by JD Hawkins
“That’s it,” she says, tilting her head back. “Right where I want you.”
Twisting and swaying over me, she takes me inside, all the way, bringing me deeper. She thrusts against me, rocking back and forth, agonizingly slow, controlling me like a plaything—no longer the detached mistress, she’s indulging herself now.
She leans forward, grabbing my jaw to hold me steady as she steals a tongue-lashing kiss. I bite her lips in the fury of my own desire but she pulls back, leaving me gasping at the ceiling. Her body continues to grind in the throes, my grunts mixing with her moans as I pound into her.
“Fuck me,” she whimpers, riding me.
Soon the grinding turns into a bounce, faster and wilder, my cock feeling harder than it’s ever been, so close to the edge I can barely keep my eyes open.
“Melina,” I groan, and the name alone seems too much for me to take now. I explode inside of her, unable to hold out anymore against her extraordinary body, against the perfection of her movements, the rightness of being inside her.
“Wyatt…” she says, the ending of my name drawn out into a high-pitched yell as she loses control herself. Her rhythmic movements quickening for a few seconds before becoming a slow vibration, thighs squeezing, hands gripping my sides, head thrown back.
I feel everything rush out of my body—all the tightness and frustration, the agony and anticipation, the hunger and the ego. The only thing left a cooling rush of happiness.
Melina eases down onto my chest, reaching up to unknot the shirt tying my hands to the headboard, and I bring them down around her, squeezing her warm body to my own, and in this moment I realize there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.
I wake up the next morning to the smell of bacon and butter-fried eggs. It’s Saturday, so there’s no work—or at least, no need to go into the office. I’ve been hammering work on the weekends for years, but maybe it’s time I took a real day off.
I stretch groggy muscles across the bed, and the fatigue in them brings the memories of last night flooding back, putting a smile on my face.
After pulling on a pair of boxer briefs, I stalk out of the bedroom and make my way quietly down the hall.
Melina’s in the kitchen, singing a song she doesn’t know the words to on the radio. Her singing’s still as adorably terrible as it was when we were kids. I stand there, half-hidden in the doorway to appreciate the moment as she moves around the room, pulling bread from the toaster and pushing bacon around the pan.
After enjoying the show a while, I step forward.
“That’s a hell of a combo. I can’t tell you how much I like it.”
Melina stops singing abruptly to turn and look at me.
“Yeah? Well, who doesn’t like bacon and eggs.”
I take a stool and sit.
“I was talking more about that whole ‘men’s shirt and panties’ thing you’ve got going on.”
Melina laughs shyly then turns back to fill a plate and lay it in front of me. She fills her own and then settles on the other side of the counter, the sound of the radio in the background as we fall into a comfortable silence. I watch her as I eat, and when she catches my eye she smiles bashfully, hair falling over her face. Somehow we say everything we need to in these small gestures, in this warm quiet between us. A mutual agreement that we’re on the same page—that we won’t answer those tricky questions yet, that we’ll enjoy this thing for a little while longer before we figure out what the hell is going on.
“Why don’t we spend the day together?” I say. “Could have some fun.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asks.
A few hours later we’re in the Exposition Park Rose Garden, strolling between the colorful blooms, a backpack on my shoulder filled with bacon sandwiches, some apples, a few bottles of water, and a couple of the kombucha drinks I snuck in when Melina wasn’t looking.
“I can’t believe—” she says, stopping herself to crouch down and take a picture of a flower that catches her eye, “that you wanted to come to the Rose Garden.”
A few more paces and she’s kneeling with her camera again. This time it’s a shot of various buds jostling in the breeze, a few industrious bees digging for pollen amid the petals. “I mean, it’s just so—” she takes a few steps backwards for a wide horizon shot this time, the fountain at the end of the path, “—cheesy.”
I laugh at her, finding it cute that she doesn’t see the irony of calling it cheesy when she seems to be having a whale of a time herself.
“You don’t remember when we came here as kids?” I say. “You’d just found that old Russian Leica copy at a flea market, and you dragged me out first thing in the morning to try it out. You took some awesome shots that day.”
Melina looks up from the display on her camera, her eyes distant as she searches her memory, a little light in them when she finds it.
“Vaguely…yeah! That Kiev had a great lens. God, do you have a photographic memory or something? No wonder you don’t take photos yourself—you remember all the weirdest things.”
I shrug and carry on walking.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess the further you get from something, the more you think about it sometimes.”
Melina smiles thoughtfully at me for a second, then gets distracted by a quality of the midday light on the bushes. I watch her for a while, filled with the same childlike enthusiasm she had as a kid, her eyes open and alive to the world, seeing it as a giant canvas for her art.
“I thought you said you weren’t doing much art anymore?” I josh.
“Maybe I’m just feeling inspired,” she says, as we stop at the stone rim of the fountain. “It’s the weekend, anyway—I don’t have to think about work.”
“Ah,” I say, reaching into the backpack, “and here’s me bringing this along.”
I pull out the kombucha bottle and Melina gasps a little surprise.
“Really?” she says incredulously. “You brought that?”
