by R. R. Banks
Until then, it's better for me to stay on the sidelines. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that.
Still, despite my best efforts to shut down the emotional side of myself – something I've been successful at for quite some time now – there's something about Bailey that's threatening to undo the knot I've tied around my heart. I can't say what it is. It makes no sense. But, despite our enormous differences, I find her incredibly attractive and appealing. She intrigues me. Compels me.
Which is why I need to get the hell away from her.
“Honestly,” she finally answers, “I see you as more of the Captain of Industry type. Sitting up in your ivory tower, sipping brandy, smoking a big fat cigar, and doing everything in your power to avoid us – the unwashed masses. Those of us you consider less than yourself.”
“Wow,” I say. “I see you've given this some thought.”
She shrugs again. “I just know your type.”
“And what type is that?”
“The corporate, wealth-before-people type,” she snaps. “The type who values money and things over the health, welfare, and dignity of people.”
Ouch.
“That seems a touch harsh.”
“The truth often hurts,” she says, her dark eyes boring into mine.
“You don't even know me,” I retort angrily.
“I don't know Charles Manson, but I feel pretty comfortable saying he's repulsive.”
A wry laugh escapes me. “So, now I'm Charles Manson.”
“That's not what I said,” she responds, her tone growing more hostile by the second.
This conversation is starting to spin out of control, and I'm not sure how we got to this point, or how to stop it. I only wanted to enjoy a nice walk in the autumn air. I didn’t want to have a sociological debate with her.
“Listen,” I say. “I'm just a guy doing a job. My clients tell me where to build, what to build, and I do it. It's no different from you doing your job at work.”
“Yeah, except my work doesn't displace people from their homes,” she says. “In fact, we fight to help keep people in their homes.”
“What do you want from me, Bailey?” I growl. “I'm not the bad guy here.”
“You sure about that?” she hisses. “Because I'm not.”
I'm really trying to keep my cool. Trying not to lose it. She's not making it easy. We’re coming at this issue from two very different sides, so I don't blame her for how she feels – but, she's just so wrong about it.
“Look, I'm just a guy doing a job,” I say coolly. “And if I don't, somebody else will. I guarantee you that.”
“I know that. That's the problem,” she snaps. “There's an endless stream of you vultures lined up, ready to pick at the carcasses of those less fortunate than you.”
“What do you want me to say, Bailey?”
“That you care about people. That you're not just some evil, mindless, corporate – whore,” she practically shouts. “I want to hear you say that displacing all these people, buying up their neighborhoods, and sending them to shelters or the streets, bothers you on some level.”
I grit my teeth and take a long moment to collect my thoughts, trying to keep my temper in check. I keep reminding myself that Bailey is young. Idealistic. Naive. She doesn't understand how the world works – and she knows even less about how my business operates.
“Bailey, when a property is purchased for redevelopment, the people in those homes are given more than fair market value for their homes. I'm not just tossing people out on the street.”
“No? What about people who rent? Do they get a cut of that? What about the apartment complex over on Walford you tore down about six months ago?”
“They were given at least ninety-days notice that the property was being redeveloped,” I answer. “They were given first right of rental in the new property –”
“Yeah, like any of them could have afforded it,” she snaps.
I shrug. “That's not my problem,” I reply.
“Like I said, I'm running a business. Not a charity.”
She opens her mouth to argue again, but I know that if I let her, and this debate continues, it's only going to become more intense and more heated – and there are already enough people subtly eyeballing us. Curious onlookers who want to see the drama unfold.
“Listen,” I say coldly, cutting her off. “I'm not going to stand here and debate this with you. What was it you came to see me about today?”
She closes her mouth and suddenly looks deflated. And for a moment, she looks lost. But she quickly regains her footing and clears her throat.
“I wanted to come by to thank you for saving my job,” she says, her voice stiffer and more frigid than the air around us. “And to apologize, again, for the damage that was done to your car.”
“You're welcome,” I respond formally. “And don't worry about the car. With the salary I earn as a corporate whore, I'm sure I can afford to get it fixed.”
We stand there awkwardly, staring at each other for a minute, neither of us knowing what to say.
I can't tell you exactly what I expected or wanted from this walk with her, but I can tell you, this wasn’t it.
I guess I was hoping for a good conversation, and to get to know the captivating woman in front of me. Obviously, I need to learn to manage my expectations better.
“Is that all?” I ask.
She hesitates, and I can see the uncertainty on her face. She looks like she has more to say, but the moment passes, and she looks away from me.
“Yeah, that's it,” she says softly.
“Great,” I reply. “Then I appreciate you stopping by. Have a nice day.”
I turn and walk away, my mood deteriorating quickly. Part of me wants to go back to her and talk things out. To return to the free and fun conversation from before things went south. But, I don't turn back. I simply keep on walking and fasten another lock on the chain around my heart.
Bailey
I unlock the door to my studio and step inside. I breathe in deeply, savoring the thick scent of paint hanging in the air. I know I shouldn't – that it's bad for me – but, the smell of paint has always been something I found enjoyable. To me, it smells like – art. Beauty. Passion.
