BUBBLE MUSIC
Toi James
The best thing about writing erotica is the residual sex. Letting your imagination branch out into all of these seductive possibilities is very sexy.—Toi James
Gracie, here come your boyfriend.”
And oh, my goodness, here he comes, switching and sashaying through the diner, heading straight for me.
I laugh, but he makes me a little nervous, this gay boy named Swan. He comes in here every day to have a large lemonade with extra sugar and a splash of vanilla extract. Truth be told, I have no earthly idea what he’s doing here in the foothills of Georgia. A skinny, mocha-colored boy with arched eyebrows and a switch just isn’t as safe here as he would be in Atlanta. It’s weird, though; he just showed up out of nowhere three weeks ago, and he only likes to talk to me. I think sometimes that W.T.—William Taylor McDonald, my ex-husband—sent him here to spy on me, but I know for a fact that W.T. has been in jail for nearly four years for what he did to me—making me lose the baby and all—and he most certainly would never talk to a queen, much less give one money to watch me work and serve vanilla-flavored lemonade.
Swan finishes sashaying to the counter and does this dramatic, butt-first hike to sit on the stool. He puts both hands flat on the counter and smiles at me.
“Good afternoon, Swan,” I say.
“Hey, girl.” He picks up a menu and starts to read.
“I don’t know why you even looking at the menu. You only ever order one thing, and it ain’t on the menu.”
“If I eat this greasy diner food, I’ll get sick or fat—same thing. Lemonade is fat free, darling. Swan needs to keep slim and sexy for the big daddies.
I smile, a little amazed, and slide his lemonade to him. I have never met anybody like him in my whole life. Everything about him is plain out there for the whole world to see, and he doesn’t care one blessed bit. I’ve spent most of my life locked away, and most of the people I know are the same way.
“Swan,” I start to dig in, “why do you only talk to me when you come in here?”
“Darling, ’cuz you’re gorgeous, just like me,” he says, “and you even kind of remind me of me…when I was twelve.”
“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Girl, look at you.” He twirls his finger at me like it’s a magic wand. “You all buttoned up to the neck, hair all snatched up, and that uniform with those shoes. You look like Aunt Esther, and we all know her ugly ass ain’t never got none. Girl, you a walking chastity belt!”
“Just ’cuz I don’t wear my sex life on my sleeve doesn’t mean—”
“Oh, please, girl! I can spot a dried-up flower a mile away, and I spotted you right through that window,” he says, pointing at the storefront. “But don’t worry. All hope is not lost. Swan is here.” Then, he gasps and scares the life out of me. “Girl, come go hang out with me!”
He says it like it’s the most important thing in the world to him. But there is no way on God’s green earth that I, a born-again woman, am going to voluntarily put myself in the company of an insulting little homosexual. That’s like inviting the Devil to dinner.
“I don’t think so, Swan,” I say, trying not to sound condescending.
He gives me a curt “Why not?” and shoots me a knowing eye. He knows why not, but he isn’t taking no for an answer. “You can go with me to an art show. A little art show…at a little art gallery…with refined people like yourself,” and he bats his eyelashes at me. He knows good and well why not, all right, and now he just called me out to shame me. He’s a slick little thing. He knows a real lady wouldn’t say no just to save face.
“When is the show?” I ask, making sure my annoyance is clear.
“On Saturday night. And don’t tell me you’re busy ’cuz I know you ain’t. It’ll be fun. Art and respectable people. Doctors and lawyers, folk like that.”
“And you.”
He does a double take at me, “Girl, you don’t know who I am. I am a socialite. How do you think all these people get connected for little shindigs like this? Swan. That’s how. I am a purveyor of classy social relations.”
It’s Saturday night, and I’m getting the feeling Swan’s invitation is more community service than anything, taking thirty-something divorcées out to art shows with the social elite. He’ll be here any minute, so I open the closet, where all of my “good clothes” are, and immediately remember why I haven’t worn any of them in years. The clothes are expensive and beautiful, but they’re textile memories of my life with W.T., and I’d just as soon burn them all right now than to put any of them on.