I shrug and toss it in my hands, looking at it.
“I’m trying to get used to drinking it, you know? Plenty of things that are good for you taste like crap—to start with. I’ve been trying to drink it regularly and see if it actually does what it claims to. Make you feel all—”
I look up and find Melina’s not standing in front of me anymore, she’s backed off about ten feet and is crouching low on the ground, snapping pictures of me holding the bottle, the fountain in the background.
“What’re you doing?” I call out to her.
“Just move a little this way,” she says, her face still behind the camera, “so the sun’s shining through the water behind you—that’s it! Let’s have you take on the first ‘Divinity Challenge.’ Kick the bag away. Ok, now take a sip. No gagging!”
I oblige—happy to play along, and kinda enjoying it when she gets a little commanding. As I take a drink, Melina barks out a few more instructions. I can swallow it without wincing now, especially if I hold my breath first, but the stuff still doesn’t go down that easy.
“Roll your shirt-sleeves up—just over your elbows.”
“What? What’s that got to do with—”
“Just do it!”
“Ok…”
“Bring the bottle higher—side on. Yeah! Hold it there. Perfect!”
Finally she moves the camera from her face to reveal a look of excitable glee.
“Oh my god, these pictures are great,” she says, walking back toward me still looking at her camera display. She starts fumbling around in her handbag, bringing out her phone and some cables.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna put this on the social media account with the hashtag ‘Divinity Challenge.’ This pic is going to get some real attention.”
I shrug and reach down into the backpack for a bacon sandwich.
“It’s just a picture of me and the bottle. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
Melina breaks away from photo-editing on her phone t
o give me a knowing look.
“Trust me. People are going to click.”
I eat the sandwich slowly, watching Melina focus intently on her screen, making minor adjustments to the picture and setting up the social media post. Finally she presses post, and I offer her a sandwich and a bottle of water. We sit, eating and drinking as we soak up the peace of the rose garden.
My phone rings, and I see that it’s my dad. We haven’t talked in a while and I figure it’s just him checking in, so I text him a message saying I’ll call him back later—not willing to spoil this little moment with Melina just yet.
Once she’s done with her sandwich she reaches back into her bag for her phone, swigs the last of her water, and checks the screen.
“Holy crap, Wyatt!” she says, shoving me enthusiastically. “Holy crap!”
“What?” I say, through a mouthful.
She holds the phone up to my face so I can see what she’s excited about. In the twenty minutes since she put up the #DivinityChallenge photo of me drinking the kombucha, it’s already gotten more likes than our last post got in a whole day. A page full of comments already on the side.
“What did I tell you?” Melina says smugly.
I peer a little closer to read some of the comments. Some compliment the amazing shot, some are just emojis, and half are about how hot I look. But most importantly, people are curious.
“You’re reading the comments, right?” Melina says as she pulls her phone back. “People are interested. They’re already asking what the Divinity Challenge is! And this never would’ve happened without you. Good looks always get the most attention.”
“You made me look good,” I reply.
“Nuh-uh.” Melina glances at me, then turns her smile back to her phone.
“You always had a talent for making the camera see things the way you do,” I say.
This time Melina can’t look away, our eyes locking intimately, a sense of the last boundaries between us melting. A heat rising, as if the space between us is becoming charged.
“Anyway,” Melina says, shaking it off, “it’ll take more than just one picture to turn this thing into actual sales.”
“So let’s take more,” I say.
“Here?” she asks dubiously.
“No. Let’s mix it up. We could turn this into a kind of series. ‘The iconic locations of L.A.’ We’re so close to Hollywood, I’m sure we can get people on the street to try the challenge if we tell them they’ll be famous for five minutes. Plus, it’s the weekend. There’ll be tons of kombucha victims out and about to choose from.”
“You know…this could actually work.” She nods, warming to the idea. “We could hit up the Santa Monica pier, the Hollywood sign—from the marketing research we’ve done it seems like those kinda places are in line with our demographic.”
“It’ll definitely work. And it’ll seem like all the health-conscious, yoga-loving, hyper-hippies of the West Coast are into it. That kind of vibe does great for nationwide sales.”
Melina grins.
“Yeah…we could stock up now and then put them out over the next few weeks. I’ve actually wanted to do more photography of L.A., anyway. There are so many great spots here, but people only get to see the stereotypical, postcard version of things. Maybe I can find some new angles.”
“You’ll find them.” I stand up and heave the backpack to my shoulder. “Let’s go.”
11
Melina
The day goes by too fast to savor every perfect moment, to really appreciate how happy being with Wyatt—and doing something I love—makes me. It’s a cruel trick of life, the way these good times go by so fast, when I’ve had so many hard, frustrating days that seemed to last forever.
We hit up the Disney Concert Hall to start, and before Wyatt even finds our first set of kombucha victims, I’m inspired to take pictures of everything I see reflected in the building’s curved, shiny surfaces—as if I’m seeing the world anew. Practically running around the site to find new angles and perspectives that’ll let me imbue some of the structure’s organic, imposing power into the pictures of the drink.
