Sweet Muse

by Ava Cummings

  The crowd closes in, the din of voices becomes muffled, sweat starts pouring from my palms, forehead, neck. I can feel heat flush my cheeks. I start shaking, shivering slightly, even as my skin burns. I’ve never felt so alone, adrift, while among so many people.

  23

  Unbound

  The editors and writers filter into the conference room, taking their respective places, as I take my usual spot against the wall. Bernie flings herself into her seat at the head of the massive table, dropping a messy pile of layouts and a preliminary cover in front of her.

  “Okay, people, run-through time,” she announces, signaling that the meeting is beginning, no matter who has yet to show.

  She looks around the table expectantly.

  “Insider has outsold us for the past two issues. We need news. Exclusives and news.”

  “I have something,” I say hesitantly. All eyes turn my way. Despite the disastrous afternoon with Damien at the Met, I went ahead and called Mandy Malone’s manager. Damien must have stayed true to his word about the sculpture, because she agreed to the interview.

  “Anna, I need cover stories right now. Not front-of-book items.” The editors start to snicker, and I catch a cold look from Chelsea.

  I clear my throat to quell the nerves.

  “I think you’ll find this cover-worthy,” I venture.

  “No offense, but we don’t need another ‘Stars Who Sip’ story,” Chelsea jabs.

  She can’t let anyone else have a moment. Things will be different this time. They have to be. I don’t have to be the scared girl anymore. I can do this.

  “It’s not a champagne story.” I pause for a moment, visualizing Aunt Sylvie for strength. “I have an interview with Mandy Malone.”

  I look over at Chelsea, whose mouth goes agape. I give her my best just-a-gal-from-Clark smile and turn my head toward Bernie.

  “Mandy Malone?” says Bernie, “She does not do interviews. How the hell did you get it?”

  “Through totally legit channels. I can explain later, but I have it secured.”

  “Anna, you pull this off, and it’ll make Celeb the magazine of the year,” says Bernie, casting her eyes up, no doubt dreaming of accepting her national magazine award.

  “I know—it’s so exciting!” I decide not to hold back. I’m going to do this my way. It’s going to be smart, honest, and done with integrity. There are times where you need to fall in line, and then there are times when you need to break out and do your own thing, maybe remake the rules.

  “Hallelujah, Anna,” says Bernie, deadpan. “This is fucking huge.”

  “Where should we go tonight?” I ask Cari, both of us slumped on our bumpy, lumpy Salvation Army couch, zoning out on the news. “There’s an opening, a new restaurant in Chelsea. Moto. Biker chic meets Asian fusion.”

  Cari heaves herself up, walks the two steps over to the kitchen, and retrieves two pots from our beat-up white laminated cabinets. She goes over to the sink and starts to fill the larger one with water.

  “I’m exhausted,” she says, ever the homebody. I love how some things in life you can always count on, and I can always count on Cari wanting to stay home, be home, warm our home. “Let’s stay in. I stopped at Food Emporium and got everything for a spaghetti dinner: pasta and sauce and a loaf of Italian. I even splurged on the fresh grated Romano.”

  I get up and start putting her groceries away.

  “Out. Us. Moto needs us,” I say. “I need it. I need a break from everything.”

  Cari gives me her I-know-you-better-than-you-know-yourself look. “You do this when you’re upset. Bad decisions ensue, regrettable behavior follows, and then, boom, full-on crisis. May I kindly remind you of the Victoria’s Secret show and doing God knows what in your boss’s office? Tonight, we’re staying in. I’m opening a bottle of wine. Sit. Relax. And tell me what’s on your mind.”

  My shoulders slump.

  “It’s the whole Damien thing.”

  “I still don’t understand why he got so upset out of nowhere. It sounded like the perfect day. Did you drop the ‘L’ word or something?”

  “No…although I was feeling it. Maybe he sensed it or something. He always seems to know what I’m thinking before I do. It’s like he sees me. Sees through me, through all my layers of insecurity and self-protection. And what’s even weirder is that it doesn’t freak me out. I’m comforted by it, in an odd way. Like it’s a super power that he’s using for good, with my best interests at heart.