W.T. used to tell me I was pretty all the time. I blushed, and he knew he had me in his pocket. But seven years of being married to W.T. McDonald took a toll on that pretty. I’ve got dents, a jagged, seven-inch scar down the middle of my stomach, permanent bruises from where he hit me over and over—but never the face. You can hide the bruises and scars and smooth the dents with clothes, but you can’t cover your woman’s face in the Bible Belt without calling some serious attention to yourself, your lifestyle and your faith.
I went to college and studied anthropology for two years before W.T. found me at a Christian singles meeting. He was so smooth and good to me. And he was fine—a chiseled redbone with big, soft eyes. But all of that got old real quick after I said, “I do.”
I should have known from the start when he convinced me to have sex out of wedlock. We had just gotten engaged and were heavy petting. All of a sudden, he whispers in my ear, “Let me feel how wet your pussy is.” I told him no, that it would be breaking my vow of chastity to God, but he slid his fingers in my panties and whispered back, “Baby, in the eyes of God, we’re already man and wife. Any resistance to me now would be the Devil at work trying to destroy what God has already ordained,” and then he slipped his johnson right in past his fingers and popped my cherry. That was my first time.
And every time after that was baser than the time before. I’ve been poked in just about every hole I’ve got by whatever W.T.’s imagination could think of. This “man of God” would use all kinds of nasty words to get himself off and work me up, too. It was kind of hot in the beginning, when it was just the two of us and regular old sex. We used to screw our brains out while watching the early-morning televangelists before church on Sundays, or he’d smack me on the rear end telling me I was a “bad bitch” while we did it doggy-style. And he’d always laugh in the end. But then he started to full-on beat me afterward and call me a “fucking whore” for the things he made me do. I was the perfect Christian wife by day, his personal slut and whipping thing by night. To seal it in his head, he used to hire prostitutes and make me have sex with them while he watched and jerked himself off. Then he’d pay her—or them—and when they left, he’d beat me bloody and call me the whore. He said he was beating the Devil out of me. The first time he did it was when I started to regard sex as my enemy. It had betrayed me my whole life. It was the very thing that everyone I loved told me would lead me to sin and damnation. If it wasn’t my parents telling me I’d burn in Hell if I had sex before marriage, it was W.T. calling me a succubus for corrupting his godly mind with my sexual deviance. And, of course, there was the Bible—the word of God. Worst part, though, was W.T. and his angry self. Even his penis was angry. When he did it to me, it was like his johnson had monster teeth just trying to mangle me. I hated sex! Not much good ever came of it.
I do have one good memory of sex, though. Sort of. When I was a senior in high school, Troy Bellows, my very first real boyfriend, showed me Deep Throat. His idea was that he would show it to me as an instructional video so I could give him a knee-buckling, toe-curling blow job. I had considered it for about five minutes until this crazy bubble music started playing in the movie. I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t even think about being sexy, much less do it. But I adored him, so I tried anyway. It wasn’t very good, and the only happiness that ever came out of it was my memory of that bubble music. It got to be that whenever I had to have sex with W.T., I’d just think of the bubble music, because it was the only happy thing I had ever known about sex. That bubble music was my saving grace. It made me smile through seven years of angry, bitter sex—W.T.’s and mine. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever had sex without bubble music playing in my head.
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.
“Swan said I could find you here,” he says smoothly.
Emissary of the Devil.
“So, what, he sent you to butter me up?”
“Yes. And I wanted to apologize to you, too.” He slides the flowers across the counter to me. They’re unusual. Not your typical roses, but a cluster of white orchids with frilly, bell-shaped lips that hang like little clitorises in a natural pot that looks kind of like a bird’s nest.
“Nice,” I huff skeptically. “Did he send those, too?”
“No, these are from me,” he says.
“Well, I can’t be bought off by some trip to the florist.”
“I grew them.”
“So, you’re a gardener, too?”
“Landscape architect.”
“A fancy gardener.”