My studio is small, but it’s everything I need. I rent it out from a guy who built an artist’s commune of sorts – a safe space for artists to work. It’s located in one of the shadier parts of town. A neighborhood that I'm sure Colin and his ilk will eventually tear down in the name of wealth and progress.
Until then, I'm determined to keep creating art here. And I'm going to keep working my ass off to get my art noticed by the right people. Influential people. People who can help get my message out to the world, where it might do some good for the people who need it the most.
I flip on the lights and look at the row of canvases leaning against the wall. I think I'm a better photographer than a painter, but I don't think my painting is all that bad. I'd stack it up against some of the works I see in a few of the posh galleries downtown. It's my subject matter that's the problem. My art doesn’t come close to resembling what passes for provocative and challenging these days – mostly abstract works.
My paintings trend more toward realism with elements of pop art blended in. It's a mixed media deal, where I use photographs, or magazine cutouts – anything that strikes me, really – in combination with the focus of the piece, which is always painted. My work depicts scenes from the world around me.
Perhaps there are a few abstract concepts thrown in, but only for effect. The main subject of my work is the people.
I walk over to the canvas on the easel right now. It's of a woman I know named Mona. She's in her early thirties and has been living on the streets since she was nineteen or twenty. She’s had a hard life and it's taken a toll on her. You can see it in her eyes, and in every line on her face. The portrait I'm doing of her – based on a photo I took – shows her juxtaposed against obvious symbols of wealth and p
rivilege.
Maybe my work isn't the most revolutionary, but I think it's striking and bold, all the same. I think it tells a story that needs to be told in a clear and concise way. I think that other people would see and understand that –if I somehow got my message out to a wider audience. They would connect with it, and my work would have a genuine impact on them.
Of course, I could be biased, but whatever.
I'm not here to paint tonight, though. No, tonight I'm here to develop some photos I took the other day. I personally don't feel photography is appreciated enough, and that it can be as beautiful and striking as any art form. Photography has an immediacy that other mediums don't. They can elicit a really visceral, emotional response. And it's because they're real. There's no fancy elements, no different brush techniques – a photograph is raw and in your face. To me, that makes it all the more powerful.
Locking the front door behind me, I cue up some music. As Janelle Monáe's voice echoes throughout my small studio, I step into my small darkroom and draw the curtain tight. I line up all of my chemicals, and check the last batch of photographs still hanging up. In my opinion, there are some good ones, and some that are simply garbage. They're dry, so I take them all down and slip them into a folder. I'll go through them later.
With that done, I flip on the red light and start to develop the latest batch of pictures. It's a tedious process but going through all the steps is something I always find soothing. Because I know the process like the back of my hand, I can do it without much thought or effort.
In this age of digital everything, developing your own film has become a lost art form, and I take pride in my work from start to finish.
The entire process takes a while – it's not nearly as fast as you see in the movies – but, because I can pretty much do it blindfolded, it gives me time to think. To clear my head. Doing this is like meditation, in a way, and it puts me in a calm state of mind.
As a picture I snapped of Colin at the protest the other day starts to resolve itself, I think back to our encounter earlier. I hadn't meant to go off on him like that. I didn’t mean to debate or engage him. I know we're on opposite sides of the divide, and I don't know if such opposing views can be truly reconciled. Which is why I never intended to debate the issue with him.
No, all I wanted to do by going to his office was to thank him for saving my job, and to apologize for what happened to his car. I really can't afford to make restitution for the car, but I can at least apologize that everything got so out of hand.
It's the thought that counts, right?
I hang the picture of Colin up on the line to dry, studying his handsome face for a moment. His tall, lean, strong body is framed perfectly in the designer suit he's wearing. His face is chiseled and rugged, the thick beard only adding to his gruff allure. He really is a gorgeous man. If only he weren't so damn infuriating.
He's deeply entrenched in that elitist, corporate mindset. He's steeped in that, “screw the people in the name of profit,” attitude. I find it incredibly appalling, and despicable.
Having grown up poor, I know what it's like to live like some of the people in those buildings.
When you're poor, you don’t know where your next meal is coming from. You don't know if you'll be forced to choose between keeping a roof over your head or feeding your child.
And when some rich developer swoops in and pulls the rug out from under you, essentially kicking you to the curb, they're pulling out whatever small shred of security you have in your life. And to my way of thinking, there is nothing more cruel or callous than that.
Yet, Colin, and other developers and real estate agents like him, speak about it so cavalierly. But, they're not the ones who have to worry about where to lay their heads down at night. Nor do they have to worry about how they’ll feed their family. They frankly don’t have to worry about anything – ever – because their wealth makes them immune to such trifling, pedestrian problems.
Still, despite all of that, the fact that we are so incredibly different – and I loathe his mindset – I can't shake my attraction to him. I should find him utterly repulsive. And yet, I don't. I've tried. I've tried to hate him. Despise him. See him as a monster. The ugliest man on the planet.
