Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (13 page)

I step decisively towards the bed and rip the blanket off of Paul. Then I start to pull down his shorts. Paul seems a little surprised at my zeal, but he obediently lets himself be undressed.

“Just don’t move, and don’t speak,” I whisper, lying down next to him, finally. I spend a long time just looking him over. First his face. What a wonderful face he has! Big bright eyes, now fastened on me, and a nose you might call big, but which seems to me to be the perfect size. That firm mouth, those well-defined cheekbones... I reach out a hand to touch his hair. It’s cut short, but still soft to the touch. I run my fingers over his face: his cheeks, his nose, and his chin. Then I move my fingers down to his neck. I kiss him there. He smells so delicious, and the most important element of that scent is that it is mine. I know it so well that it hurts. I stroke his shoulders and his arms, and then I kiss his chest. Paul reaches to touch me, but I stop his hand and put it back where it was.

“Shhhh. You promised you wouldn’t move. If you move, I’m going to go sleep on the couch. You can finish up here without me.”

Paul is already visibly aroused. I take his cock in my hand and rub it slowly a few times, from the top down. Yes, I am seriously turning him on. Just look at me! I’ll show you, Rachel. Still kissing and stroking his chest, I find Paul’s nipple with my tongue, and take it into my mouth. At the same time, my fingers start to rub and squeeze his other nipple. Paul is breathing hard now. I look at him. He is still peering out at me intently from under his half-closed eyelids. His cheeks are flushed scarlet. Paul is shockingly attractive when he is aroused. And the most attractive thing of all is that I am the one who has put him in this state.

Let’s see what else he can do, and what else
I
can do. Tonight I am taking power into my own hands, and I am drunk on that power. I feel unleashed, uninhibited, in a very unfamiliar way.

I slip down lower, and kiss Paul’s stomach, still playing with one nipple. Then I take his cock in my hand and massage it. I lick it, from the base upwards, slide it into my mouth, and start to suck. I raise my eyes so I can see Paul. His own eyes are closed now, he is biting his lip, and his head is turned away. His face looks tormented. I know he’s already close to the edge. I take him out of my mouth and then wrap my lips around each of his balls, one at a time – first the left, then the right. Then I slide higher up again, and I kiss his neck and his chest, and massage his stomach, before I kiss him there and finally move down again. Paul’s head is thrashing back and forth on the pillow now. He moans. His cock is bright red and gleaming. I take it into my mouth again. I suck, and massage it with one hand, up and down, near the base. Paul starts to shake. He comes in my mouth, and I swallow his sperm.

Then I lie down next to him, he wraps his arms around me tight, and we fall asleep.

My second full night of sleep in a row! Really, sleeping with your husband is much better than sleeping without your husband… because you get a chance to
sleep
. I wake up in the morning alone in bed and go into the kitchen. I don’t see Paul anywhere. Today is Sunday. Where can he be? His tennis bag is missing from its place near the door, so he must have gone to the club.

I take out my sketchbook and start working on some new ideas for the mural. When Paul returns home I’m still at it. I was right – he had been playing tennis. His hair is darkened with sweat and sticking to his forehead. His shirt is soaked through and clinging to his body. I remember the sight of that body last night. My fingers start to twitch from a surge in sensation.

“Hi.” Paul grins with a boyish, carefree smile. He has an expression of absolute happiness on his face. Maybe I should be playing some sort of sport, too. I’d like to be that happy! “Been up long?” he asks.

“Hi. About half an hour. Who were you playing with?” I don’t mention John, but his ghost is standing here with us.

“Juan. He came back from his trip to Mexico ready for battle. He gave me a good fight. But I won anyway.”

“Great,” I say, smiling cautiously. John’s ghost dissipates. We’re on our own again, just the two of us.

“I felt undefeatable today, like I couldn’t miss the court.” Paul is looking at me seriously, not smiling.

“Why?” I’ve already guessed what he means. But I want to hear it.

“After what happened between us yesterday, I felt happy. For the first time in a long time.” Paul turns and heads for the shower. I can hear the water start running.

Yes. Yesterday I made all the decisions. I was the boss, and Paul was subordinate. I had liked that, too. Most of all, I had liked the feeling that I was keeping him under my control, and that everything depended on me and my decisions. An unexpected feeling, and a very pleasant one, that made me feel extremely bold and brave.

Suddenly inspired, I stand up from the table and walk to the bedroom. I take off the top and shorts I had slept in and go into the bathroom. Paul is in the shower now, standing with his back to me. I join him in there, under the stream of water. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my entire body to him. Paul turns around.