He smiles a broad, white smile, and I’m disarmed. I look at the flowers. “They’re beautiful, but I don’t have much of a green thumb. I’m afraid I’ll kill them.”
“You won’t kill them. I’ll teach you how to take care of them. You should come to my greenhouse, and I’ll give you a lesson.”
Red flags all around! “Oh, please. The last time I accepted an invitation from a virtual stranger to go somewhere, I was nearly struck blind by debauchery. Forget it. Lesson learned. You can take your plant back if you want it to live. Otherwise, consider it delivered, and tell Swan to go get his lemonade somewhere else.”
He leans over the counter and motions his finger for me to lean in, too. I refuse. I just step toward him a little.
“Gracie, it’s just a plant,” he says.
I whisper back, “A plant that looks like a thousand little coochies!”
He cocks his head to the side. “Is that what you see?”
My eyes stretch with embarrassment.
“Maybe Swan knew what you needed all along if all you see is pussy in a plant.”
I clench my jaws. I’m appalled!
“Gracie, no one is trying to hurt you. Not Swan, not me. I have a beautiful garden, and I want you to see it. If I could bring the whole thing to you, I would, but I can’t, so I’m giving you this one rare, divine plant because it’s the very best of what I have to offer you. My invitation stands. My number is on the care instructions in the soil. When you are ready, call me.”
I’m one word away from exploding again. My lord, he’s so damn fine! If he says another syllable, I’m scared I’ll jump him right here on the counter. But I don’t trust what I’m feeling, so I just look him dead in his eyes, looking for something wrong, some hint of insincerity, a drop of maliciousness, a glance to the left or right or wherever somebody looks when they’re lying, anything. He locks onto me as tightly as I locked onto him, but it isn’t hard or mean or anything that I had known so well from looking at W.T. He meant what he said. And now I’m in trouble.
“Fine,” I say as if nothing had just happened, “I have to get back to work.”
“Have a blessed day, Gracie.” He pats the top of the counter and turns to go.
In the afternoon, I’m sitting in my apartment with my Bible open to Psalm 10:14, reminding myself of God’s power so I can put things right in my life again. My eyes drift to the orchids and then to the care instruction card with Barrett’s phone number on it. I keep replaying Saturday night in my head. I keep reliving the feel of his skin, his lips, his coming alive in my hands. I think about Bible study and the lessons about fornication, about Leviticus, and how I should have never allowed myself to be shamed into spending time with Swan…and my revelation about God’s plan for sex.
I pick up the phone and dial.
“Hello?” His voice soothes me.
“Hi, it’s Grace,” I say, “I’d like to see your garden.”
I pull up to Barrett’s ranch-style house. He’s standing outside to greet me, wearing cutoff jeans, a soiled T-shirt and flip-flops, holding gardening gloves. I dressed as if this was going to be an informal visit to a garden—jean skirt, white T-shirt, flat walking sandals…a demi-cut bra and lace panties.
“Hi.” My voice lilts. I try to put as much apology in that one syllable as I can.
He smiles that smile. “It’s good to see you. Come on back.”
We walk around the outside of the house toward his backyard. When I get there, it quickly becomes clear that this is no simple backyard. It is about four acres of perfectly manicured Georgia foothill land. But trees aren’t just trees; they’re shaped into beautiful abstract topiaries. Hills and mounds are pedestals for sculptures. Dips and holes are koi ponds or birdbaths or fountains. There are plants and flowers everywhere as accents to structures, whatever the structure.
“Barrett, this is beautiful,” I say, already glad I had come to see the garden.
“Thank you. Do you have a few hours? The garden goes back a ways.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, distracted by thoughts of what I could do with him over a few hours.
“We should start at the greenhouse, so I can show you how to take care of all your little coochies.”
“Funny,” I say sarcastically.
On the walk up to the greenhouse, Barrett is a few steps ahead of me, so the view is great the whole way. An archway of willow trees lets us out to a huge glass structure. It’s just as pristine as everything else here. He’s got so many plants, it looks like the Fuqua Conservatory, right down to the orchids.
