Saved and SAINTified (60 page)

As he continued to ascend the steps, he thought it strange that Xenia was nowhere in sight, nor the children. It was only eight in the evening after all. He placed his hand on the master suite bedroom knob and turned it. Then he stood in the doorway, almost dropping his luggage once his eyes adjusted to the sight before him.

“Oh ... my ... God.”

He burst out laughing, closed the door and leaned against it. He laughed so hard, his stomach rolled and cramped. It wasn’t from amusement, but from pure shock. Xenia stood across the room, smiling at him quietly, letting him absorb the whole set-up.

“Woman, who the hell helped you do this?” He walked up to her, softly pressing his lips to hers before looking around once more. On the far left side of the room,
Xenia had put up three poster-sized, conjoined partitions in cardboard—blown up photographs of an abandoned interior room in the south Bronx, taken in the 1970s. It served as a mini-stage, blocked off a section of their room for his enjoyment. To make it even more sentimental and engaging, she had a full mattress lying on the floor in front of it—as if it was a small room within itself.

“Okay, what the hell is on that mattress?” He rubbed his nose with his index finger, still laughing.

Xenia looked at him proudly. “I used chocolate syrup and Oreo crumbs ... tried to dirty it up a bit.”

He burst out laughing again. “It looks disgusting. I love it.”

He embraced her tightly, kissing the top of her head. “I can’t believe you did this. This looks so much like how that room looked, Xenia, the old club.” He was in awe of her ingenuity and creativity. She even had a ‘Savage Skulls’ poster on one wall of the makeshift play setting, in a corner of their bedroom, for a delightful game of sexual role play.

“Well, I could tell that you really missed it by what you’d shared with me, and even though it was hard, you had some fond memories. You said it was your first sexual experience, in some ways, so,” she shrugged her shoulders, “I thought you might want a chance to ... you know, do it on the dirty mattress that you have such fond memories of.” She grinned.

Saint looked her up and down, still trying to wrap his head around all that Xenia had done for him.

“To say I’m impressed is an understatement.”

There she stood, with nothing on ... but one thing caught his eye. When he figured it out, he ran his fingers across her groin, then shook his head in disbelief. “Down to the damn pubic hair ... fucking brilliant.”

“I didn’t have time to grow it out all crazy, like the girl you described—that would take at least a couple of months—but I did the best I could in the time allotted.”

He cupped the back of her neck, bringing her lips roughly back to his, kissing her so hard he felt the rhythm in her breathing become erratic. He ran his hand up and down her groin, feeling the soft hairs push against his fingers. Normally, he wouldn’t have liked this much fuzz—but for tonight, the hairier the better...

“Thank you,” he said seriously, as he slowly stepped back from her.

He didn’t lift his gaze from her as he quickly cast his clothing aside, uncaring where it landed. “It’s funny how I came in here dog-tired, but now I have a new lease on alertness. So, I get to pretend it is 1979, right? I get to pretend I was older than I was that year, too—to be sixteen, with a bangin’ chick, fuckin’ her brains out on a dirty mattress in an abandoned building?”

Xenia
smiled, sunk her teeth into her bottom lip and twisted her body back and forth, like a high school girl at the brink of adulthood. He could tell she was getting off on this, but she must have missed the memo; he was going to step it up a notch.

“You know what I want to do, baby?” he said, his voice low.

“What?”

“I want you to put a red scarf on your head or around your waist. I want you to pretend to be a Blood. I want us to be two rival gangs, about to fuck...”

Xenia put her hands on her hips and looked back at him. “Saint, you are really sick,” she retorted, laughing.

“Yeah, that’s true, but you know it’s a sexy idea.”

“What if I don’t have a red scarf anymore? Those days are long behind me.”

“Stop lying. We both know you have one still.”

Xenia grinned and disappeared into their closet while Saint grabbed a black magic marker. When she came back out, a few minutes later, Saint was sitting on the mattress, butt naked with a hand-drawn Savage Skull tattoo on his shoulder. Xenia stepped nearer, stared at it, and burst out laughing.

