granite countertops of his kitchen and crossed her ankles, one of which was adorned with a pretty anklet.
He turned on some music, ‘Girlfriend,’ by NAO, then opened up a cabinet to grab a tumbler and pour her a glass of water. He handed her the cold drink as she looked left to right. her big eyes bouncing from one spot to another.
“What’s this? About nine hundred, maybe a thousand square feet?”
“A thousand.” He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, as if shedding a second skin. Crossing his arms, he stared at her. Her gaze landed on his array of tattoos. She studied him as if she’d never seen him this way before. In a different light, in more ways than one.
His dick throbbed with need, straining against his boxer briefs like a coiled snake snared in a trap. His heart beat fast at the sight of her breasts. They’re so damn soft. I dreamed about these motherfuckers… Can’t wait to get my mouth on them again. All he could think of was dragging her to his bed and doing horribly hedonistic, obscene, delightfully vile things to her.
“How long have you lived here?”
“A few years. I love the area.” She nodded her pretty head. “But I’d like to eventually get a two bedroom.”
“Yeah, but this is nice though. It feels cozy. Clean. Definitely masculine, but welcoming.” She turned and looked around the living room. Sandwiched between the wall and couch were several large canvases, turned backwards. He knew it was coming… and it did. “Can I see some more of your art?”
He went to grab himself a bottled cranberry juice from out of the refrigerator. Breaking the seal of the cap, he tossed it in the small stainless steel trashcan with the temperamental foot petal. “Okay.” He slipped the word between two hearty sips. They walked into the living room as ‘Different Planet,’ by Lion Babe, played through the Bluetooth speakers. “Have a seat, make yourself comfortable.”
She sat down on the sofa, smiling, and lay back on a plush black pillow. He lifted a hexagon shaped white table top and pulled out several black hardbound art portfolios from the storage space. He approached her like a man bearing gifts, and sat them on her lap before returning to the other side of the room, back turned, bouncing to the beat of the music.
He could feel her penetrating stare upon him, sense her vigor bubbling through his own veins and snuggling against his core and brain cells, trying to pick his mind. His heart. His soul. He imagined her looking at his back muscles as he flexed a bit while he danced. He was tempted to laugh as he worked his body, trying to entice her, seduce her, warm her up. An urban peacock putting on a show. It wasn’t long before he began to hear the pages turning in their protective plastic inserts. One after another, with heavy pauses in between.
She’s studying them…
They were scans, quality photos of his art. Most of the originals were housed in a storage unit he rented for his vast collection of artworks, which he’d started collecting at the young age of ten.
I dance on the edge of wanting to save the world to wanting to crush it with my bare hands. It’s my secret. Sometimes shameful. Sometimes admirable. That’s my soul she’s looking at. That’s the shit lodged deep inside my mind. The shit I wish for. My visions. My nightmares. Anything but the actual reality. This woman is holding my dreams between her thighs…
He kept dancing, arms stretched out like a bird’s wings, eyes closed. He was feeling a little tipsy, a little high, though no drugs coursed through his veins and it wasn’t the alcohol. He was simply high off life.
“King, you love women,” she spoke above the music, breaking him out of his trance. “I mean you really love women.” The series of works she was looking at depicted women receiving and giving oral sex, all in different settings and positions. Some were pencil sketches, others oil paintings, a few abstract renditions in ink. “These are beautiful, King. Nasty, and beautiful.”
He ran his hand up and down his arm, smoothing the hairs down along the way. She kept turning the pages.
“I love this still life, too.” She pointed to a realistic painting of bananas, sliced kiwi, an African wooden mask, broken glass, and a clear bowl of oranges. “Even your abstracts are sensual, dark, deep. Damn. So talented.” She kept turning the