He turns and peeks at me out of the corner of his eye, gives me a gentle smile. It takes my breath away, so I turn around, lift my eyes to the heavens and mouth, “Jesus, be my rock.” Then something out of the back window catches my eye.
“Barrett,” I say, “is that one of the statues from the art gallery?”
“A prototype. There are more in the labyrinth.” The bass in his voice drips sex all over me. He’s not informing me; he’s inviting me.
“Labyrinth?”
“Yes, the prototype is at the entrance of the labyrinth. It goes back a little ways. Do you want to walk it?”
“I don’t know. Alone with you in a maze…”
“You know, Gracie, you really don’t need to be afraid of me. I tell you what, walk it by yourself. If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’ll assume you’re lost, and I’ll come and get you. Deal?”
“All right.” I’m relieved that I don’t have to worry about the temptation of being alone with him, but the smile on my face is really from thinking about the two of us alone in that maze. I remember what Barrett said about sex without rules. A labyrinth sealed off from the rest of the world? I don’t know what I would do without the rules, but I smile a little wider just imagining the liberation.
The labyrinth is made of dense hedges about nine feet high. There is no way to see through them, let alone take any kind of shortcut. The sculptures start out classic and tasteful in cutouts, but as I move deeper inside it, they change. Deep in the labyrinth, the sculptures masturbate and connect in ways that brought Sodom and Gomorrah down. Others look like textbook reenactments of Greek orgies. Here, though, I only see them as beautiful. I’m alone, and I’m not afraid of them. They are beautiful. Nothing in this place could be vulgar. Nothing.
After some time walking through all of this beauty, I see a glow ahead of me. It isn’t just sunlight, but colorful light. I can smell it, too. It smells like the perfect blend of every fragrant plant I can think of—jasmine, roses, honeysuckle, wisteria, freesia, peonies. When I reach the center, there they all are, arranged in beautiful patterns with even more sculptures, and citrus and peach trees placed in between to balance the sweet aroma of the flowers. And all of them are being kissed by dozens of butterflies. In the middle of it all is a large water fountain in the shape of the orchid Barrett gave me. This is the center of the labyrinth, and it is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen in all my life. I sit down, close my eyes and take it all in. I thank God for such beauty and lie down on the ground.
“I see you did make it after all.”
I know who it is. I don’t need to look. “Barrett, this place is amazing.”
“It is,” he says knowingly. “I brought you a blanket and some fruit.”
“How did you know I’d need them?”
“When most people come here, they do exactly what you’re doing right now, and they stay awhile.”
I roll over, and Barrett is there with an elaborate picnic basket. He pulls out two bottles—one wine, one water—and two wineglasses. He roots around the basket and reveals a large, round peach and cuts it in half. He never once looks at me while he’s doing this. He takes the pit out and offers me half. “No, thank you,” I say, and he shrugs and bites into the peach. It is so ripe, I can hear both the crunch of the skin and the sound of juice squirting into his mouth. The juice runs from his lips down the center of the peach. He turns it in toward him and runs his tongue up the center to catch all of the excess juice. He is slow and deliberate with his tongue, and this time, he never takes his eyes off me while he does it. I instantly get wet and swallow hard.
I lick my lips as he takes a big and final bite of peach, and juice runs down his chin. He lets it run off, and a final drop hangs there. I grab a napkin in front of me and hand it to him. His hands are full with a glass and wine, so he sticks his chin out for me to wipe it. I move closer and dab his chin. I can smell his smell again, and it does its thing, wrapping itself around me the way it did the first time. My heart starts pounding again, and his breath quickens. I drop the napkin and let my thumb kiss his thick, soft, wet lips. He gently places his hand over mine and moves it to the back of his neck. But he waits and does nothing else. I take a deep breath and pull him in to me. I part my lips and press them against his. His lips sink into mine, between mine, around mine, and then I feel the warm wetness of his tongue searching mine. We taste each other, and my yani falls wide open.