“I want to save up some memories with you, too,” I tell him, nestling into his chest. Paul embraces me tightly, pulling me toward him. We stand like that, swaying a little, under the shower. It feels like the water is washing us clean of everything that had happened, and my head feels blissfully empty – not just of thoughts about the past, but also of worries about the future. I raise my eyes to Paul, and meet that new, intent gaze of his. There’s something new about me, too, and I can feel it. I don’t avert my eyes. Slowly, slowly, he leans down toward me, and presses his lips to mine.

Our kiss goes on and on. It envelops me completely. I can’t get enough of it. I love it. My whole body is swimming in desire, suffused in it. Paul picks me up and lifts me off the bathtub floor. I wrap my legs around him. My back is now pressed to the tiled wall, and my hands are around Paul’s neck, pulling him closer to me. We kiss. And for a time, I forget everything. I can feel Paul gradually settling my body onto his, and relish every moment, every growing sensation of fullness and completeness. Almost instantly I take on his rhythm, and we start to move together. Paul continues to kiss me hungrily, swallowing down my gasps and moans. Then, he lowers his head a little, and starts to nibble on my shoulder, near my neck.

Something inside me explodes. I break into a thousand tiny pieces. Paul throws his head back, too, and I can see that now-familiar expression of pain and pleasure on his face. With a heavy moan, he ejaculates into me. For some time, we stay standing there under the water showering down. We cleanse and caress one another’s bodies. We just don’t feel like leaving those close, warm quarters.

Finally, when the water starts to run cold, I get out and begin to towel off. Moving over to make room for Paul, I end up standing facing the mirror. Suddenly I see Paul’s reflection, too – he is standing behind me. His short wet curls are sticking out in all directions and he looks like a pirate. Paul puts his hands on my shoulders and slowly runs them down along my sides, stripping the towel off me. I stand completely naked before the mirror, and Paul looms there behind me. We stare at each other intently in the mirror. Paul bows his head and starts to kiss my shoulders and neck, and his hands come around to cup my breasts. I look down to watch his hands caressing my nipples, which are now swelling and stiffening, as my skin flushes pink from his touch and kisses. I stand unmoving, and completely surrender to the power of his touch. Today, Paul is the boss, and I am submitting to his will.

Paul’s hands are caressing my back and my waist now, and he bends me forward lower and lower, so that my ass sticks out farther and farther behind me. Paul places one hand between my legs and uses it to spread them apart. Then he goes down on his knees, and starts to lick and suck there between my legs. His hands hold my thighs firmly, keeping me from falling or even wavering. I’m already moaning out loud. When my body succumbs, Paul is still holding my legs with his hands, and I can’t move. I’m helpless, and my orgasm lasts and lasts.

Then he takes me in his arms – I’m completely limp now, weak – and he carries me to the bed, where he puts me down on all fours and takes me from behind again. When it’s all over, we both collapse.

As we catch our breath, I turn my head to meet Paul’s gaze. He’s lying on his side, staring at me. Out of nowhere, I’m suddenly embarrassed, and I pull the blanket up over my body.

“Are you sure you want to go to Seattle?” he asks quietly.

“I’m sure that I want this job. Any job that demands some creativity. I hate teaching art – I want to do art myself.” I’m answering his question, but also thinking out loud.

“Couldn’t you find something like that close by?”

“Probably, but I haven’t yet. This commission in Seattle is good money and a real opportunity to show what I can do. If somebody wanted to send you somewhere to write a screenplay, and they paid top dollar, wouldn’t you quit teaching?”

“Yeah. That’s probably what I would do.” Paul rolls onto his back and tucks a hand under his head. “It just seems to me there must be another reason you’re going. This thing that happened to us.”

“Yes. That’s another reason.” I’m glad he wants to talk about it. After what we had just done, in the shower and again here in bed, I wanted all the more to explain to him (and probably to myself, too) why I felt so strongly that I had to go. “I need to give some thought to what happened. To do that, I need some time and distance. You said yourself that we can’t see the big picture. I need to travel farther out there to make my picture as big as it can be. Everything that happened...” I trail off, trying to find the right words.

“It all hurts too much. It feels like I am bleeding and my wounds might heal faster if I’m far away from here, and busy.” I look at Paul. His brow is furrowed in concentration.

“There’s no way I can talk you into staying?” he finally asks, turning to me again.

Our eyes meet, and everything inside me clenches tight, in pain, or fear, or maybe a premonition of bad things to come.

