The Art of Love

by Max Hudson

  We continued down the way and I froze at what was below me. Bob’s pieces had been elongated and curved into huge, bulbous cocks. He had an entire forest of them almost covering the floor of his warehouse with different workers moving between them with checklists. “They’re checking for any damages that might need repairing,” Bob said to me when he saw my confusion. “Can’t have a nicked penis in the collection. Brings the value down.”

  “Nope,” I agreed, “can’t have that.” One of the people with checklists waved the other over and the two of them inspected the base of a giant shaft together. They appeared very concerned.

  “So,” Aris jumped in, “what would you like me to do? Seems like you’ve got this all locked up.”

  “I’d like to do a play on the portrayal of magical forests in fairy tales. You know, it’s where the princess gets lost, where the witches live, where houses are made of candy. So, I want you to do some storybook pages to put around my forest. The forest of cocks.”

  I started to laugh at the idea, but quickly saw that the two gentlemen with me weren’t joking so I stifled the impulse. I couldn’t imagine what Aris might do—the whole idea was so absurd.

  “I love it,” Aris said, giving me a little kick in the foot. “I have a few ideas. Where would it show?”

  “Hey,” I interrupted, “while you two talk, can I go down and get a closer look?”

  “Just stick to the pathways my team marked on the floor,” Bob said and then turned back to Aris. I made my way down the metal stairs and approached the massive, bending and curving penises.

  Up close, I understood a little better. I hadn’t been able to properly appreciate them from far away. I could see a little bit of myself in the sides of the shafts. I could even see through them to the other people working. Each one was just a bit taller than me and very imposing. Surrounded by them, I did have a sense of being lost in a forest, a forest of emotion, of sex and masculinity. It was so unsettling that I had to take a step back and sit on a little bench against the wall so I could catch my breath.

  After a few minutes, Aris came and sat next to me.

  “What do you think?”

  “I love it.”

  He started a bit. “You sure? I heard the guffaw up there.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure you did. I was dismissive at first, but that’s only because I was looking at it the wrong way. I get it now.”

  We took in the glass forest together for a minute or two. I could feel how close his hand was to mine and I ached to grab his and squeeze it, but I stopped myself. I didn’t know where I stood with him. If Aris and I were only about to be friends, I wanted to be a good friend and not make him uncomfortable. If we could be romantic, it would have to be after clearing up a few details about his life. Namely, Clive.

  “So, do you have a boyfriend?” Aris asked me. I felt my mouth go dry and my heart speed up again as I shook my head no.

  “No. I wasn’t very kind to the last man I dated, and I’m working on being better.”

  “Oh?” He picked up my hand and studied the palm. Using his fingers, he traced the lines that detailed the inside of my hand. “And how is that going? Being better?”

  “I don’t know.” My voice was hoarse at that point. I could barely even breathe. His touch felt so electric and new. It was magic. I was alive for the first time in years. “I’m kind of waiting to see what sort of results I get.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t worry about being good or better or whatever you want to call it,” he said, raising my palm to his lips. He kissed it and then gave my hand back to me. “Be selfish. Do what you want. You’d be shocked to see just how effective it is.”

  Then he pulled me in for a big kiss, and I fell into the beautiful sensation of his lips against mine. The wall of penises looked on as we held each other and had our tender first kiss. It was so intense and fiery it could have melted glass.

  Chapter Five

  After our visit to the warehouse, Aris and I decided we needed some lunch, so we walked back the way we’d come and made a left to head for the center of downtown.

  “So,” I said, “did you take me there to seduce me?”

  “No.” He smiled and took my hand. “It just kind of came over me. I hope I haven’t crossed any lines.”

  “None whatsoever.” I pulled him in close to me and kissed the top of his head. His hair smelled like citrus and felt amazing on my nose. I could have kissed him all day, but I wanted to control myself.

  We found a little burger place and settled in. Internally, I screamed and demanded that my mouth ask him about Clive and their situation. If Aris was already involved, I didn’t want our day of romance to go any further.

  “Listen, Aris, we need to clarify something.”

  “Oh!” He turned his menu around and pointed to something. “They have my favorite Czech beer. I drank this every day that I was in Prague. Have you been there? No? You have to go. It’s full of ghosts and history.”

  I let him fill my head with visions of Czech castles and cathedrals while I smiled at him across the table. Maybe I could look the other way… No. No, I was not doing that. I was going to take his advice and be selfish, and the selfish person in me wanted a fully-committed boyfriend.

  When he stopped to take a breath, I tried again. “Aris, I want to be selfish. To put myself first.”

  “Good.” He put his Czech beer down and reached across the table to grab my arm. “Good for you. What do you need in this life?”

  I swallowed hard. “I want a boyfriend.” He went pale and I quickly added, “Not right this minute. I mean, I want a good, healthy relationship where we can talk to each other and be there for each other. All those good things. And I like you, but I think, maybe,” I felt the tears pricking the back of my eyes as I fought to say, “maybe that’s not something you want.”

  He cleared his throat quietly. The food arrived and we both stared silently at our gourmet hamburgers. “Is this about Clive?”