Try as I might, I can't shake the feelings he inspires in me. Whenever I see him, hell, whenever I think of him, I feel a flutter in my breast, and a warmth spreads through my belly – and even further south.
I can't explain it, and I can't help it. I feel a raw, animal magnetism for the man, no matter how hard I try. I just can't deny it. It's strong and powerful. And it consumes me.
I lean back against my worktable and look at the picture of Colin again. I focus on the lines of his face, and the contours of his body and feel the familiar sensations flowing through my body. As I look at those perfectly kissable lips of his, I suddenly feel myself becoming aroused.
I bite my bottom lip as I imagine having his big, rough hands on me. The heat between my thighs flares as I imagine the way they'd feel sliding across my body. Heat spreads through my body like a raging wildfire.
Lifting my dress up around my waist, I slip my hand down into my leggings. I let out a gasp as I circle my clit and imagine Colin taking me into his arms and kissing me passionately. I close my eyes and try to feel his lips pressed to mine. I let my mind drift, imagining what it would feel like to have his tongue in my mouth, feeling our kiss growing in heat and intensity.
A shudder passes through me and I feel goosebumps raise along my skin. I picture Colin pressing himself against me, and feel his long, thick cock grinding against me.
Even though I’m still a virgin at twenty-three, I do my very best to imagine how it would feel to have Colin’s hard cock slipping into me as I slide two fingers past my velvety lips. In my fantasy, Colin has me up on my worktable, my dress pushed up around my waist, my leggings in a crumpled heap on the floor. He's driving his cock into me with immense force.
I cry out, calling his name softly as I grind myself against my fingers, pretending that it's Colin instead. The waves of pleasure washing over me are intense and tendrils of flame engulf me as I picture him flipping me over and taking me from behind. He's rough and commanding. He grabs my hair and pulls it hard, wrenching my head back, and makes me call out his name.
I'm so firmly in control of every aspect of my life, and I refuse to cede that control for anything. In my fantasy though, Colin takes it from me. He strips me down totally and completely as he pounds himself into me, taking me, doing everything he wants to me – and I let him.
I completely give myself over to Dream Colin. Let him have me. Let him command me. I drive my fingers deeper, wishing it was Colin's long, thick cock filling me instead.
Fantasy Colin is gripping my hips tightly, and I can hear him grunting and groaning with pleasure. I look back over my shoulder at him, see the look of absolute rapture on his face, which only takes my own excitement higher.
I picture Colin fucking me. As hard and fast as I want him to fuck me.
“Mm… God, yes...” I murmur.
I feel stretched so wide – just how I imagine Colin would feel inside of me – and feel the pressure building up deep within.
In the theater of my mind, Colin is pressing me down hard against the table, keeping me pinned there so I can't move as he pounds his cock into me vigorously. I hear the deep baritone rumble of his voice as he talks to me, whispers dirty things that only draw me closer and closer to climax.
My body starts to spasm and shake. The explosion of pleasure deep within my body shakes me from head to toe. I'm moaning loud as I'm hit with wave after wave of sensation.
My knees grow weak, and I have to hold onto the table to keep myself upright as a powerful orgasm rocks my body.
Slowly, the trembling fades, and I'm able to stand on my own two feet again. The orgasm passes eventually, but I find myself wrapped in a warm afterglow, as images of Colin flood my brain.
It's a fantasy I know wil
l never come to pass, but rather than sate my desire for the man, masturbating to him seems to have only increased my hunger. I want Colin Anderson. Want to feel him inside of me.
It's a desire I know I need to shut down – ruthlessly and immediately. It's a fantasy that will never play out in real life. I won't let it.
I want the man, but I will never give myself to him. Not in this lifetime.
Colin
It takes the workmen a few minutes to get the fifteen-foot Blue Spruce centered and set in the corner of the living room. It's a massive, but regal-looking tree, and it has that wonderful, festive smell I always associate with the holidays. I'm not an overly sentimental man, or one who gets too warm and fuzzy about anything, but I can't deny the rush of nostalgia I get around the holidays.
“So, what I was thinking was that we could do lamb shanks for your meal on Christmas Eve...”
Diane, who's been my party planner for years, is going on about decorations, meal planning, and a thousand other things I really couldn't care less about. I trust Diane to put together a good time and to make sure everything is taken care of. She's never failed me in the past, and I highly doubt she's going to fail me now.
Yet, despite my complete faith in her, she still feels the need to run every freaking thing by me for my approval.
It's boring and tedious, but she insists on going over every minute detail with me. I'm so busy staring at the tree and letting my mind wander that it takes a second to realize she's stopped speaking and is now looking at me expectantly.
Knowing I missed everything she just said, I clear my throat and give her a weak smile. “Everything sounds great, Diane,” I say. “As usual.”
She gives me a small frown of disapproval, obviously not missing the fact that I'd tuned her out a while back. She lets out a long breath and taps her finger against the clipboard in her hand.
“We can go over it again –”
“No, no. It's fine. Lamb is great,” I say, seizing on the only thing I recall from her monologue. “Love lamb.”