Authors: Roberta Latow
So many times she tried to find words to tell him how exquisite it felt to have sex that way. What it felt like for a woman to come again and again, to have every nerve-end in her body tingle, dance. What it was to live in that moment of private passion when your orgasm breaks and you want to scream, so great is the release, giving up, submitting to uncontrolled sex and passion. But she never found the words. He had taught her that she had no need to tell him, only to show him, as she was doing at that moment. It was uncanny how he knew just when she was ready for her strongest, most violent orgasms. Rick always held back his own release until he sensed the moment was there. He walked with her still in their embrace, continuing with his fingers, his kisses on her neck, holding her across her breasts.
He bent her over the back of a chair, arranged her limbs so that he had an unobstructed view of his quarry. She looked lusciously lewd and provocative. He entered her. This, and on her side, were the two positions where she felt more intensely the pleasure of being fucked. Where fucking left nothing inside her untouched. She felt his penis prodding the very eye of her cervix and wished it would open so he could enter, to feel him even there, deep into her womb. This was fucking for the sake of fucking. Sex and passion, erotic love, for however long it lasted. This was sexual freedom, consenting adult style. They came together in a strong, enormously long and luscious orgasm. She felt the heat of his sperm and her own come flowing from her. They flowed together, and she was nourished by the sensation. She wished not to lose a drop, but to absorb it into her body and take their orgasms into her soul, and keep it all there forever. This was a gift from Rick: learning to appreciate all things erotic, sexual lust set free, secret desires fulfilled.
They collapsed together on to the sofa, she, wrapped in his arms and crying with the joy of reaching such heights with another human being. She lay there in his arms, feeling the soft touch of his lips in gentle kisses on her face before he dozed off. She closed her eyes and felt herself drifting into a half sleep, grateful that she hadn’t missed the taste of unfettered sex.
When she opened her eyes he was sleeping, breathing deeply, his breath warm against her naked flesh. She felt exquisite, warmed by him and the sun, the feel of orgasm lingering on her cunt lips and soft flesh of her inner thighs. Now she understood her resentment of that small square of white tissue Jay used to clean away such bliss. Jay loved the act, not the condition of orgasm. Yet how could she say anything to him?
Mimi was careful. She turned her head to get a better look at Rick. She liked watching him while he slept. This
beautiful young man, this generous loving creature who gave so much, enjoyed life so fully, this intelligent, uncomplicated human being who healed her when she never even knew she’d been hurt, who set her free when she had never known she’d been in prison. He moved, sighed, gave a little moan, the kind men give when they come out of a deep, delicious sleep. Unable to resist it, she bent forward and placed her lips gently on his to kiss him awake.
‘Hi.’
‘Hmm,’ he grunted, ‘you’re absolutely wonderful. Mimi?’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Allan wants to make love with us again. Would you like that? He wanted to be with us today, but I put him off. I had to know whether you enjoyed it, whether it was something you wanted to do again. It was exciting, wasn’t it?’
‘You know it was. It was incredibly exciting for me.’
‘Good. He wants to take us to lunch, can you make it? Romeo Salta’s, tomorrow at one. After lunch we’ll go somewhere to be together.’
‘Rick, I think you’re my sexual devil.’
‘Well, we know all about sexual devils – only they can satisfy ladies like you.’ He kissed her neck.
She bit him playfully on his ear lobe. ‘I wonder if that’s true?’
‘About tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Well, I’ll be there for lunch, anyway,’ she told him teasingly.
‘If you will dine with us, dear Mimi, you most surely will not pass up the dessert?’ He too could tease. He kissed her.
‘Rick?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not interested in him, you know. Only what we do together. I’d never have sex with two men if you weren’t one of them. It’s lovely, a fantasy come true, but it has to do
with being governed by the right people, the right man. The right man is you, not Allan. Two men and me has to do with sex between you and me. You do understand that, – don’t you?’
‘You didn’t have to say it, Mimi. Even Allan is aware of that. He’s a free spirit in bed like us. He wants it again because it was great, it was fun. There are no complications rising from it. You mustn’t worry about Allan, he’s good people like us. Can you take the afternoon and evening off tomorrow?’
‘I’ll fix it.’ She kissed him, feeling excited again. Rick looked at her. He always wanted her every time he saw her. Each time she gave herself to him he wanted her more. They did things for each other sexually that few women and men get to do. He knew that he was in love with Mimi but it was a temporary sensual love that didn’t interfere with their lives. It was quite possible that was why he loved her. Because he knew he would leave her and move on, he never told her that he loved her, he didn’t want to complicate her life.
