Max
The plane landed at JFK airport at 9 p.m.
I have to reorganize my life again. I'm sending Polina the promised text message.
While I was waiting for my turn at customs control, I twirled her ring, her gift, on my finger.
The symbolism of this gesture completely baffled me. On the one hand, it was flattering that she singled me out among the other males-I doubt she gives Cartier rings to everyone left and right- , the attempt to put a ring on me, to brand me with her own mark, had a sobering effect on .
My good feelings for Polina have not changed in any way, but my place in our relationship clearly overrated. It's hopeless to tame me. A ring on my finger won't bring me closer.
I need some time: to assess from afar the emotions that have been running high for the past days, and to decide with a cool head where the traitorous thought that we could have a blast in
New York City had crept in.
It's just a whim. A hollow thing. It'll pass. I had an awesome, wild fuck, I had an elephantine of experience with her, and this is probably the end. It should pass in a couple days.
I'm finally home. I love my New York apartment. For me, it's the best place on earth. Its overlook Central Park. Every morning, since the beginning of summer, I admire the ocean green from the sixth floor level, right at the tree-top line.
I live in the heart of Manhattan, at the intersection of 72 West Street and Central Park West, the legendary Dakota Building. My family has owned this apartment since it was built, and it was to me as a gift from my grandmother when I came of age.
It's a good time to summarize the first results of the trip.
The best place for this is the bathtub. Lying in the warm, foamy water, I try to concentrate the benefits of my visit to Ukraine and the obvious disadvantages. But, my mind is quite foggy the moment, and I remember what I was doing in my free time, not during the negotiations.
It's late, but I don't want to sleep yet. I decide to eat what my housekeeper, Emilia, made for . Green asparagus with béchamel sauce, tuna in ginger. I pour myself into a glass of Yoichi, take sip, roll the warm body of the drink on my tongue, enjoying its rich flavor. I must admit that the
Japanese know a lot about good whisky.
I plug my Nikon into my Mac and while I'm uploading photos, listening to my answering and going through my mail - Emilia has stacked all the envelopes on my desktop.
The phone beeps. It's a text from Polina: "Glad you're okay" and an emoji.
I involuntarily smile back at the emoj.
After dinner, I look through the photos: I cull, sort, put in a folder those that I plan to process . There are a lot of photos of Polina. I dump most of them on my hard disk into a folder. But I don't want to sleep, I activate the photo processing program right now.
Her delicate face, with huge brown, cherry-like eyes, was in front of me on the monitor.
Long lashes. Plump, sensual lips. A lock of hair that rested on her shoulder. A long neck.
I vividly remember that face during sex, when she opens her mouth and grabs air with it, the her throat vibrates under my palm, the way her eyelashes quiver....
Hey, Gringo!
- -
I wake up late - it's ten o'clock in the morning.
It will take some time to get back into a routine. I will probably want to sleep again during day.
Emilia is in the kitchen.
- Good afternoon, Max, – she smiled in greeting. - How was your flight?
- Hi, Emilia. Thank you. No adventure. How was your vacation?
- That's great! Met all my relatives, even the ones I hadn't planned on meeting. I felt like half Ohio was here to see me. My aunts went overboard, – she laughs.
There's a business dinner at my house in three days. We discuss with Emilia the plan for the , what dishes she will serve. We decide that in order to create a relaxed atmosphere, I will the main course myself together with the guests. I will think over the options and agree with .
- Are you going to the gym? - She asks when I'm standing in the doorway.
- Yes. Then straight to the workshop. I'll be late. Don't worry about lunch, I'll eat at the café.
See you tomorrow.
I walk to the parking lot, start the Harley, and drive off in the direction of the athletic club.
I'm working till late at night. I have an order waiting, but I haven't gotten to it. I'll get to it . All I've been able to produce today are sketches of Polina's portraits. Frustrated by this attachment, I break the pencil I'm twirling in my fingers.
I need to get rid of her invisible presence immediately! It's throwing me off my work ! I'm giving myself a couple days to get back on track.
I look at the ring on the ring finger of my right hand. I take it off and put it on my desk, my clothes.
