathing hard and grunting. I know what’s about to happen, and he makes no effort to stop it, right here in front of God and everybody.
Seeing him and feeling him grow in my hand like that, makes me think of what God must feel like. The joy God must have in creating us, giving us such beauty and power. He gave us these bodies to do incredible things with. He gave them shapes and feeling and colors and smells and tastes, and He didn’t just give them to us for procreating. He gave them to us for life—all parts of it—to wonder over, to enjoy, to bask in, to feel good in. It’s not evil; it’s God’s plan. I can see the vein in his long, thick, gilded rod pulsing. He is ready. I squeeze my yani good one time, ready for him to come, but she doesn’t let go! She clamps down on just the thought of him inside me, and I come instead! I grab the back of his leg and hold on for dear life until my body stops throbbing and uncoils.
After a few seconds, I rest my forehead on his knee, breathing heavily. I could die from embarrassment right now. I look up at him and squeeze the back of his knee with my golden hand.
“I think I’m done,” I say, just about panting.
“Uh.” He squeezes his eyes closed, still on the razor’s edge of pain and pleasure. “Are you sure?”
I feel guilty as sin for doing that to him, but I smile. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Are you satisfied with what you’ve done?”
I spontaneously combust on his leg, and he asks me if I’m satisfied! My yani contracts again on her own.
I nod. “Yep, you look really good.”
“Am I all finished?” he says through a deep breath.
I nod quickly.
I put my paints away and look for a getaway.
“You hum,” he grunts.
“What?”
“You were humming.”
I scrunch my nose like I have no idea what he is talking about. “Was I? I don
’t know what that was.” I don’t want to talk anymore; I just want to leave and get some air. I see the counter where people are returning their caddies. “It was nice to meet you,” I say and scoop up all my stuff and scatter off.
I find a very tipsy Swan huddled in a corner with his big bear and pull him to the side.
“Swan, get me out of here before I’m struck down and dragged straight to Hell this very second.”
“One man’s Hell is another man’s Heaven, darling.”
“SWAN!” I want to strangle him, I’m so annoyed.
He giggles like a drunk cheerleader under the bleachers.
“Forget it. I’ll find my own way home,” I grumble, and I stomp off to call me a taxicab.
On Monday, I go to work as usual, but Swan doesn’t show up at his regular time. I’ve worked myself up to be angry at him for tricking me into going to that sorry excuse for an art show with those sorry examples of “respectable people.” And ME! I stayed and participated! I don’t want him to show his face in this diner ever again. It would be too awkward and embarrassing. Knowing him, he’d say something, and I’d wind up telling him that I can’t get Barrett out of my mind. I can’t shake the feelings he stirred in me. They’re so strong that not even my accidental orgasm could make them go away. I’ve been carrying around extra panty shields for two days just to keep dry. He tricked me into going against everything I believe in regarding sex and seduction, just like a devil would. Swan is the Devil, and he’d better not come swishing back in here or I’ll spit in his lemonade and sic Jesus on him!
I start putting in breakfast orders and then the bell above the door tinkles. All I hear is Tammy say, “Jesus Christ,” in a “thisis-serious-Jesus-Christ” kind of way. I turn around, and Barrett Gold is standing at the counter holding a bunch of spectacular flowers. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, white against the fire of his brown skin. I’m too stunned for words, so I just sop him up with my eyes.
Can't Help the Way That I Feel Page 4