  “I just, I need to know. I mean, we just kissed a few minutes ago. Are you cheating on him?”

  He picked up his pork and apple burger with hand-ground mustard and chewed it for a moment. “I guess that’s what some people would call it.”

  “Does he know you’re out with another man right now?”

  “He doesn’t ask. He’s asexual.” He put his burger down and regarded me seriously. “But I’m not. I’m very interested in sex, but I adore Clive. He understands me more than most. I don’t want to let him go.”

  “Well, then.” I picked up my own burger and then put it down. I was suddenly nauseous.

  Aris cocked his head at me. “Is that a problem?”

  “Look,” I said, flicking the lettuce on my plate with my forefinger, “I just can’t do complicated relationships. I either have to be the one or just a friend. Gray areas, they’re too much for me.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  “I realize you might just want to have a fun romp with me for a few days, but Aris,” I stood slowly, suddenly feeling far too big for the table, “it would mean too much to me. I couldn’t keep it casual. I’m telling you all of this because I can’t let this go any further unless Clive is no longer in the picture. I like him; I appreciate what you two have, but I don’t want to be a part of someone else’s love life. I need my own.”

  He nodded, stroking his beer up and down with his thumb. “That’s perfectly fair.” He took a drink, and then used the neck of his beer to gesture to my seat. “You don’t have to go. You might as well eat your food.”

  “Would I be eating with a friend?”

  “A devoted one.” He smiled and patted the table. “Come on, let’s try this again. Platonically.”

  I took a deep breath and rejoined him. My burger did look amazing, and I was suddenly extremely hungry. I bit into the toasted bun and the juicy beef. The combination of salt, pepper, heat and softness made for the perfect bite.

  Aris and I talked for a long time. I did my best not t
o think about his beautiful steely blue eyes or his soft, sweet smile, but it took work. “He has someone in his life. He is not available. He has someone in his life…” I just repeated my little mantra over and over.

  We finished our food and I excused myself. “I need a walk,” I told him.

  “We just finished a huge one.”

  “Oh, um, well,” I swallowed hard, “I guess I just need to think. Alone. I’ll see you Saturday, yeah?”

  “You will. I’ll text you.”

  We waved goodbye to one another as if we hadn’t kissed earlier. I continued into downtown as Aris turned away to head back the way we’d come from the Brass Pot. For a moment, he was in my peripheral vision. Then he was gone.

  My phone rang and I saw a number I didn’t know, but I decided to risk it.

  “Hello, Detective Upton speaking.”

  “Hello, Detective,” Blanche purred. “How did it go with the sculptor?”

  “Blanche,” I checked to see if maybe she was calling from nearby. All clear. “Did you know about that project?”

  “Sure. Bob is a good friend. Penises are his favorite subject.”

  “It’s moments like these that I truly do not get art.”

  I heard Blanche taking a long inhale on her e-cigarette, and I waited for her to finish. “There’s nothing to get, darling,” she said, “art is something that exists for its own sake. It either speaks to you or it doesn’t. You don’t have to stress over the quality, the complexity, whatever it is you’re using as a measuring device. Bob uses his glass sculptures to make a political statement about male sexuality. Aris uses his paintings to portray the romantic side of life. That’s it.”

  “Oh.” I stopped and took a seat on a small bench. “I guess that actually makes a lot of sense. What about you? What do you write about?”

  “Nice try,” another pause, another inhale. “No spoilers, mister. If you want to know what I write, you have to buy my book.”

  I straightened up on my bench and looked around, fairly certain I was within a few blocks of a bookstore. “Hey, I’m in Manchester Park right now. Is there a bookstore near here?”

  “Sure. There’s that cute little one, The Travelling Armchair.”

  “Want to meet me there?”

  About ten minutes later, Blanche and I were walking into the store together. The place was small and overly packed with books. Piles of them towered up from the floor and for just a moment I flashed back to the forest of penises. She pulled her shades down and looked around.

  “This is an old haunt of mine,” she whispered to me, placing her perfectly manicured hand on my arm. “I was here every Wednesday when I was a kid. That was the day I got paid my allowance.”

  “Oh yeah? I didn’t know parents did that anymore.” We stepped carefully over a big gray cat that had fallen asleep near the door and made our way through the maze of bookshelves.

  “Mine did. I had so much to clean and shine that my hands were giant callouses.” She paused to pick up a giant hardback about eroticism in comics throughout the past one hundred years. It opened to a page of naked women in an old Japanese print.

  “I’m a sucker for anything dirty or inappropriate.” She closed it with a snap and tucked it under her arm before we moved on. “What about you? What sort of material grabs you?”

  “You know,” I said, thinking back, “when I was a kid I read this book about, oh, what was it? Oh! I remember. It was about a king who ruled over a kingdom of discarded, forgotten animals. You know, the sort of fish people throw back when they catch, mosquitoes, ugly, three-legged dogs, that sort of thing. And he had a rival, a kind of blood monster who wanted to take him down. And he had an intense blood phobia so it truly scared him.” I stopped and waited for Blanche to laugh at my awful taste, but she didn’t say anything. “I don’t really know how you would classify that sort of thing.”