“Honestly, you probably could talk me into it,” I sigh. Paul pulls me close to him and starts kissing my hair. I freeze a little. Then I sigh again noisily and pull away. “I just don’t want you to do it.”

I sit up, hugging my knees to my chest.

“The simplest thing for me to do now would be to stay. Just float with the current. I mean, I’ve never painted a mural. I’ve never even left Los Angeles, and honestly, I’m scared. It would be much easier to go back to all the familiar things I already know how to handle. Do my teaching work and paint for myself in my spare time. Our old nine-to-five life.”

“You want to break out of the cycle.” Paul always knew what I meant before I even said it. “What about us, though? Wasn’t that good, just now? We’ve never had sex like that before!”

“But it’s just
sex
! We both know now that feelings aren’t necessary to have good sex.” I really want to explain what I’m thinking to him. “Why are you and I together? Because we’re comfortable together, we have similar tastes and habits, and we just happened to end up together? Or because we can’t live without each other?”

“I only want to be with you.” Paul’s voice is quiet. “I love you. I know I haven’t been the perfect husband. You can scream at me, hit me, punish me if you want. Why would you leave me, though?”

“I’m not leaving you. I’m going so that I can work and think. I promise I’ll come back, no matter what I end up deciding in the end.” I lie down next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. For a long time, we look into each other’s eyes. Finally, I add, “The other thing is that I feel guilty. I want to give this guilt some time to fade.”

The next morning, Paul plans to leave early for the university, and I need to head to the gallery. I’m packing my suitcase again. We say goodbye there at home, after breakfast. It’s a chaste farewell, as if between mere acquaintances. Paul kisses me on the cheek.

“Bye. Give me a call, okay? Otherwise I’ll be worried.”

“Okay, bye,” I say, feeling just as restrained. “Don’t worry. I’ll call or text. Make sure you do, too. Good luck here without me.”

Paul gives me one more close look, nods, and walks out.

At the gallery, Tom is as happy to see me as a little kid might be to see Santa Claus. He must get tired of being alone.

“So so so, what did you and Paul decide? Do you think you’ll make up, or is it all over?”

“We haven’t decided anything. I still think we can make up. What’s going on with Seattle?”

“Can I get you some coffee? Or do you prefer tea?” Tom pours himself a steaming cup of coffee.

“What do you mean, tea? I always want coffee, and yes, please, with sugar, if that’s okay.”

“Of course! For an amazing artist, all things are possible!” Tom spoons sugar into a coffee cup and stirs it. “I asked about tea because I’ve heard you have some Chinese in you. The Chinese drink tea. They’ve got that whole ceremony and everything.”

“My grandmother was Chinese, but that’s it. I don’t even speak Chinese and I’ve never been to China.” I take my cup from Tom gratefully. My grandmother really did used to drink tea. When I took up coffee, though, she started buying it and making it for me. She would even bring me a cup from Starbucks sometimes as a treat. She knew how much I liked it. Suddenly I miss my grandmother so much it hurts. What would she say and do if she could see me now?

“In Seattle, it’s raining, as usual. They’re expecting you. Your employer is Greg Montgomery. You’ll be working mostly with his assistant, though. Her name is Sue and she’s got everything ready for you. Here is the address and phone number. If you finish by their deadline – ten days! – you’ll get a ten percent bonus. Now give me a kiss for being so fantastic and setting everything up so perfectly for you.” Tom flutters his eyelashes under his glasses.

I give him a big hug and kiss both his cheeks.

“What does your smarty-pants husband think about you leaving?” With that question, Tom’s eyes meet mine.

“How do you know he’s a smarty-pants?” As usual, I avoid a direct answer.

“He was smart enough to marry you. Not everybody would have such a good idea at such a tender age. Most people are too afraid to have to stop running around, too worried about losing their freedom!” Tom is speaking like a sage old man.

“Where’d you get all that wisdom?” I ask, deciding not to hold back. I feel more and more relaxed and comfortable with Tom. I really like the way he can act boyish, posh, and serious all at once. He has the kind of sharp eye and ability to pick up tiny details that I admire in people, and not just from a professional point of view, either.

“It’s not wisdom,” he answers. “It’s just life experience. Unfortunately, I haven’t learned a thing from it, myself.”

It dawns on me that Tom has his own drama and worries, and probably he doesn’t have anyone to talk to about it, any more than I do. He had been such a big help to me. I ought to do the same for him. Right now, though, Tom is spinning me around and shoving me toward the door.