  “My feelings are all over the place, though, Car. I feel heartbroken, yet a piece of me feels sad for him. I want to fix him and help him, yet I also want to run in the other direction, to protect myself. I want to dive in and understand him, understand what’s going on beneath the strong front he puts up. But I also want to safeguard my heart.

  “Anyway, the last thing we did before he freaked out was look at the Temple of Dendur. He kissed me in the sanctuary of Isis, the goddess of love and marriage. It was perfect. Then we got caught by a security guard and…”

  “Did you run into one of his exes or something? That’s always so awkward.”

  I shake my head.

  “We were running from the guard, and then I almost bumped into this sculpture, and that’s when Damien’s expression changed.”

  “What was the sculpture?”

  “It was one of those big modern ones by Luke Laraby.”

  “Boom—there you go. Check out Laraby,” says Cari. “Geez, for a reporter, you can be totally off your game sometimes.”

  At the New York Public Library, I rummage through stacks of books on modern artists, trying to uncover something about Luke Laraby that might lead me back to Damien. I feel kind of weird and maybe a little desperate, but it’s soothing to be doing something, anything, rather than stewing in the confused soup of emotions in my head.

  I learn that Luke Laraby is mentioned in the same breath as pop artists like Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein. He made a lot of money from his art and was known for womanizing. And he famously committed suicide in a very public place. For his last show at the Guggenheim, in the early ’80s, he created an experimental performance piece titled Exit, and he jumped from top floor of the museum into the center rotunda, falling to his death. It was described as “shockingly gruesome.”

  Searching Lexis-Nexis, I find an obituary in ARTNews that repeats much of what I’ve already found in the art books but adds a bit more personal information.

  “ He was survived by his wife , Victoria Laraby. They had no children . … Throughout his career, h e kept mi stresses who served as his inspiration. Laraby believed that the muse , in her purest aspect , is the feminine part of the male artist — the anima to his animus, the yin to his yang. She penetrates or inspires him and brings forth the wor k from the womb of the mind …”

  Dots start to connect—sort of. In Damien’s New York magazine story, he said the inspiration for his work was his muse. That his muse “motivates him to create his best work.” His Sweet Muse piece is me. Does he identify with Laraby? Is he that tortured a soul?

  I start to feel an urgent need to see Damien and put the puzzle pieces together. In a half-manic state, I jump up from the computer, close out the screen, and gather my bag and jean jacket. I rush out of the library and into the nearest subway station, half holding back tears and shaking with emotion as I run down the stairs.

  Waiting for the train, I tap my foot in a quick cadence, nerves and emotion building inside me like a kettle about to boil.

  When I show up in front of Damien’s studio in SoHo, I haven’t lost any of my resolve. Staring at the door, I jam my finger on the buzzer.

  “It’s me—Anna. Let me in.”

  No verbal response, just the sound of the buzzer unlocking the door.

  I push it open and run upstairs, ready to bang on the door. In a frenzy of confusion and emotions, I can’t see straight. But when I get to the top, the door is already open and Damien is standing next to it.

&nbs
p; I run to him with a pleading look, a tsunami of emotions crashing inside me. I feel my face turn crimson as tears begin to pool in my eyes. I try to hold it all back, but it’s too strong. The control I fought to maintain over the years has evaporated.

  “Why?”

  It’s all I can say, as I stand there in front of him, breathless, with a crazed look, my hair disheveled.

  He stands there, in his paint-splattered jeans and flannel button-down shirt, slightly askew as if he’d pulled it on quickly. His hair is messed but perfect, with soft waves gently falling into his eyes. My fingertips burn slightly with my desire to run them through it.

  I scan his face more closely, searching for evidence that he’s been suffering, too. That he feels bad for what he did.