  “That,” she said expertly, “is called bizarro fiction. It’s recently seen a resurgence. We can ask if they have anything good here, but my guess is anything you might like would be better found online. Check out L. Piston. She’s my personal favorite.”

  We made our way to the poetry section in the back and stumbled upon a woman working in the store. She was, as far as I could tell, the only employee there. She was carefully organizing the romances and had a little kitten balanced on her shoulder. Her movements were gentle and delicate so as not to disturb her little friend.

  “Looking for something?”

  “Yes,” Blanche answered, “we are here for a copy of my book.” The woman with the cat and I waited for her to continue but Blanche just stood with her chin jutting out like the queen.

  “Help me out here,” the cat woman replied. “What’s the title?”

  “It’s called Where Mother Was,” I jumped in. “A book of poetry.”

  “Oh,” cat lady said, smiling, “I remember you. You did a reading here.” She put her cat down on the floor but it just took a seat beside her and looked up at us to let us know it was still listening. “That was the night Minerva Gleason stopped by. You two are related, right?”

  Blanche’s eyes darkened a bit, but she nodded. “She’s my sister.”

  “Your sister! Oh, she is just wonderful. Her poetry saved me.” She motioned for us to follow her, but kept talking about Minerva’s syntax and use of alliteration. “She is unmatched. I truly believe that. It was so exciting to meet her. I’ll never forget it. Here’s your book.”

  She handed Blanche a thick, white paperback with a black and white picture of a woman facing away from the reader and looking out a window. I reached for it when Blanche wouldn’t and thanked our helper.

  “I’m just dying to read it,” I said and turned to my friend. “I really am.”

  She smiled softly at me and then quickly scanned the shelves of the poetry corner. “Any copies of Red, Yellow, Blue by my famous sister?”

  The cat woman shrugged. “Sold out. As usual.”

  “Shame.” Blanche closed her eyes and smiled a small, sad smile. I asked how much for my book.

  “It’s a used copy, so I can let it go for fifteen. If you want a new one, it’s thirty. I personally prefer used books, but it’s your choice.”

  “Sure,” I said, uncertain of the difference between reading something new and something used, but playing along. “Me too.”

  We paid and left and then walked out to the same park where I had called Blanche earlier. “So,” I laced her arm around mine, “I have the famous book.”

  “Don’t say famous.” Blanche put her shades on. “It makes me think of Minerva. Fame is her whole life.”

  “What’s going on there?”

  We sat on a bench and Blanche crossed her legs and leaned her head on my shoulder. This time, however, it felt less friendly and sadder. She sighed.

  “Minerva and I have always been very similar. We’re only a year apart. When we were little, people mistook us for twins almost every day. As we got older, everything seemed to be so easy for her. Her side of the bedroom was always organized, her grades were a string of A plusses, she got dates as opposed to crushes.

  One day, in her senior year of high school, Minerva entered a poetry contest. I didn’t realize how serious it was until she won. She got a huge grant to travel and write throughout a country of her choice for either a semester or a year. She was thrilled. We all thought she would choose France or Greece or somewhere beautiful. But she was full of surprises.”

  “Where did she go?”

  Blanche turned to look at me. “Nowhere. She stayed right here and made a case for traveling all over our beautiful country. I thought she was out of her mind. Here she had the chance to go anywhere on her year off of school and she essentially stayed put.” She paused to rub her forehead. “But of course, she knew exactly what she was doing.

  “She visited every major city, made friends everywhere, but especially with people in literary circles. She came home with a ream of contacts. This was pre-internet, you reali
ze, so what she accomplished was rather remarkable. I had started writing poetry in her absence and got a bit of attention from some magazines, but nothing like her grant. Soon, she had offers to write, to publish, scholarships to universities, everything she wanted. Her first book was a smash. She went off on her first book tour and ended up in Iowa.”

  “That doesn’t sound so great,” I interjected.

  “It’s one of the best schools for aspiring writers,” she explained without looking at me. “All of my favorites went there.”

  I rubbed her back and looked out at the people walking and hanging out in the park. “Did you go to Iowa as well?”

  Blanche shook her head. “I couldn’t afford it. I went to a little community college in our hometown, got an associate’s degree and then ran out of there as fast as I could.” She sat up and stretched her arms out wide. “I tried living in the city but it wasn’t for me. A friend of mine was living here and introduced me around. Soon I’d found my people and decided to make a life here.” She turned to me. “I do love my life. It’s full of friends and art and great stories. But, I don’t know, a part of me feels like Minerva should have helped me a bit more, been there for me. But she wasn’t. She just packed a bag and went.”

  I crinkled my eyebrows, remembering the night we all met. “But she is here now, isn’t she? She was at the same dinner where I met you.”

  Blanche shook her head. “She’s doing a tour through Australia. She only stays for a few days when she comes around, then she’s off again.” My friend straightened up and got her royal expression again. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me, you know. I’m doing fine.”

  “I know.”

  “A lot of people feel my sister is a bit too commercial, and I’m the one with the truly raw and rebellious voice. I have my own fans.”

  “I can’t wait to be one of them.” I held up her book. “Sincerely.” That softened her a bit and she tucked her chin into her chest and hugged my arm.