I'm not giving out anything worthwhile today. It's time to go home.
I need to sort out my feelings for Polina. If I put them on a color spectrum, red is my strong desire. Blue is tenderness for her, I've never felt tenderness for a woman. Never! It the first time I'd ever been hit by such a wave. Yellow is interest. She excites me, fascinates me, me energized but not tense, which is especially nice.
In my relationship with her, desire has so blinded me that it has suppressed all other feelings.
But that's not love.
Love, in my case, manifested itself in a completely different way. I have already had it, and I well the senselessness of this greatest self-deception.
Everyone living on this earth wants love, needs love, we all hope to see our reflection in 's eyes at least. I have always believed that each of us has the right to be loved and each of is capable of giving love in return. If he wants to, of course he is ready. But it is this that disturbs the balance. They want to take, but they are not ready to give.
I don't feel any of what I used to consider "love" for Polina. What sucks about the situation that with her, the range of emotions is much stronger, deeper. It's something so bold and bright I deliberately try to keep my distance from her.
I'm scared of this cocktail of feelings that I don't know the name of. It's more like an addiction.
Perhaps that's how Pygmalion got sick with his Galatea. The main thing is that this disease be curable.
In fact, there is the most effective remedy - limit any contact, any reminders, break any connection with Polina.
And we need to do it now. Right now.
The first thing I do in my inbox is create a separate folder for her emails, so that they're dumped there and don't catch my eye in the general list, hide it in the "Miscellaneous" , with a lot of secondary folders, mostly subscriptions.
Secondly, I am merging all the photos with Polina into an archive. The archive is on a hard disk, so there will be no temptation to open a folder with files and process them.
Finally, I delete her number from my address book, clear my text history.
And I even move her business card from the business card holder to the general box of informational junk.
The first measures have been taken. Their effectiveness will be clear in the near future.
On Monday evening I am hosting my agent and two representatives of the Beaverbrook Art
Gallery in Canada. The administration of the gallery has long expressed a desire to become better with my works, and to acquire some for exhibition.
Gavin, my agent, and I were very careful in selecting the works, taking into account the and specificity of Beaverbrook. It's not a very big gallery, but it's a very interesting gallery it's a prestige for me to place my work.
Thinking over and weighing the best options for this meeting, we decided on informal , because it takes place at my home.
The artwork is set up in the music room. Everything looks its best, thanks to the lighting that
Gavin organized, having invited a professional for the job.
Emilia has set the table, arranged the appetizers, only the main course is left - fish in honey, the preparation of which, we will focus on the discussion of details, trifles, usually playing imperceptible but important role in solving fundamental issues.
The evening goes according to plan. I prepare the fish, a matter of twenty minutes, and it quickly. While the dish is baking in the oven, one of the gallery staff, Chadwick, offers to another look at my work.
We walk into the hall, Chadwick and his colleague Victoria looking at the paintings. Finally,
Chadwick utters:
- It's flawless, Max. We can take any of these pieces, but there's no portrait among them. I some pencil sketches on your desk. Perhaps you could offer us some of the portraits? We'll a final order once we've decided on one.
- I don't specialize in portraits, – I send a signal to Gavin that only the two of us , and he shrugs.
- We know that, – nods Chadwick, "But even a cursory glance at your work suggested to colleague and I that this would be an interesting display, – he nods toward the sketches on the that I had been working on for several evenings at home and had left in a prominent place.
- Can I take a closer look at them? - Victoria asks.
- Yes, Miss, I hand her the sketches. On each sheet is a portrait of Polina: profile, full-face, -turn. Here, too, in a separate stack are the sheets on which I drew her hands, her lips, her , her graceful feet.
- We're willing to wait until Thursday or Friday. Can you offer us anything? - Chadwick , handing me back the sheets.
Gavin hurriedly intervenes in the conversation:
-I'll contact you on Wednesday and confirm the date of the meeting. I think we'll have a by Friday.
- Remember, we're heading back to Canada on Saturday morning and would like to close the by then, – Victoria summarizes.
- Good. Perhaps we can organize a meeting right in the workshop, – Gavin promises. - I that today you have already decided which of the works you plan to take back to Canada.