He wanted her again now, she knew it, she sensed it, the way he looked at her. He eased himself out from her arms, stepped over her and stood up. Then he pulled her by the hands and she stood next to him. He had only to touch his penis, cup his balls in his hands and he was erect. He sat down on the sofa again and, taking her by the hand, pulled her towards him. She straddled him, he held her tight around the waist. With her hands she opened her cunt lips. He impaled her with one sharp push down on him. Exquisite pleasure prompted her to let out a cry. He withdrew, then again a thrust and was inside her, right up against her womb, his balls touching her bottom. He had only to touch her clitoris several times and she came. That was all he needed. He clasped her around her voluptuous bottom and lifted her to ride him up and down. Slowly, exquisitely, she came twice more. He released her to lie on
his back and enjoy her moving up and down, unaided by him. Rick took her breasts in his hands and devoured them with a hungry mouth until the nipples he sucked became rigid. She squirmed with the pain and the pleasure of his lust for her. When he came, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled down hard. He was still savouring her breasts when he filled her again with his seed.
They collapsed into each other’s arms and stayed quite still, wanting to sustain as long as possible such erotic splendour. He was cautious when he placed his legs together, keeping her prone on top of him, still experiencing the delight of her cunt-caresses. When he whispered in a voice thickened with lust how he adored her erotic nature, how pleased he was that she should at last allow it to rise to the surface of her life, she wanted to weep with joy.
Mimi never bathed when she and Rick parted from a sexual rendezvous. She liked the scent of his body on her. She found it terribly raunchy to walk down the street while his seed was still inside her. It was a way of not letting him go. Only at home, in her own bath, did she wash him away. Only then did she accept that it was over, until the next time.
He dressed in a pair of jeans and a clean white shirt to see her down the stairs and into the street to find her a taxi to take her home.
An impulse made her tell the taxi-driver to stop. She leaned out of the window. Rick ran up beside the window and they kissed. He smiled, his handsome California smile, all teeth, blond hair, classic chin and cheekbones. ‘I’m giving a dinner tonight. For Barbara Dunmellyn, my best friend.’
‘The painter?’
‘Yes, at my house. There’ll be lots of people. Will you come?’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Good. Only you will understand …’
He placed a finger over her lips to suggest that she stop speaking, ‘You don’t have to say it. Of course I’ll be discreet.’
‘I wasn’t going to say that.’
‘I think it’s what you meant to say.’
They both laughed. ‘Well, yes, maybe,’ she admitted. ‘Would you like to bring someone?’
‘I’ll bring Zoe, if she can come. Do I have to let you know?’
‘No, just come. I’ll be so happy to see you there and have you in my house. It’s going to be a good party. And, after all, I’m always going to yours.’
The sound of a harpsichord and eighteenth-century French music greeted Barbara as she entered Mimi’s flat. As the guest of honour, she was one of the last people to arrive. The show at the Museum of Modern Art had been entitled ‘Four Americans’, and she had been one of the four honoured by the exhibition. The reception had been well attended. Pundits of the international art world were there in force. So were the top collectors of American abstract expressionist art. It was both a social and an artistic occasion. Now here she was arriving with Brandon, Frank Stella and Rothko, her staunch friends.
She felt really happy. Success had been hers for years, accolades from everywhere. Barbara Dunmellyn was hailed as one of America’s greatest female abstract expressionist painters. But, tonight, this exhibition was extra special. The first of three that she was committed to at the Museum of Modern Art; the second was scheduled for three years time, a retrospective of the life’s work of Barbara Dunmellyn. An honour few artists, living or dead, were ever given.
Mimi was giving Barbara this party, in celebration of the evening. Just for close friends, and a few of Barbara’s fellow-painters. Sophia and Ching Lee, under Mimi’s direction, had prepared the sit-down dinner for her forty guests. Barbara was looking forward to the evening. She knew well how good Mimi’s and Jay’s dinner parties were. Interesting people, delicious food, impeccable wines.
People who liked talking to each other, no gate-crashers. Jay was the perfect host; Mimi, always a great delegator, supervised it all. Then by the time the first guest arrived, she had nothing to do but enjoy her own party. The sign of the perfect hostess. One look at Mimi was usually enough for everyone else to leap into a party mood. This night was no exception.