  He does look different, defeated—a pained smile, a half shrug and head nod. There’s a strained look in his hazel eyes, hints of a battle going on inside him, as though he wants to tell me his secrets and reveal his pain but won’t let himself. He’s too scared. Scared that I’ll run. Scared that I’ll judge. Scared that he’ll break. I laugh to myself—at the irony. The thought of opening up, making myself vulnerable, was terrifying—until I met Damien. If we’re both the same, both frightened of being hurt, one of us has to blink first and believe that things can be different in order to move forward.

  “I want some answers about what happened at the Met,” I manage to whisper through the lump swelling up in my throat. “I’m not giving up on you. Sorry. Not happening. Not going to be that easy. I’m not going to just walk away, fade away into the city, never to be seen again in your life. Maybe that’s how it works with other girls, but not me. I’m a fighter. When there’s something I know I want, I fight for it.”

  I barely stop for a breath. We’re standing in the doorway and anyone nearby could hear, but the words just keep flowing, and I have to let them out.

  “That day with you was one of the best of my life. And the night at the Plaza…and then you turned. Like a switch, you just turned on me. I know you have some connection to Laraby. The whole muse thing. But he was a crazy artist who committed suicide at the Guggenheim. That’s not you. I want to be your muse. I don’t know if I can, but let me try. Let me in, Damien.”

  Before I’ve had a chance to catch my breath, Damien grabs me, pushing me against the wall in the hallway. I’m frightened at his intensity. He pulls my bag off my shoulder and tosses it to the floor.

  I can see the pain on his face; it’s as clear as the New York skyline on a beautiful summer day. He has a pleading look, as if he’s saying, “Come with me right now, give me a chance.” Without uttering a word, he presses his mouth to mine. I melt into his lips, releasing a soft moan. I’ve wanted this for days, wondering if I’d ever get to taste him, feel him again. My arms wrap around his body as his hands explore mine. He feels every inch of me hungrily, like a man who’s been fasting and is tasting food for the first time in days.

  We attack each other, all arms and hands exploring, while his tongue dances with mine sensuously. He yanks up my skirt, revealing my black lace G-string. He lifts up my arms, taking off my shirt. I’m left wearing only my black patent leather back-zip Sigerson Morrison boots, bra, and panties. We’re still in the hallway of his building, but I don’t care. I need his closeness so urgently.

  He moves down and kisses my neck, and makes little circles with his tongue around my nipples, through my bra. He drops to his knees and works his way down to my stomach, placing sensuous kisses all over my stomach. Both hands move up and grab my breasts, squeezing and kneading them. He kisses me fervently, arousing me with each touch.

  Damien buries his face in between my legs as his mouth furiously starts to lick over my panties. His tongue laps at the delicate lace and then pushes it aside, finding my cleft and working his way in.

  Now I finally get to run my fingers through his hair. I take hold of his head and position him in front of me, sending him licking and sucking even more feverishly.

  On his knees, Damien pulls back and spins me around—pushing me up against the wall, face first. He covers my backside with kisses, caressing it with his wet, sensual lips. He buries his face in me and begins to lick and kiss me with a gentle urgency. At the same time, his hand reaches under and finds my clit, circling it with one finger while he slides another up inside me, rubbing the inner wall where the nerves come together.

  I open my eyes for a moment and come back to reality. The thrill of possibly getting caught sets in, and a rush of sensation bolts down between my legs, setting the surrounding nerves afire.

  I’m on a roller coaster and just starting to careen down, losing control, joy and fear all at once. I ride this wave of pleasure as Damien focuses solely on satisfying me. I give myself to him completely, wanting so much to be close to him.

  I’m slick from front to back as he flips me around again and pushes my back up against the wall. He rips my panties down and spreads my legs wider as I stand there, eyes closed, head tilted back.

  On his knees, he dives his tongue into me, finding my clitoris, and begins to suck with the gentle confidence of an experienced lover. He slides his fingers back down and inside me and pulses them in and out. As he works me with his mouth and fingers, he brings me to the brink. The tension builds inside; I’m like a flower about to burst wide open into the bright white sun of a hot summer morning.

  “Not yet,” he says quietly, as he slows his motions just slightly, drawing out the pleasure and letting me ride that glorious feeling for as long as I can.

