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.