“You get going, girlfriend. We’ll have a nice long chat later, when we’re rich. I’ll call you and keep track of how things are going. Okay now, bisou-bisou, as the French say.”

He gives me big smacking kisses on both cheeks, three total, and waves goodbye. I wave back, get into my car, and drive away.

I’ve never driven so far by myself. If this were a movie, the leading lady – me! – would have to be driving a convertible so the wind could whip her long hair around. Sad, sentimental music would be playing in the background to represent our heroine’s emotions. But this leading lady has short hair, and the roof of my car doesn’t open. I decide to examine my emotions all by myself, without music, pathos, or drama. What had John said? Drama is fine for the movies, but in real life, we get tired of it quickly. In real life, I flee drama like I’m escaping a burning building.

Not just drama, either. I’m a total scaredy-cat. My favorite approach to any problem is to run away from everything or stick my head in the sand. It’s about time I learned to face the world head-on. My whole life I’ve just drifted with the current and let other people make decisions for me. First, my grandmother did the deciding (well, not about everything; here a little inner voice reminds me that it had been my own decision to do art, despite my grandmother’s wishes to the contrary). Then, after she died, I had Paul, and we made decisions together. Or actually, I had let him make our decisions. Even our sex life had been on autopilot, and look where that ended up! (It ended up, that other little voice answers me, with John using you for his own ends). It turns out that I’ve been playing a role in somebody else’s script my entire life and have never even noticed.

Why now? What makes me suddenly want to stop drifting dumbly with the current? Why do I need to make this movie my own? Since the John and Rachel adventure, something had woken up inside of me, something new, independent, and confident. There is a new me emerging from my cocoon. I remember the past two days with Paul. Even then I was different. I made my own decisions, I did only what I wanted to, and I was so much happier for it.

Was all that because I loved Paul? Or had I just wanted to prove to him and to myself that I could be uninhibited and sexy, and that I could experience pleasure and give it to my partner just as well as Rachel could? I don’t know. I’d rather not deceive myself, and I definitely don’t want to lie to Paul. One thing I’m sure of is that I don’t want to teach school any more. After this job in Seattle is finished, I’m going to quit. Yes, next year was supposed to be covered in my contract – but too bad. I’m not going back, no matter what. They’ll find somebody to take my place. I want to paint, and that’s what I’m going to do.

That decision immediately makes me feel fifty pounds lighter. I hadn’t realized how much my dread of going back to school in September had been weighing me down. Now I’m so much more confident, both as an artist and as a woman. I don’t plan on ever being satisfied again with just what I already have, playing out a role written for me by someone else, drifting with the tides.

I switch on the radio and hear some popular song with a catchy refrain. It takes no time at all to learn the words and I start to sing along. Out loud! Ha! Good thing there’s nobody else in the car. At home, Paul won’t even let me sing in the shower. He says the sound of my singing voice turns his stomach. But I’m alone here and I can do whatever I want. If I feel like singing, I sing! Freedom! Yessss!

I drive all day, taking short breaks to eat, and when my eyes start to glaze over, I find a motel somewhere in Oregon. The whole two-day trip, I’m in a constant state of excitement. Soon, just beyond the horizon, something extremely important and interesting is coming in my life.

I realize I’ve never spent so much time alone before. Even at school, before I met Paul, there were people around me constantly. I always had to follow certain rules and say certain words. Now, here in the car, I feel like I’ve broken out of prison, escaped my execution, and been given a second chance at life. I can either take advantage of that or let the opportunity pass me by.

Hey, I’m even starting to develop a new hobby: talking to myself. I choose to go ahead and give that voice the floor. For the first and maybe only time in my life, I am going to say exactly what is bothering me. (I try to go easy on myself, though – I don’t want to cause too much offense).

I’m pissed off and it’s time I had a good scolding.

“You’re 24, not a little girl anymore,” I start. “You had a good education and you’re a good artist.” Here, the flow of my thoughts stumbles a bit. Can I really call myself a good artist? Well, yes, I can, I decide, after thinking it over for a few minutes.

“One of our teachers once told us that you can’t be an artist without a crazy amount of self-confidence. He was right. You’ve always had so much doubt, Emmy, you’ve been afraid of making decisions, and can you see where that’s gotten you?”

“To the point where I have a job, a roof over my head, and a husband. I was living my grandmother’s dream,” I answer.

“Yes, but meanwhile, you’d never sold a painting. This is
your
life, you know, not your grandmother’s.”

“Good point,” I concede to myself.