The flat looked handsome, comfortable and elegant, with books piled on tables everywhere, easy chairs covered in silver and grey Fortuny fabrics. Paintings and drawings, collected over the years, hanging on the walls, from skirting-board to ceiling. The room was bathed in soft lamplight. A partner’s desk, eighteenth century and English, was at the far end of the large, square room. It was a homely house, inviting and relaxing. Its Oriental carpets were of great age, its cushions covered in seventeenth-century French tapestries, each a work of art.
Barbara saw Jay coming towards her. She had always liked Jay Steindler. He made her feel good. She hadn’t been surprised when Mimi married him, few girls would have turned him down. He kissed her. ‘A triumph, many congratulations.’ Then he kissed her again. He turned to greet David Rockefeller, who had arrived an elevator ride before Barbara. The two men shook hands, and the group all walked in together to mingle with the other guests who swarmed around Barbara. She felt happy in the bosom of her friends – and friends they were, not mere acquaintances.
Then she saw him, several women standing around him, looking at her across the crowd. He had not lost any of his sensual charisma. The years had been good to him. She reacted as she always had, for more than twenty years, wanting him. He smiled at her and gave her a jaunty salute. She lowered her eyes and smiled back and was swept away by people congratulating her on her success.
Wall-size, plate-glass sliding doors led on to a vast terrace
that overlooked the East River and Queens beyond. People were wandering back and forth from the living room to the terrace. The night was warm, there was no wind. Barbara felt an arm around her shoulder. She turned away from Barnet Newman and Betty Parsons to see who was standing behind her. He walked her on to the terrace and drank his whisky straight down.
‘They were good years, weren’t they?’
‘The best while they lasted, Brandon. Thank God we both knew when it was over. Otherwise I couldn’t be as fond of you as I am now.’
‘This affection we have for each other drives the present Mrs Wells round the twist.’
Barbara began to laugh.
‘You don’t like her much, do you?’
‘No, not much, Brandon.’
‘But you still like me?’
‘Very much.’
Brandon Wells looked pleased with that. ‘Jesus, I don’t know what I’d have done if we couldn’t have remained close friends, if we had fucked it up in the end. I still love you, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘I still fancy you like hell. But you know that already, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s not a good idea. We have too much to lose. We left that phase of our life in a court room, remember.’
‘That thought provokes another drink.’
She watched him walk away. He was drunk but still holding his liquor well enough to get through the evening. She had had ten years of Brandon’s heavy drinking, long enough to recognize the signs. He stopped a few paces from her, then turned and walked back to put an arm around her and whisper in her ear, ‘I always wanted to ask you …’
She removed his arm from her shoulder and slipped her arm through his. ‘Anything.’
‘Why did you give him up?’ He looked around the room. ‘No one can hear me. I’ve always kept your secret, our secret.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘I gave him up for you. Because I married you, Brandon. Because I wanted our marriage to work. And he gave me up to raise a family, to try to make his already disastrous marriage work. I can’t believe you never understood that.’
‘It’s hard to tell. Sometimes I did.’ He walked away, but after a few steps turned back. ‘One more question. Grant me one more question?’ He didn’t have to ask it.
‘Yes. When his wife left him and we were both free.’
‘Then why didn’t you marry him?’
‘We didn’t have to, we had everything without marriage.’
‘Then why the secrecy?’
‘For Mimi’s sake.’
‘Ah, one more …’
She stopped him. ‘No, Brandon, no more questions. And I don’t know what prompted you to speak about this tonight, but please put it out of your mind. I trust you to keep your own counsel on this one.’
‘You have my word.’
‘And so I should.’
‘I love you and your work. I may even be a little sorry about those things that interfered with our marriage. Forgiven?’
‘Long ago.’
‘Good. And now I need that drink.’
She watched him walk away. She often thought about the good times they had together during those ten years of marriage. They had been the darlings of the art world, the art couple of the century. The booze, their success, his inability to say no to adoring young students, put an end to
those good years, as did something else – domesticity. They played with that for as long as either of them could. Then it got to be too much of a commitment, too much boredom, banalities like a scream of pain in the night. Being married detracted too much from their work and their passions. How wonderful neither of them had any regrets.