  My breath hitches and begins to shorten as I get closer and closer to coming. Just as I’m about to go over the edge—to race down from the highest point of the coaster—Damien dives back in and takes me. I come in waves of warmth that roll through me for what feels like forever. The rollercoaster is zipping from side to side, up and around and down, and my body is floating free, unsure which direction I’m going. I call out his name, heedless as to who might hear or see.

  Slowly Damien gets to his feet, kissing and sucking me as he makes his way up. I return to reality as my eyes open to see his beautiful eyes looking into mine. He smiles the most intimate smile for me.

  He takes my hand, leads me into the studio, and slams the door shut. The stereo in the corner plays the Rolling Stones’ “Memory Motel,” a song I love. You’re just a memory of a love that used to mean so much to me. I wonder for a moment if what we have is fleeting. I hope that we can make “us” work—and that it means as much to him as it does to me.

  Soft sunlight blankets the room. Several oversized paintings hang on the white walls, and sculptures sit on large aluminum worktables. I follow him to a black leather Mies van der Rohe daybed off to one side of the studio, near a bank of windows that face the Bowery.

  Still, no words have passed between us. There is so much to say, but our bodies’ needs are too urgent to complicate things with our unresolved issues. Right now, we just need each other. Our bodies convey the messages. He’s saying he wants me; he wants to make this work. I’m saying it too, with every part of me. Maybe it will be enough.

  He sits on the daybed and I straddle him. Our mouths meet, and we fall back into the same feral intensity. He takes my breasts in his hands, then quickly reaches around and unhooks my bra, releasing them. He moves his mouth down and takes each one in his mouth, gently sucking until I’m taut. I arch my back and throw my head back, giving myself to him. I move to pull his shirt up; he pulls back and yanks it off, tossing it to the floor.

  My hands go to him and I feel his sculpted abdomen. Slightly golden from the sun, he looks like an Adonis. I pull my mouth to his body and begin to kiss his neck and work my way down. While he sits on the edge of the daybed, I scoot off him and onto the floor, setting myself between his legs. He undoes his pants and releases himself, in all his full length and throbbing glory. He’s ripe and ready.

  “Anna…my sweet Anna,” he says.

  I take him into my mouth, sliding my tongue up and down the shaft and sw
irling it around the tip. He closes his eyes and lets me do my thing. As I keep the rhythmic motion, I feel close to him, and like I’m giving him something after all he’s given me. He begins pulsing, and I know he’s close. I bear down a little harder and it sends him flying, and he releases in a series of spurts and throbs.

  “You are mine,” he says.

  He lifts me up onto the daybed. He pulls his pants completely off; I’m naked except for my patent leather boots. I straddle him again, and we start rubbing up and down on each other as we kiss.

  We look at each other for a moment and pause. We both know we need to talk, but we silently decide to let it wait. No need to complicate the moment with words. We have all the time in the world for words.

  He’s ready to go again. He reaches for a condom and unrolls it on his full length. I hop onto him and he gently eases himself inside me. Straddling him, I start to move back and forth, feeling him so deeply. He takes hold of my butt and begins to move me on him, in deeply sensual thrusts. His length is rubbing up and down inside me, hitting my G-spot, sending me to new heights. I can feel him growing bigger and harder the more we move.

  We stay like this, moving together almost as one in a rhythmic motion, as he fills me deeper and deeper. He gently places his hands on my face and pulls me toward him. He stares into my eyes with intensity so deep it startles me.

  “Look at me, Anna. I want to watch you come.”

  I stare at him, as he watches me through half-lidded eyes. It’s so intimate, so sensual, it sends me flying.

  He slows down just enough, and with his next move, I explode around him in a wave of pleasure. I feel tears burn my cheeks again. The throbbing sensation flows through me, coursing throughout my body, down to my toes and up through my legs, which go weak. Damien holds me tight and comes, too, exhaling in a rush. Feeling him pulsing inside me sends another wave through me. We’re thrashing wildly, all arms and tongues and slick with sweat. I never want it to end, this closeness and intimacy.