I take the dish out of the oven and, inviting everyone to the table, fill their glasses.
- Here's to a great start, – Chadwick proposes a toast.
- -
A day later, Gavin informs me that Chadwick and Victoria will be at my studio on Friday , insisting on a portrait. It would be in my interest to honor their wishes.
I'm sitting on the studio floor, spinning a paintbrush in my hands. I have no idea what I'm to show them. I'm pulling some old work out of the closet. There's only one portrait of Alexis.
But it's completely devoid of the dynamics of my current style.
Shit! Fuck those portraits!
I am concerned now with a completely different problem: my addiction to the memories of last days in Kyiv. It's clear that all means of combating the obsession with Polina are completely . Besides, there's not a single letter from her. Not a line! This circumstance annoys me than if my box was full of spam from her.
Well.... It's time to resort to another tried-and-true remedy that always works.
Dialing Carina's number.
- Hi, – she exhales into the phone in a deep, singsong voice.
- How's it going?
- Not bad. Turns out you remember my number, Max.
- You could have dialed me yourself, – I admitted, not really in the mood for a date with . It's a forced measure. Before the trip to Kyiv, in our last meeting, we parted with the intention ending our, um... sexual relationship. Karina began to subtly hint at the need for more frequent regular communication. I, on the other hand, wanted to keep it to a minimum. It seemed that we reached a point where it would be more difficult to maintain the casualness that had been in our relationship all along.
- I left several messages on your answering machine, but you didn't reply. What would you if you were me? - I can feel her smiling.
- Dinner? - I'm taking this conversation in the direction I want it to go.
- Me? - She clarifies
- Straight to your place? That's fine, – I agreed. It's good that it's not necessary to fall into , and play a show of unnecessary courtship. I specify. - What time?
- I'll expect you at eight, – she replies laconically.
- Ice cream, champagne, macaroons?
-I trust your choice, – Karina chirped.
At eight sharp, I stand at the door of Karina's house in Clinton Hill (Ir’s a neighborhood in
Brooklyn). She opens the door, using the central lock, and I go up to the third floor.
She meets me at the open door of the apartment. She's wearing a long black silk negligee a train, the fragrance of Dahlia Noir wafting over her.
Karina is a short, brown-haired girl with thick, curly hair. In the almond-shaped, green, gashes lurked seduction and lust.
She wraps her arms around my waist and kisses me on the lips. Karina always does it in her special way, nipping my bottom lip and rubbing it with her teeth while caressing it with her . But today she doesn't manage to do her usual ritual, so I take the initiative, touching her a quick kiss on the corner of her mouth and holding out a paper bag and a bouquet of pink lilies.
She looks at me with unconcealed irony.
- Come in, – he nods toward the room.
We dine on my favorite, battered tiger shrimp. Karina orders them at a restaurant on the next to her house. We drink Karia's white wine, Chardonnay.
Carina catches my gaze:
- Shall we go straight to dessert? - she asks in a chesty, soft voice.
- As you wish, – I smile faintly at her.
- Can I eat you for dessert? - she takes a sip of wine and lingers it on her ajar lips, then sips , licking her lips, rising and slowly unfastening the belt of her negligee. The fabric slides off, her body, Karina is wearing nothing but thin black stockings.
She kneels down in front of me, unbuttons my jeans and pulls them down, I help her.
It's been almost an hour since I fucked her. I realize I'm hurting her now, not pleasing her, I can't get any closer to the finish myself. I collapse on the bed, my body sweaty from the workout. Karina collapses exhaustedly beside me.
- Nothing at all? - She asks, turning to face me. Her hands fluttered gently over my , my torso, trying to look into my eyes.
- I guess it's the jet lag, – I wanted to laugh at the ridiculous explanation. I pull the condom my flaccid cock and toss it into the trash box in the corner of the room.
- Listen, Carr. Why don't you come to my studio tomorrow?
- Do you want to try to cum in there? - she grins sarcastically.
- No. I'll paint your portrait. I won't torture you. I promise.
