by Twyla Turner
Now, that I think about it, that’s the way he’s made me feel from the first moment we met. Whenever we are in proximity to each other, he makes me the center of his everything. I’ve never felt that kind of admiration or intensity from a man before. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating.
Daryl was always more passionate about his work as a surgeon than he was at being a lover or husband. I’d always admired his passion for his work, but it would’ve been nice if some of that passion had extended to me as well. And that’s where Daryl and Etienne differ greatly. Maybe it would change in time after he’s gotten what he wants out of me, but as of right now Etienne’s passion for art pours from him and into other parts of life. Myself included. Or maybe it was more that he is so passionate about the world around him that he has to pour that energy and desire into art. Whether it’s painting, sketching, or music.
To be so young, he’s the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.
“Is talking permitted?” I ask softly.
“Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“Why is it that your English is so fluent when many of the French don’t seem to care to know it?”
“A girl.” He grins.
“A girl?”
“Oui. She was beautiful with smooth and flawless ebony skin.” A wistful look crosses his face, and he stops painting for a moment. “She was British, born and raised in London. But her family originally came from Sierra Leone. I am originally from Paris, and her family had moved there for her father’s work when I was in secondary school. We lived in the same neighborhood. Although, she went to the school for English speaking expats and I went to regular school. But we always took the same train. We would stare at each other but had no way of communicating.
“I knew then that I must learn English. I begged my parents for an English tutor, and I chose to take English courses the next semester in school.” He starts to paint again.
“And?”
“And I studied hard.” He grins slyly at me. “By summer, I was able to approach her. That is when I found out that she had taken French so that she could talk to me as well. She was fifteen, and I was sixteen. We fell in love. She was my first everything. First love. First lover. Even the first person I painted.”
“What happened?”
“Her father’s job was temporary, so they only stayed two years. We were heartbroken and promised to stay in contact. But we all know how that works. You talk on the phone and maybe even plan little weekend trips to see each other. Eventually, we grew apart. And that was all.”
“It all sounds very romantic, though. To fall in love during a Parisian summer.” I smile at him.
“It was.”
“But your English has remained fluent over the years since her. After a while, when you don’t use it, most people get rusty.”
“As you know, I find black women beautiful. Not all of them that I have dated or painted have been French. Many are African, who may speak another language, but English is our common language to communicate. And others have been American or British.”
“Do…do you make love to all of your subjects?” My face flushes with heat.
“Some,” he says honestly.
“Oh…” I let the rest of my thoughts hang in the space between us.
“You want to know if I will make love to you? Here? Today? Where you sit?”
I can’t lie. At least not to myself. I do want to know. But I can’t admit that to him. So, I don’t answer.
“I do not think you are ready. Not today. But soon.”
He let those last two words hang there right along with my unspoken thoughts. His eyes fairly smolder as he holds eye contact.
I’m not gonna lie, my body is more than ready. It has never been more eager in my entire life. I’m horny as hell, and I need some relief. I haven’t had sex in a couple years. I’d tried dating a few years back when Kari went away to school, but it was a disaster. He was the second man I’d been willing to let into my bed, and the sex was terrible. He’d been nice enough but I couldn’t continue seeing him with my needs unmet. I’d already dealt with that for fifteen years with Daryl.
Honestly, sex has never been exactly great for me. Daryl was too busy most times. And when he did have the time, it felt like his mind was elsewhere. Like he just wanted to get it over with. First, it was regular classes and getting into med school. Then it moved onto exams, his residency, passing the boards, his patients and finally Emma. His mind was never fully on me and satisfying my needs. And I never thought to demand it.
Now, here I am. Forty-four years old with only two mediocre lovers under my belt. Never had an orgasm unless self-administered. I am the horniest I’ve ever been in my life. And I have a virile young man with a so-called reputation for being a great lover, who has every intention of making love to me…just not yet.
I’m in hell. Actual hell.
But he’s probably right. I may be ready physically. Mentally, though? I’m still a mess. I still can’t fathom why a gorgeous young man like him would find me desirable. I know it’s not like I’ve let myself go or anything. With a handsome man my own age, I think I’d do just fine. It’s only that paired with a younger man, all those insecurities that revolve around age come bubbling up like lava. I can’t help but think about the way I was when I was his age. I can’t help but think about how amazing he and Kari looked standing next to each other. I can’t help but think that me standing next to him in a romantic way has to look ridiculous. And desperate.
I take a deep breath and try to focus on something other than being a neurotic basket case. Though I have no plans on starting up the conversation again. I know I’ll just end up saying something totally inappropriate. Like, “I’m ready now! Screw my brains out, please!” So, I remain quiet.
He paints me for a while longer. The silence pulses around us. Vibrating around the tension between us. His eyes coming back to me over and over again as he paints me. They are filled with the promise of so much more. My eyes stay glued to him, probably begging for it.
“Alright, I have done your silhouette. Next, I will complete the details. But we will take a break first.” Etienne says as he sets down his paintbrush and palette. “Stretch, use the bathroom if you like, have something to drink, whatever you want.”