Initially, I have Wyatt stand in as my model, but pretty soon passers-by are noticing my camera and asking what we’re up to. In minutes, he’s charmed a group of them into taking the Divinity Challenge. I expect them to walk away the second they actually taste it, but Wyatt has a way with words, a way of putting a glint in his eye, and a way of making it seem cool to be able to brag that you choked down an entire bottle of this green sludge. I have to stifle a giggle when I overhear him telling a few outdoorsy types that he always drinks his Divinity ‘for stamina’ before he goes rock climbing, and I see them nodding along with interest.
Soon I have my pick of subjects; from jacked-up bros to fabulously bohemian women who look like they’re on their way to Coachella. He banters back and forth with them as I take both photos and video, turning each one funny and engaging. Wyatt and I become the perfect team, his enthusiasm and charm plus my inspiration—just like it was when we were younger.
Wyatt has to almost drag me away after an hour to visit the other locations.
“You know,” I say, as we get into the car, “I almost forgot it could be like this.”
“Be like what?” Wyatt asks.
“Like I’m actually enjoying photography. I’m suddenly remembering how much I just love getting out there and doing it. This is…fun.”
Wyatt grins.
When we get to the La Brea Tar Pits, he feeds the meter and walks up beside me as we head toward the black pool of bubbling liquid asphalt.
“How could you forget how much you love this?” he teases, gesturing at the animatronic mammoths struggling in the tar.
I shrug. “Easy to do when your family just talks about it in career terms, and your boss only sees it in terms of making money.”
Wyatt stops to look at me, his expression going serious.
“I never forgot,” he says, taking my hand. I smile at him, letting his words warm me, and then turn to face the tar pit, my nose wrinkling at the smell.
“You ready to make some magic?” I ask.
“Always,” Wyatt says.
We grab our shots quickly and then Wyatt convinces a few teenagers doing tricks on their skateboards to stop and try the ‘extreme’ drink—and although none of them can actually finish it, the photos I get of their grossed-out faces are pretty hilarious. The teenagers laugh at the pictures and make jokes at each other’s expense, promising to keep an eye on Divinity’s social media so they can tag all their friends in the posts.
“This is opening up a whole new demographic!” I tell Wyatt, nerding out as we walk back to the car.
“I guess it is,” he laughs.
After that we head to the next spot, trying to hit as many places as possible before we lose the daylight.
At the Griffith Observatory, just a few miles away, I’m inspired all over again, the views of the city below creating the perfect backdrop to the children’s karate class that we catch practicing on the huge lawn. With their parents’ permission, I take some amazing shots of the kids, slyly tucking a bottle of Divinity in the foreground of the photos as if to say that the drink is the source of the children’s boundless energy and excellent form.
As the sun starts to set we backtrack to our second-to-last stop, Randy’s Donuts, where Wyatt feeds me a couple of bites of an old fashioned so I don’t get my fingers too sticky to operate the camera. We don’t have any kombucha left over for the challenge, but I do notice an older Armenian couple sitting nearby, enjoying their own snacks with the content look of a couple who’ve been together their whole lives. When I shyly approach and ask if they’d like to hold hands and pose with the empty bottle, they’re more than happy to oblige.
Finally, as twilight deepens into night, we drive to the Santa Monica Pier, where the neon lights and the striking skies will give me a whole new playground to work with. I have to run into a Gelson’s to buy some fresh
bottles of Divinity on the way, and we find plenty of willing Challengees along the boardwalk, since most of them are there to have fun anyway.
When I finally put my camera down for a second, I find Wyatt gazing at me intently.
“Why don’t we walk on the beach a little?” he says. “Been a long time since I felt sand between my toes.”
“It’ll be too dark for the kombucha label to be readable,” I say. “And it looks pretty empty down there.”
He smiles.
“Not every shot needs to be for work.”
Even though it’s dark, I keep the camera in my hands anyway, adjusting the settings for the low light and snapping shots of him and the horizon all the way.
When we reach a quiet spot on the beach, Wyatt reaches out and gently pulls the camera from my hands.
“How about you let me take the shots for awhile?” he says.
I look at him curiously, then around me at the empty beach area, the lapping waves, the ferris wheel lights reflecting on the shifting, dark water.
“What do you want to take pictures of?”
“You.”
I laugh, then stop abruptly when I see he’s serious.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Last time I tried playing model it was a disaster—don’t you remember?”
“Everything’s different now,” Wyatt says, handing me the kombucha bottle and backing up on the beach to look at me against the ocean. “Back up a little, into the water. Now turn the bottle so the light on the pier catches the label. People will recognize the logo even if they can’t read the words.”
“Careful,” I say, getting anxious about my camera, “that thing’s not waterproof.”
Wyatt starts snapping a few times as I stand around, cool waves lapping around my ankles, holding the kombucha bottle awkwardly.
I shrug at him.
“What should I do? There’s no way I’m doing the challenge.”
“No need. Just look cute and sexy in that kinda shy way you do.”
I give him a look of befuddlement, then laugh at how silly this all is, how ridiculous I feel.