- Max, you're not torturing me. I'm truly sorry that I don't make you want me anymore, –
Karina leaned back.
- The problem isn’t you.
- Of course, I'm not the problem. It's your attitude. There's another... Another woman. I just 't understand what you wanted to prove to yourself now.
- That's okay, – I get out of bed. - If you don't mind, I'm going to take a shower.
I'm standing under the cold water for quite some time when Karina joins me. She adjusts the , making the water warmer, and stands behind me, chest pressed against my back.
- Close your eyes, – she whispers. - Relax, and remember how good we were together.
Her fingers wrap around my cock, squeezing and moving around it.
I close my eyes and surrender to the mercy of her hands. The water runs down my body, me to disconnect. My memory obligingly slips me an erotic picture of my recent past.
Karina isn't in it. I "see" the face that's been bugging me for a week. No, longer, much longer. Since moment I saw her and wanted her.
I remember everything. The smallest details.
Her mouth. Wine... Ice... Gentle lips around Gringo's.
The discharge releases my body from the excess tension. I place my palms over Karina's and stop her.
- I'm sorry, – I have nothing more to say.
- - - - -
At home, checking my e-mail box, I look in the folder from Polina, it's empty. No text either. There's no missed call on Skype, no line in messages. Why on earth would I expect message from her? As evidence that she needs to communicate with me?
Why should she even write to me?
The main thing is what?
I convinced her and myself that it was only sex, exclusively sex.
As time shows, I am the one who expects something a level higher from our relationship. It's that I'm still afraid to admit to myself that it's more than a primitive carnal desire, even if it's strong. It's silly to run away from myself, to deny the feelings that live in me for her, but
I can't even admit that it's love. Well, what kind of love is it if I expect her to reciprocate, and I'm to not care. It's a wild, uncharacteristically possessive desire to own this girl like a thing.
Why would I do that?!
Or is this my Tabula Rasa?
I'll go that far. Then every sex that's great can be framed as meaningful. And what was it her and me that we didn't have with the others? Just my own excitement. I could use a few lessons to keep her guessing what I want.
Why the hell did I even get into e-mail?!
I rise abruptly from the table and open my smartphone's address book. I have a chance to to myself that I'm just as good with others as I am with her.
The best remedy is fresh blood. One that's still an uncharted world of sensation for me.
Looking through my contacts, I stop at Ashley's name.
Two months before my trip to Kyiv, I met a student of the School of Fine Arts. This after my senior year report. Ashley was one of five students who attended several of my classes as part of an agreement with the School.
We had a flicker of interest in each other, but everything was limited to sympathy at a . I had no desire to seduce her, but our meetings became more and more frequent, and after last lesson, when the other students had left, she and I were alone. The conversation dragged on, I invited her to the nearest bar, where we continued to talk. Already saying goodbye and putting in a cab, I received a completely unexpected, albeit cursory, kiss on the lips and a promising
"Call me, I'll be waiting", confirmed by a piece of paper with a phone number. The latter was : all phone numbers and e-mail addresses of students who had interned with me were in personal database. After her prank, I realized that I could have fucked her, but for some reason, the whole time I had the opportunity, I never once thought about it. She was incredibly , sexy, and then, a week before the trip, I decided that after I got back and finally said to Karina, I was going to focus on Ashley.
Polina messed up all my plans. I'd forgotten Karina, Ashley, and everything before Kyiv.
There, I was sure it was just a fling, an office romance, nothing more. What's changed since then?
My fucking fantasies at night are all about a girl with the face of a teenager! It was time to prove right that our connection was just a casual fuck and try something new. Like Ashley.
It's getting late, so I'm gonna use e-mail.
"Hey, Ashley. You're invited to dinner tomorrow night. Max Cameron."
Amazingly, despite it being the first hour of the night, a reply from her comes within a .
"Hello, Max! What a surprise! When and where? Ashley Bowe."
"Same bar where we last chatted, tomorrow at half past eight. Max Cameron."
"See you later, Max. Ashley."
The bar is right next to my studio, and I go on my date from there. It's so close that I walk to venue on foot, leaving my Harley in the parking lot, reserving a hotel room in advance, which I if necessary.
