©2001 Paddy Gillard-Bentley
It was no pretentious glance that transcended the mundane. Early evening on a rainy Wednesday in October and I had been wandering the nearly vacant museum for over an hour. It was then, almost closing, time that I noticed him across the room. I was standing in front of a painting illustrating a couple in the act of something wickedly erotic. Tall, long black hair tied neatly in a pony tale, long black coat, black shirt, black pants, shoes…and interestingly, white socks. I allowed a small smile. He perceived my appraisal. He did not smile, but his subsequent response somehow rendered time inane. He shifted his weight to one side, rubbed his chin, and drank my body with his eyes. Suddenly I felt as if I was standing naked to his gaze. After what might have been a full minute, or an eternity, he smiled.
I cannot explain the rush of heat that drenched my body in electricity. Beneath my open coat, I was wearing a very short crimson silky dress. My legs were bare but for the high open-toed sandals. Beneath the crimson my - labia bare, soft, smooth save the tiny triangle, a token. In that manner, I could walk around the city feeling my sexuality. It felt as if someone was always touching me. It made me feel alive, gave me power. That’s all I required. I was looking for nothing else. For me, it had all become an intellectual game that I played with myself. My husband’s decline of sexual interest over the past few years created a need in me to be desired.
I felt my face flush. Very uncharacteristic I turned my attention back to the painting, trying to control my breathing. I became so lost in the painting that I forgot.
“It is not the subject that elucidates the passion of this painting.”
My body tensed. He was right behind me, his voice low, soft, with a hint of an accent; Spanish. How did he get this close to me without me feeling him? I always know when someone is…
“The erotic nature of this painting is not expressed so much by the subject matter, but if you look, the colors, the power of the brush stroke, the passion the artist used to fill this canvas with emotion, is more indicative of its sexuality…his sexuality.”
I looked at the painting. He was right. I turned in the small space he afforded me, and looked into dark eyes; the intensity in them, tangible.
“It would be a shame if all this energy was consumed by his painting.”
He smiled. Beautiful. “That has never been a hindrance for him.”
I turned back to the painting, and looked at the name of the artist. Spanish. He was now beside me. I smiled, without looking at him.
My voice came so softly. “Beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I had been watching his mouth, his perfect lips as they formed those two words. So captivated by him, I forgot time. I don’t know how long it was before I looked from his mouth to his eyes.
He smiled. “Beautiful.”
How easily he held my face in his hands and looked directly into my eyes before closing them, thick lashed lying on his cheek before I closed mine and the museum dissolved. The world dissolved. He placed his warm mouth onto mine. His kiss…so gentle at first, and then, when the fire spread between us, more intense. My mind whirled. How can so much passion be conjured in one kiss? Somewhere in the middle of it, his soft tongue in my mouth, I felt my body surrender to him, so consumed by the kiss my heart became blind to the perception that the body's desire prevails over sensibility.
He recognized the moment. “Yes.” He spoke that word on my lips, without interrupting the rhythm. Then, about the time I thought I was going to melt onto the marble floor, with his hands still on my face, tangled in my hair, he whispered in my ear. “My studio is a five minute walk.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He took my hand and led me from the museum into the din of
. I don’t remember the walk. He didn’t say a word. My mind exploded with reasons why I had suddenly become insane. Is trepidation's task to subjugate the senses? Is this suffocating passion one of life’s modest offerings or one of love's defenses? New York
Then we were there; a large studio with his living space at one end. I stood in the middle of the huge studio, paintings in various stages of completion, almost all of them vividly sexual. For a moment, I considered leaving. As if he knew my mind, he was beside me, taking off my coat. Lissome fingers worked to unwrap what I believed was my masquerade. Intriguing how reticence is abandoned as raisons d'Ítre fade.
I looked out the huge windows, staring at the street below. Everything glistened wet. The lights from a neon sign outside illuminated the room with strokes of intermittent pink. I turned and stood before him in the faint light of the room. I watched this tall stranger watch me. His long black hair had been released, and shimmered like fire in the surreal pulses of light.
He reached for a stray curl that rested on my shoulder. He ran his fingers slowly to the end and closed his eyes. A restrained moan came deep from within his throat. I searched his face. Who is this man that such a simple thing could arouse such passion? How did I find myself in this enigmatic man’s apartment? While part of me was wondering at the madness that had possessed my mind, the other waited patiently for whatever would come next. I had never done anything this impetuous before, and in the very same breath, I had never felt this intrigued by a man. He turned and walked toward the bed at the far end of the studio. I watched him carefully, noticing the assertive stride of his long legs, the power in his strong shoulders. I noticed how his pants fit over what promised to be supple, firm and tender beneath my curious fingers. I sighed, just before I trembled. I don’t know if it was in anticipation or fear, but they both, at that moment, became somehow mingled.