“Now, you are doing way too much. You’re going too far.”

Then he lunged at her, grabbed her around her waist and playfully slammed her down onto the freshly soiled mattress. He ran his fingertips delicately over the worn red scarf tied sweetly around her waist. His heart pumped faster as he could feel the energy emitting from it—proof that she had it on during her ‘bad girl’ days of running the streets and getting in trouble.

He looked up and swam into a world now lost. The blown up, sepia colored photos showed peeling paint on walls, dirt, debris and pure grimy metropolitan nostalgic love. He kept staring for the longest, falling into the moment, almost able to smell the old aroma of the place—old piss, cheap beer, strong marijuana and sex ... definitely sex.

“That’s funny,” he muttered.

“What’s funny?”
Xenia asked.

“I forgot about how I had smelled sex then. The first time, I didn’t know what it was, but it was distinct. It didn’t turn me off. I just knew it was different, couldn’t place the source, just knew something new was in the air.” He carefully lay down on top of her, ensuring to not put too pressure on her stomach. Heurgently went after her neck, kissing long and hard as he grinded his hips. His erection sprung forward in a matter of mere moments. He took in the scent of the new, albeit cheap, mattress Xenia had purchased, intermingled with the chocolate syrup she’d strewn along it, to age it just in time before his arrival. She had no idea how much this meant to him. Sure, she saw he was pleased, but this touched his soul deep within; it was one of the best gifts he’d ever received.

He pressed on her harder, driving his pelvis into hers, making her shudder and moan beneath him. He now had his chance to fuck a pretty woman on a dirty mattress, and he was hell-bent on doing just that. He unceremoniously pushed her thighs apart, clutching one while he guided himself inside of her. His lips softly brushed against hers as they stared at one another. Her bandana rolled between them, reminding him that if their lives had played out differently, they more than likely would have been enemies—and all this time, he had been screwing the devil in red, and loving every minute of it.

He watched her blink. Hard. He thrust deeper, harder, stiffly, taking her.

“Ohhhh shit...” She moaned, and it sounded so sweet.

And then it happened—the purple fog escaped from between his lips. He couldn’t control it. He was flying cut sleeves while inside of her; he was free, showing off his colors and leaving his mark. He was tagging her pussy with graffiti richness, intoxicating bouquets of spray paint ... white, copious spray-paint soon to cum as he shook up ‘the can’, writing his name up and down her sugar walls.

“My pussy.” He moaned possessively. “It belongs to
me
, my fucking pussy,” he repeated, digging his fingers into her thickset hips as he jerked in and out of her body.

He closed his eyes, fancying the A train going by, feeling the coolness of the New York night air seeping through a broken window with steel bars. He even heard the raucous whores outside, calling, ‘Hey baby, wanna party?’ And the honking of a car or two blowing at a crowd to get the hell out of the middle of the street. Some drunk guy cursed in Spanish at his ol’ lady and an old Jewish man threatened to call the police on the punks that kept harassing him.

While he tagged her insides, thrusting, moving to an imaginary street beat, all these things became his temporary reality. He opened his eyes and glanced at the photos again. Goddamn, it looked real ... it was real. This was a
real
place; someone had actually lived there, with it looking just ... like ... that.

He ran with his newly built fantasy of fucking the daylights out of a rival gang member. Oh, how sweet the thought. It fed his ego, because a slither of it was actually true.

“Uhhh! Saint! You’re ... deep ... so deep.”

Her words interrupted his thoughts. He’d become lost in her, hunting, seeking, and finding.

His body seemed to have a mind of its own in claiming her, initiating her body, giving it a righteous ‘gang related’ beat down. He felt her wrap her arms around his back, crossing her hands loosely over his neck, panting, sweating, and swearing.