“Um…yeah. Where’s the restroom?” I ask, pulling myself out of the hypnotic spell he has me under.
He smiles at my shyness as he wipes his hands with a stained cloth.
“Upstairs to the left.”
“Thanks.”
I hold the sheer scarf securely against my bare breasts as I get up. I pad barefoot up the spiral staircase to the loft above. My eyes immediately go to the bed in the middle of the room. Etienne’s flat may be nice and neat, but that didn’t extend to his bedmaking.
It looks as if he left his bed the same as when he got out of it this morning. The white sheets and soft-looking gray comforter are tangled and rumpled, and the pillows tossed haphazardly. The sheets are pristine, so at least they aren’t dirty. I would think that the mother in me would flip out at an unmade bed in the middle of the day. But the bed stops me in my tracks because something about it is so incredibly erotic. I’m left breathless.
I see our limbs, sienna and cream, tangled within the white sheets. I can see his stained, masculine fingers interlacing with mine and gripping tight as he pumps into me. I see my hands grasping for the sheets as his wavy hair caresses between my thighs. That unmade bed equals the promise of untold ecstasy. And just one more thing to torture me into an anxious puddle of quivering flesh.
I find myself walking forward. Drawn towards the bed. It’s a platform bed, created by laying the mattress on top of several wooden pallets. Wooden crates flank each side and act as nightstands. It is sexy and masculine, and I feel as if an invisible string is pulling me to it like a beacon. It’s been so long since I’ve been around any masculine energy. It feels like when it’s been cloudy for weeks, and the sun finally comes out. Everyone is dr
awn out of their homes to soak up some much-needed vitamin D. The same I guess goes for the lack of masculinity in my life. And now that it’s available, I’m craving much-needed vitamin D of another kind.
Dick. I need dick.
I usually try not to be so crass. But I can’t escape or deny the truth.
I find myself kneeling down. My fingers reach out hesitantly to touch the rumpled sheets. The fabric is soft, and I imagine it draped over Etienne’s naked hips. It feels forbidden and intrusive. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t be. Yet my hand moves to the pillow only a few inches away. I pull it into my hands and bring it up to my face and inhale deeply. It smells of his fresh smelling shampoo, sinful cologne, and something that can only be described as purely male. Like heaven.
“Ryn.”
I drop the pillow like a hot potato when I hear him call up to me.
“Y-Yes.” I cringe.
“Would you like some wine and cheese?”
“Uh…sure. Thank you.”
Busted.
It’s obvious that I never made it into the bathroom. So, I’m clearly snooping around. He knows it. I know it. I feel my face flame.
On shaky legs, I quickly find my way to the bathroom. I move to the sink to wash my hands after I take care of business. Looking in the mirror, I see a woman who is flush with color. With life. My eyes are bright, hopeful and maybe a little embarrassed.
I’m getting there. Close to finding me.
I give myself a pep talk, trying to prepare for the rest of my session with Etienne. He’s just so damn overwhelming. And now that he knows I was snooping around his bedroom, it’s going to be even harder to look him in the eye.
Either way, I can’t hide out up here all day.
I pull up the bodice of my dress for the time being. I doubt I can sit, drinking wine and eating cheese with my nipples peeking out at him through the sheer pattern of the scarf. Once I’m back in order, I make my way back down the winding staircase and find Etienne sitting at the kitchen table with an open bottle of wine. He’s already filled two glasses and laid out a plate of cheeses. I would’ve sat directly across from him, putting the table between us. But he’s already set my glass and plate of cheese in the spot adjacent to him. I self-consciously slide into the chair.
“Did you find everything alright.” He says with an amused smile.
I take a fortifying gulp of white wine.
“I did.” I straighten my back and try to affect an air of authority. “You should make your bed before guests come over, you know.”
He turns his chair to face me better and relaxes back in his seat. One arm thrown over the back of the chair while the other is on the table, his legs spread wide. It all screams relaxed, confident male. It may have come across nonchalant, but his bare foot against mine tells another story.
“Oui, I should.” He sighs loudly. “But why bother when I am only going to mess it up again?”
He smirks. He knows exactly what he’s doing. There was hidden meaning behind that last sentence. “But why bother when I am only going to mess it up making love to you?” He’s purposely trying to put the image of us together in my brain. It’s a wasted effort. That image has been on my mind since we first met.
“Harrumph,” I grunt under my breath.
Instead of talking, because he’s beating me in the verbal game of sexual chess, I sip my wine and eat a slice of cheese.
“So…I told you a little about my past. Now, it is your turn.” He gazes curiously at me through long lashes.
“W-What do you want to know?”
I roll the stem of the wine glass through my fingers, making the glass turn around and round. Better to focus on anything other than him.
“You moved thousands of miles to another country…alone. You have a grown daughter, and you mentioned you are divorced, but you never speak of him or what happened. You are terribly, but wonderfully shy around men at a time in your life where many women have found their voice and sexuality. That could either mean you have only ever been with him or that you have not been with a man in a very long time. Or maybe both. What is your story?”
He is the most intuitive and observant man I’ve ever talked to. It is as unnerving as it is refreshing.