He took a violin from its midnight blue velvet-lined case on the bed. He handled the instrument with the same affection one would handle a new born babe. Caressing the smooth shiny wood, he tucked the violin under his strong chin, picked up the bow with the same grace, and held it, poised over the instrument and time froze, enclosed in ice.
He looked at me then, for too long. He whispered, “Take off the dress.”
I closed my eyes to the force of that phrase. Such a persuasive command communicated with such a quiet voice. Resolved to drink acquisitively from this experience, I slowly began to unbutton my dress, starting at the bottom as I watched him, completely captivated by the moment as he tenderly guided the bow across the strings. The music that followed was drenched in luxuriant honeyed passion. His languid stare remained fixed on my eyes. I felt fear incite within. It was not merely of the beautiful man pouring perfect music into my soul, but also a fear that lay deep inside me; that now threatened to expose me. I had never trusted men enough to delve into the shadowy side of my passion. I had always let it linger; only surfacing in the fantasies that come with a marriage of unfulfilled and unadorned sex.
I laughed to myself. I had managed perhaps half of the buttons. God how I hoped he would believe it was my provocative nature that slowed my progress, not that it was actually due to the trembling in my body that transcended the tips of my fingers as they struggled with the small buttons. The small smile playing on his lips suspended that hope. The silk was soft beneath my fingers. I had held the dress to my body, and as I reached the last button, I took a deep breath and easily shrugged the dress from my shoulders. I caught my reflection in the window and watched as the dress drifted to the floor like color from a painting. I shuddered as the first cool air breathed upon my skin. Still, the music continued, the sensual tones filling my head as he watched me over his left shoulder. I don’t know how long I stood there, naked, bathed in the ethereal light of the room, but I stood still, afraid any movement would betray my apprehension.
I had no idea what to do with my hands.
“Show me” he said, never losing a beat.
I closed my eyes, as I slowly turned, languishing in his scrutiny.
“Exquisite.” It was quiet, but compelling. “Stop.” I did, with my back toward him as he continued to play; leaving me to consider this exotic power it offered me - to be so vulnerable. I had no idea why I trusted this man.
I felt the music, heard the music grow subtly louder. I shivered, exhilaration – desire – apprehension all blending with the melody, each competing to dominate me, until the music stopped. I waited, the room suddenly reticent with the absence of sound. Waited.
I mustered all my bravado and asked in a diminutive whisper, “What else can you play so beautifully?”
Then – I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck. He moved closer, so his naked body was pressed against mine. I knew at that moment, my soul had submitted to him. His hand came around the front of my body. He placed it flat against me, just above my pelvis and pulled me firmly against him. My mind was a blur as the waves of electricity rode my body, culminating in my loins, teasing my blood to more heat. His right hand came around the other side of my body, still holding the bow. A pause, and I was aware of nothing save the bow slowly moving across my stomach, caressing me with precise but gentle strokes. I cannot explain the intensity of that fire burned through me. The craving, the thirst the ache of desire seethed beneath his hand, and lower. My knees became weak but he held m tight against his body. I could feel him in the small of my back. I was entranced by this mysterious man and entirely acquiescent to his desires. Echoes of the violin stings still resonated inside my mind, reason obscured by his talent. A moan escaped my parted lips as I felt the bow slide across my breasts, moving in perfect rhythm with my heart. Expertly, he moved around my nipples, persuading them to reach for him, to reach for more. Sometimes quick light touches, then, long, sweeping and unhurried.
He explored lower. I could almost feel him smile when he heard the sharp intake of breath, continuing his journey of me, the animate instrument, probing, touching, stroking, igniting fire in his path. He was caressing my soul with his performance. I became consumed by sensation. My back arched; an invitation for more pleasure. It had long ago relinquished itself to the sweetness of desire. My body seemed to have claimed a mind of its own, and I felt control slipping from me. My head rested against his shoulder. I was mesmerized by the back and forth motion of Him - moving over my skin like liquid, waking all these feelings, these quiescent yearnings within.
I don’t know when the bow was replaced with his fingers. I don’t know when his soft warm lips continued the sonata. I don’t know when the instrument of passion was plunging into my depths. By then, I didn’t know who I was.
Copyright ©2001 Paddy Gillard-Bentley ~ all rights reserved by the author