Before I can get a table and order a drink, Ashley materializes in my field of vision. She's noticeable, tall, bright girl that every man in this small room turns toward. She looks more like belongs on a Malibu beach than in a New York City bar. She's wearing an ultra short mini, her endless legs. She has loose blonde bushy hair, usually pulled back into a high , her eyes hidden by on-trend oversized thin-rimmed glasses.
She smiles a wide smile, moving toward the table with the grace of a cat. I walk up to meet , help her to the table, and look at her up close. The dress seems tight, under the neck, but the thin fabric that encases her high breasts, her nipples protrude, confirming my first that she's not wearing a bra. Promising.
Ordering alcoholic cocktails for us, getting a cab home.
We talk about meaningless nonsense, when all topics have been exhausted, Ashley asks a from the realm of "direct hit":
- Max, do you have any tattoos on your body?
- I got it. One. You can only see her under certain circumstances, – I hummed.
- You want to show me? - Ashley's gaze turned downright vicious.
- Hmm... It's not going to be easy to do. My hair is too long on the back of my head, – I 't help but smile.
- You have a tattoo on your head? Are you kidding me? - Ashley rounds her eyes in genuine .
- No kidding. I have a tattoo, it's just above the base of my neck, under my hair.
- I want to see it, if you'll let me, of course, – her eyes were burning now.
- Are you a fan of tattoos? - I guess out loud.
- In a way. I have a few. Three so far, but you can only see them if I... well, if I get naked, –
Ashley emphasized the word 'only'. – and then adds seductively, sipping her cocktail through a . - Would you show me yours?
- Not here, – I cut the conversation short. I call the waiter over, pay, and help her out of the . We stop the cab pretty quickly and head to the hotel address.
I order a bottle of wine, tonic, and water for the room, and while we get it all delivered,
Ashley tries to examine the tattoo on the back of my head.
- Is it a hieroglyph? - she flips through her hair, examining what's depicted underneath.
- Yeah, it's a Japanese character.
- What does it mean? - Ashley moved closer to me, and I could feel the hemispheres of her against my back.
- Master, – I slowly turn around to face her, coming in close.
- "Master what?" - she let out a long exhale, leaning back seductively as my hands rested on lower back.
- The meaning of the hieroglyph is 'Master', – I explain.
- Master, – she echoed after me. - It suits you. Do you want to see my tattoos? - Our faces so close I can feel her breath.
- I'm not sure I should be looking at them right now, – I told her bluntly. I'm not sure I want see them at all. Neither Ashley's intimacy nor her sexuality is getting a response from me yet.
There's a knock on the door, it's the waiter delivering our drinks and fruit. As I pay him,
Ashley pours tonic into a glass and turns up the music.
- Let's dance, – I reach out and open my hand, drawing her to me. She awkwardly places liquid-filled glass on the tray, causing it to tip over.
- Oh, – Ashley deadpanned.
- Don't mind her, – I say quietly in her ear, and lead her in a dance. We sway to the beat of music, and I squeeze her fingers in my hand, slide up her forearm, place my palm on her neck, stroke her throat with my thumb. As I look into her eyes, I realize nothing is happening.
Nothing is happening to me! Holy shit! What's wrong with my dick? It's about time it woke up.
I'm getting active. I undress Ashley as I dance. With familiar motions, I lift the dress up her to her waist and pull it up.
- Max Cameroons, are you really undressing me, – she whispers with a gasp.
- Let's not talk, – I press my index finger to her lips. Ashley stood naked in front of me, crossed over her chest, and I spread them apart to reveal her full breasts. I run my thumbs her nipples, which are aroused and hard, pea-sized nipples.
-I've already seen two of your tattoos. The kitten under her left breast, – I turned her back me and ran my index finger along her tailbone, catching the elastic of her panties with my finger pulling it off, making them slide down. - Angel wings over her ass, where's the third one?
Stepping over the piece of fabric, Ashley draws me by the arm to the bed, sitting on the edge , her thighs pressed together bashfully.
- Are you going to stay dressed like that? - She lifts her face up, but her gaze stops at my area. I undress. I topple her gently onto the bed, hovering over her.