I’m beyond wet; I have a mountain of cream rising in my panties. I want him so badly, I let all the rules fall away. I unlock all of the nasty little thoughts that make me hot and revel in them. Every part of my pussy is swollen, begging for him to enter me right this second. I lie back on the ground and let the weight of his body press me deeper into the garden floor. Barrett uses his knee to spread my legs apart and gives me a prelude with a hard, dry hump. As he unfastens my bra, I look up at the sky to see flashes of light in the clouds. Everything in the garden is more vibrant. Nothing at this moment could be more divine than the two of us becoming human all over again. We’re working God’s plan. I let him undress me and see all of me. I’m here with nothing on right in front of God and butterflies and birds and this man hovering over me, just looking. I pray to God that he doesn’t say anything. (Please don’t say it. Don’t say anything W.T. would say. Don’t ruin this moment. Don’t say anything.)
He parts the lips of my drenched pussy and gently touches everything with his fingers. I remember how he grew hard and wide in my hands. I unbutton his shorts, and Good God, it’s an encore! He bends to be face-to-face with me, kisses my lips—and my scar—and then runs his warm wet tongue over my clit. I immediately arch my back in anticipation of hatred, but it’s not there. He takes his time with me, as if tasting swirls of caramel and pink—really eating me, really drinking me in. It feels so good, I pound the ground with my fist. “Oh, fuck!” I scream. “Fuck!” I feel W.T.’s chains give way, and my wings flutter. Fuck. It’s my word now, and this is my fuck. Fuck. My liberation. “FUUUCK!”
Barrett works his tongue until I am so wet and so swollen, I’m about to lose my mind, and before he can take one more stroke, I pull him up to kiss me again. In one quick motion, he rears back on his knees, pulls me on top of him and bursts into me. Like stars! I’m in the perfect position to ride him, and I do, like he’s a slow bull. And while I ride, he takes each of my nipples into his mouth, one after the other, and then together. The flickers of his tongue across my nipples make my pussy pulse harder. We move together, and with each pump, I take more of everything he’s giving me—longer, deeper. With each thrust, I feel something I’ve never felt before. It’s like I’m on the edge of a cliff and about to freefall. I’m at the edge of completely losing control of myself, and all I can do is either die or fly. The feeling is coming like a wave; I can’t stop it. It’s coming like it’s about to hurt, and I want to brace myself. It’s coming. I’m coming. I let myself go with all the breath in me and fly. My entire body clinches around him, and I scream, “Oh, God!”
I hear Barrett’s voice say, “God,” too. “Oh, God,” he repeats, out of breath.
I look down at him. For the first time, he doesn’t look like he’s in control of everything, and that makes me feel good. He grabs me and presses my body against the side of his face. He thrusts himself hard in me one last time and grunts, “Oh, God!”
I squeeze my walls around him one more time, and try to compare the real thing with the phantom I felt during my accident at the art gallery. I was right to come then. Barrett and I peel ourselves apart. It’s getting dark. After a few minutes of catching our breath and relaxing, he goes off somewhere to light our path out of the labyrinth. But I’m in no rush. I lie here alone, half-wondering what God thinks about what I just did with Barrett. Maybe God planned for me to come here all along, and maybe, just maybe, I had it all wrong. Maybe God, not the Devil, sent Swan to me. It was the Devil who sent W.T. to mess up God’s plan for me, and God sent Swan to set it right again. The Lord works in mysterious ways, but Swan as some kind of angel is just plain baffling. The bubble music makes more sense. Then, I sit bolt upright. I didn’t play the bubble music! I hold my hand over my mouth to stop the scream. I NEVER had any kind of sex without the bubble music, and it didn’t even cross my mind until just now. I’m struck with panic and sadness. It’s like involuntarily giving up a crutch. Or worse, like losing a friend who never said good-bye. And then I think, it’s a good thing; I didn’t need it because there were no demons for it to shield me from. I smile under my hands and settle into myself again. Lying back on the ground, I put my hands behind my head, spread my legs up to the setting sun, and take my rightful place among all the beautiful things in the garden.