That other, new, me continues the attack. “Snow White and Cinderella?” she laughs. “Your real role model is Sleeping Beauty! You’re trying to do the same thing, living without ever waking up!”

“I drink a lot of coffee. I’m obviously trying to wake up,” I object. I feel bad for my old self.

“Look, this time, it was Rachel and John who decided everything for you. Your only job was to put up with it and weep. Rachel sold your paintings and found you a job (That was Tom! I interrupt myself. Okay, but you met him through Rachel). John led you through a couple of erotic education sessions. That’s what we’ll call them. Now Paul says he wants you, and you jump his bones in a split second, no second thoughts.”

“No, you’re wrong – it took more than a second. I thought it over carefully. It was a conscientious decision. I totally wanted to do it too, and it was amazing for both of us.”

“So now what? Finish your job in Seattle and go back to him? Live happily ever after, and forget about everything that happened?”

I give that some careful consideration. It is obvious to me that I can’t just forget about what happened to us, no matter how hard I try. In that case, maybe I shouldn’t try? And what is this “happily” business anyway? Right now I’m anxious about all the uncertainty, and I feel wounded after all I’ve been through, but I’m painting better than ever. So there you have it. Me and my anxiety, alone on the road to a place far, far away from home: Seattle. My heart keeps skipping beats with this anticipation of new, unknown experiences, and oddly enough, I feel happier now than I did a few months ago, at home with Paul, going to teach every day and painting in brief spurts just for myself.

Whatever is going to happen next, I make a decision that from here on, I will be truthful with myself. As much as I can, anyway. I don’t want to go back to Paul just because that would be the easiest thing to do, either for me, or for him, or for both of us. I’ll go back to him only if I’m one hundred percent certain that he is the only one I want to be with, that there is nobody else I could possibly need. I also want to be certain that I’m not just a familiar, reliable old pal to him. Instead, I want to be the woman he can’t live without.

That’s what I’m thinking as I drive into Seattle. Strange as it sounds, it’s not raining. The weather is beautiful, and the sun is shining all around me. After what seems like forever, I find the office building where I’ll be working. It takes me even longer to find a place to park my car.

The office where this Mr. Montgomery works is right in the center of downtown, in an extremely tall building that at first glance seems to be made solely of windows. A security guard is stationed at the front doors and he doesn’t want to let me in. I explain that I have an appointment on the eleventh floor with Sue Green, Mr. Montgomery’s assistant. The guard looks me over distrustfully, head to toe. I peer just as intently back at him.

He’s young and handsome. Enormous broad shoulders, with a shock of black hair on his head. About my age or even younger than me. When he stands up to make a phone call, probably to Sue, I catch a very pleasant glimpse of his ass – pleasant, because he has the kind of visibly strong, round butt it’s easy to envy. Out of the blue I find myself imagining him naked, and I’m ashamed at my thoughts. Fortunately, two minutes later, a middle-aged woman scurries out of the elevator in my direction.

She reaches out a hand to me to shake, still in mid-stride. “I’m Sue. Nice to meet you, Emmy. Let’s go upstairs for a minute. I’ll show you around and give you some instructions, and then I’ll let you go. You must be exhausted.” She smiles and looks me up and down. “My God!” Sue throws her hands up in the air. “Look how little you are! You could be in high school! I pictured you differently.” I hadn’t pictured her at all, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere till I finish. Enough talking about my size! Okay, I’m never going to play basketball – what am I supposed to do, drop dead? I straighten my shoulders and hold my head high.

We emerge from the elevator on the eleventh floor. The remodeling project is in full swing all around us. Sue explains that Mr. Montgomery recently bought the whole floor for his office space and is redoing everything. He likes an austere, businesslike style. “Ascetic” is what Sue calls it. My paintings and the mural are supposed to liven the decor up a little. Those paintings contain only three colors: gray, white and black. Pretty gloomy. If those are going to liven things up, how dull is the rest of it going to be? Not my problem! The customer is always right, after all. My job is straightforward: I paint.

Meanwhile, Sue is maneuvering quickly and dexterously between scaffolding and construction workers, over the canvas covering spread across the floor.

“This is where you’ll actually be working,” says Sue, pointing to one wall.

From what I can see, this will be the main foyer. There are elevators on two sides, and between them, one wall entirely occupied with windows. That means I can expect plenty of natural light. I’ll be able to create something really fascinating here. Ideas are already bubbling up in my head. I push them aside and direct my attention back to Sue only when she mentions my employer’s name.