- Can I see the third one? - I try to catch her eye, but Ashley averts it. - Are you ?
- Don't I turn you on? - she puts her hands on my chest.
- Don't be silly. We're just getting started.
- Here, – Ashley spreads her legs and shows me the tattoo on the inside of her thigh, a heart a ribbon that says "LOVE" on it.
- You see, and you were afraid, – I rub my aroused flesh against her thigh, and she giggles , taking my face in her palms and touching my lips with hers.
My second condom is tearing, my own orgasm has definitely gotten lost somewhere. Ashley already only capable of a subtle moan, which is more like a whimper. The couple of orgasms that her are far behind her, and I continue to move inside her, varying the frequency and angle of my .
- Max, let's get some rest, – she asks guiltily.
I let her go, lean back on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
- You were worried that I was delayed in getting aroused, – I say mockingly. Ashley helplessly against me, resting her head on my shoulder.
- I never thought a man could be so toned for so long. I'm sorry. I need to take a little break.
Just a little bit.
After a long silence, Ashley lifts herself up over me, nestles her lips in a greedy kiss.
- I'm madly in love with you, Max Cameron, – she whispers in my ear. - I'm head over . Ever since the first time I saw you at school. I was jealous of every girl in the class. And now 're lying next to me-" Her fingers lightly touch the bottom of my stomach.
- Shh-shh-shh-shh, – I interrupt her confessions. - Let's not talk about it, especially now, ?
An hour later we say goodbye, Ashley shifting from foot to foot, standing at the open cab .
- That was so sweet, Max. When are you gonna call me? - she rubbed my arm.
- Thanks for tonight, Ashley, and I'm sorry, – I help her into the backseat.
She won't let go of my hand, holding my fingers, looking out of the parlor, but she's silent.
- Bye, Ashley, – I wave my fingers in the air at her and close the door.
On the way home, my smartphone beeps, calling Ashley.
- Yeah, I'm listening.
- Max, you still haven't told me when to expect your call?
- You want me to call you after our date tonight?
- What was wrong? I was fine. Everything. I, uh. I really liked it, Max. I had no idea it could like that.
-How so? - I frankly don't understand what she could possibly like? I fucked her for two , recognized all the ins and outs on her body, and cum just from my own hand spilling over her .
- For so long... This is the first time I've had such intense orgasms, – she whispers into the .
Uh-huh... What's wrong with me?
- Ashley, I feel like it's supposed to be different. I'm sorry. I'm not the guy who's gonna give what you deserve.
- You're, uh. saying goodbye to me? - she sounded strangled. Fuck, I'm a rare asshole.
- All right, I'll call you later, Ashley. Uh, bye.
I bat the call away and realize I'm about to laugh at the discovery I've just made.
- - - - - -
On Friday, at six thirty, Chadwick and Victoria, accompanied by Gavin, arrive at my .
They settle on the couch and look at the portraits: Alexis, Lady Emma, painted last year, and brand-new portrait of Emilia that I finished this morning.
- As you can see, portraits aren't much, – I summarize. - It's not my specialty at all.
Chadwick and Victoria look at the works from different distances, from different angles, as the paintings would change their color palette. Chadwick turns to me, tilting his head slightly:
- Excuse me, Mr. Cameroons, can I see that portrait? - Gavin and Victoria immediately turn the direction Chadwick is pointing. In the corner, by the window, is a portrait of Polina, with her folded over her lips.
- No, this portrait is not for the exhibit, – I cut him short.
- Why? - Victoria claps her palms together. - This is the very thing we want to see in the ! The palette! The technique, – she rushes toward the painting. - Perfection. Max, I'm sure can work something out with you.
- We won't be able to. The portrait is of my woman, I painted it for myself, – I close the .
They choose a portrait of Lady Emma, which is the fifth of my paintings that the
Beaverbrook Gallery purchased from Gavin.
Left alone, I go to the table, put a ring on my ring finger, stroking it, turning to Polina's :
- Do you think I can still call you mine?
From memory, I text her number, "Hey. How are you?"