Etienne leans forward. He rests his arm on the table and slides it forward. His fingers wrap around my fidgety hand turning my glass, stopping me. The heat is unsettling in its rightness. His green eyes are warm and open. They make me want to talk like he’s a damn therapist or something.
“The marriage didn’t work out, like many marriages these days.” I stop, figuring that’s the beginning and end.
“And?” He’s not having it.
“And…he’s a surgeon. He’s brilliant. And he had no time for me. His world was and still is the hospital, his patients, and his colleagues. Which was how he met the woman he cheated on me with and is now married to. She’s a doctor who works in the same hospital. He didn’t have much time for Kari either. Which is why she’s spoiled rotten. He showered her with gifts and money to make up for his lack of time.”
His fingertips stroke my knuckles soothingly. Encouraging me to continue.
“The gifts held her over for the most part. But I saw the look of disappointment on her face at dance recitals and volleyball games when she looked into the crowd and saw the seat next to me was empty. I always told her that it was because his job was very important and that people needed him more than we did because he was saving lives.”
“But what about you? You jumped over your story and moved to Kari’s story.”
He’s too perceptive for his own good. I sigh heavily.
“What’s to tell?” I let my hand smack the table. “It’s a story that’s been told a million times. I lost myself. In being a mother and a wife. I lost sight of what I wanted for me. Many women do. We always bend ourselves to fit the needs of everyone around us. Until we end up a twisted pretzel. Unrecognizable. And then once we’ve given all of ourselves and don’t know how to function unless we’re kissing booboos, helping with homework, building science projects, giving therapy sessions for broken hearts and friendships, and baking cookies for bake sales, they leave us. Our kids leave. They go off to start lives of their own. And a lot of times our husbands leave. They find someone who is a shadow of what we once were. Ambitious. Interesting. Younger…” My voice trails off.
I look up, but can barely see him across from me. His image is distorted and swirling behind the tears that fill my eyes. One escapes. Its warm path sliding down my cheek. I raise my hand to brush it away self-consciously, but his hand beats me to it. His thumb follows the trail and catches it before it falls from my chin. He pulls his hand away, and I blink at him in surprise as he brings his thumb to his full lips. Tasting my tear.
“Why…”
“I do not know. I wanted to taste you. Your sorrow. To take it inside of me. To carry its weight, so you do not have to.”
More tears slip down my face. I am in awe of this incredible human being sitting next to me. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone in my whole life as badly as I want to kiss him right now. Yet it’s like I’m glued to my seat.
I’m a coward. I’m still so afraid to open up to anyone. Especially, Etienne. He would be so easy to get lost within. And I came here to find myself, not to get lost inside another person. Though, at this point, I think the decision is out of my hands.
I know this for certain as he leans forward and clasps my face between his hands. He pulls me towards him as he meets me halfway. Those gorgeous, plump lips find my cheek and kiss away the wet stains. He brushes them over mine, and my lips pop open as my breath hitches. He moves to my other cheek and kisses away those tears as well.
He pulls back a little, only inches away from my face. His eyes scan my every feature.
“I do not want to consume you. I want to help you bloom.” His breath brushes my lips.
It’s as if he read my mind. Either my face gives away my every emotion, or he is jus
t that good at reading my feelings.
“Are you like this with everyone?” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“This insightful? Observant?”
“Not with everyone, no. I guess in some ways I am. But you…” His eyes search mine. “You are different. Your eyes tell your story without words. But even if I were blind my soul would read yours like braille.”
My heart jumps into my throat at his profound words. I am rendered speechless. What do you say in response to that, other than an inadequate ‘wow?’
“Come. Let us finish before I lose the light.” He stands and holds out his hands.
I take them and rise from my seat. Etienne walks me back over to the chaise. I pull down the bodice of my dress without assistance. His eyes never leave me. After I sit and get back into the same position as before, he arranges my dress and scarf, getting it as close as possible as it was before.
“It does not need to be perfect. I have already painted most of it. Now, I only need to add the details.”
I nod. My mind is still whirling around our conversation. I follow his easy gait as he moves towards his easel.
I am going to fall in love with him.
I haven’t decided this. I think it has already been decided for me. You don’t go from being ignored, unrecognized as a living breathing sexual human being, and living in someone’s shadow to being catered to, slowly and thoughtfully seduced, and given room to grow and shine; and not fall in love.
I don’t know how I feel about this epiphany. It’s been years since I’ve been in love. Maybe even long before my marriage to Daryl ended. It scares me shitless, and yet gives me something to look forward to tomorrow.
~~~
I sit for another hour or so. I thought that sitting for someone to be painted would be boring and get old after the first half hour. But not when the artist is Etienne. Watching him has been enough entertainment to make the time fly. His movements are so sensual and masculine and graceful. His expressions change as he moves over the canvas. His eyes light up at times. Other times, his brows draw together when he’s apparently trying hard to get something just right. Or my favorite is when his eyes burn, his face heats up, and he bites his lip. I try to ignore it, but in those moments, I notice the bulge in his jeans gets larger. And every time, my pulse quickens in response.