His body crashed into hers, and hell, he couldn’t stop himself. Saint represented the old ghetto, and
Xenia represented the new world. The antediluvian photos felt fresh to him, but her love in his life was invigorating and new. He was getting treatment—she was his hospital for a time that he cherished, but also cursed. He was hooked on the illness, and needed an intervention. What began as a fun romp down memory lane with a sexual twist and love play became a spiritual awakening. He didn’t expect this, but he should’ve known better once he’d told her to find that scarf. What did that all really mean? Why did he want her to do it so badly?

Shed blood is a sacrifice—it gives new life while snuffing out another. A skull represents death; something has died and rotted away, leaving a carcass of what once was.

I was dead. She brought me back to life, protecting me with her shed blood. Together, we are brand new and born again.

And that was it. He gripped her hands and placed them above her head, staring down at her with such intensity, he could almost see a glimmer of fear in her eyes as he kept churning his hips, thrusting inside her.

“Mmmm! I’m gonna cum,” he whispered, grunting and pushing himself to the limit.

Xenia
screamed in his ear, causing it to ring as she dug her fingernails in his upper back. He was fucking her so hard and deep—she’d become delirious.

“I can feel you ... in my ... gut!” she yelled, her ass being pushed into the mattress as he drove into her with all of his might, pounding at warp speed.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhh! I’m cummin’, baby!”

“Saint! You’re ... oh, God!”

He lost it as he shot deep within her, grunting and shoving himself as far as he could go, his mind racing and spinning as if he were high, drunk and mad as hell. He kept moving, gradually slowing until there was nothing left.

After a while, he rose, leaned back on his knees and looked down at her.
Xenia stared back at him, her eyes in a daze, her body covered in their mixed sweat.

Saint felt disoriented, yet a sense of peace still resided inside him. For a moment, he was back home but he was also in the future. He’d never felt so torn before and the confusion felt just fine.

He sighed and traced her navel with his fingertip, drawing swirls in the moisture on her body, painting pictures of their adulation, sketching the inner-workings of complicated love that was easy to understand. This was a deeply spiritual experience, and he’d never forget it.

“Are you okay, baby?”

“Mmmm hmmmm,”

He continued to draw on her body with his finger. Once he finally stopped, he was stunned at what he’d done. Thinking he was only designing randomly, he hadn’t noticed until the very end that he’d in fact drawn a complete mural on her stomach. He bent down, his eyes focusing closely on the swirls, circles and lines...

He’d sketched the Rainbeau Knights of the Round Table official symbol and underneath the ‘black skirt’ was her name, ‘Xenia’. Smiling at his artwork, he lay down again, his head on her breasts, his body wrapped around hers as if he needed her to merely keep him alive. He’d soon have her again and again, all through the night—drawing designs inside of her body, and outside...

She’d been officially tagged.

You’re it, you’re tha shit...

****

“No, that’s no good. Let’s try again. I told you that you were rusty. Let me go over some rules with you. I should’ve done this right when we got here.”

“I got this!”
Xenia closed one eye and held the gun out in front of her, zooming her hands from side to side as she pretended to follow after the moving paper target with the bull’s-eye.

Saint
snatched the gun out of her hand.

“
Xenia, stop playing around!”

“What?! You don’t have to act like that, damn. I was just practicing.”

“This is serious. Now listen.” He stared down at her as he held the gun right out of her reach. “The muzzle should always be pointed in a safe direction, which is away from you and anyone here at this damn range.”

“You are just a wealth of information. Why’d you bring me
to a shooting range if all you are going to do is talk and treat me like a novice?” She gave him an indignant look and folded her arms over her chest.

Saint
ignored her and continued. “Your fingers should be off the trigger until your weapon is aimed at the target. If I, or the range officer, tell you to stop, you stop. I will say, ‘Cease Fire!’ That means you immediately stop shooting, Xenia. You seem like the trigger happy type,” he teased. “At the end, remove your chamber bullet then lay the gun down on the shooting bench right behind us here.” He pointed to a small wooden bench in the background. “We’ll clean up when we’re finished. That’s really important—throwing away any spent ammunition and trash that you’ve made during your shooting session. Got it?” He winked at her as he handed her back the gun.