Barbara saw his fourth wife enter the room, the very last to arrive, always having to make an entrance. Untalented, a jealous, mean-hearted little beauty. She was possessive of him, fed his weaknesses, took control of his life. Why shouldn’t Barbara dislike her? She wasn’t good enough for him.
Mimi was a clever hostess. She always injected into her parties, whether organized by Jay or by herself, some sparkling, beautiful young people to add a frisson. There was always someone with these qualifications. It added a buzz, an unexpected twist to the evening. Without her realizing it, Mimi’s invitations had become sought-after. She and Jay had become urbane New Yorkers, a social couple with a reputation for being intellectual power-brokers with a host of friends and a very private life. Not flash, just nice, chic liberal democrats.
For the most part the men were in black tie and smart dinner jackets but there were some who had not been invited to the black tie champagne reception at the Museum of Modern Art. They were dressed in tweeds, blue jeans or grey flannel, cream-coloured corduroys, the occasional navy blue blazer from Chips. It had only been when people had begun arriving that Mimi realized she had forgotten to tell Rick the dress-code for the evening. It therefore came as a tremendous surprise to her when he entered the room dressed immaculately in a well-cut dinner suit and black silk bow tie. The girl with him was nearly six foot with waist-length, chestnut-coloured hair, a face that was all bone-structure and a Californian smile. Her body was slender and seductive, more feline than female. She wore a two inches
above the knee, ‘A’-shaped dress covered in black bugle beads. Mimi could hardly conceal her surprise, which amused Rick. ‘Did you think we would come in hippy gear, a headband round my forehead? Zoe barefoot, a feather in her hair?’ He couldn’t help but tease her.
‘I was so worried I’d forgotten to tell you, tie if possible. How did you know?’
He put an arm round Zoe’s shoulders. By now she had the eyes of most of the men in the room on her, a few side-glances from the women. ‘We were at the Museum of Modern Art reception.’
‘That surprises me. It’s so establishment,’ she teased. Hoping to get back at him just a little.
‘And I’m so radical?’
‘Well, yes, you know very well you are.’
‘Ah, then the question in your mind is: “Why did he go? How was it he got an invitation?” That’s simple. My father owns more Clifford Stills than any private collector in the world, or any museum for that matter. By the way, you remember Zoe?’
‘Yes, of course. Zoe, I’m sorry. You look absolutely gorgeous. Welcome.’ She slipped her arms between theirs and the trio walked into the room. She introduced them to some of her guests, but not before whispering to Rick, ‘And so do you.’ He squeezed her arm with his own. She didn’t dare look at him. Instead she gave her attention to Zoe, wishing he had brought someone less sensational-looking and certainly a lot older. Zoe was one of those girls in their early twenties who still look sixteen.
Jay put out his hand. He and Rick greeted each other.
‘Hi, I’m Jay Steindler.’
‘Rick Walters.’
‘California?’
‘Quite right, Mr Steindler.’
‘Jay. And Miss …?’
‘Zoe. Zoe Marsh, Nebraska.’
He began to laugh. ‘I guess I deserve that. A bad habit of mine, always identifying people with the place they come from. I suppose it’s only a cut above that nasty habit we all have of greeting people with: “What sort of work do you do?” I’ll make amends. Come with me.’
The young couple made an impression. It didn’t take long for Zoe to gather a cluster of men around her.
The men found Rick more attractive than the women. He was definitely not New York lunching ladies type. Mimi tried to see her lover through their eyes: too young, a sixties drop-out, too beautiful, too West Coast empty-headed. She kept an eye, a very discreet eye, upon him. Several times she wondered what had possessed her to ask him to the party. Rick had a certain kind of charisma, an attraction that drew people to him. People like the men she saw talking to him now, Norman Mailer and George Plimpton. She saw Mark Rothko on the fringes of their conversation. When she joined them, George Plimpton was saying, ‘Is it true you guys are so addicted to surfing you will go anywhere for the perfect wave?’
‘Anywhere. I am going anywhere, leaving next week, hitting the hippy trail with my surfboard.’
Was he teasing Plimpton or was it true? There was an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. No, he would have told her. Then, on second thoughts, she knew he wouldn’t have thought he had to tell her.
They were all filing into the dining room in small groups. Four tables had been set up to accommodate the guests, ten to a table. The baroque clavichord music was exchanged for Mozart violin pieces. The room was aglow with many dozens of fat, ivory-coloured candles, crisp white damask, silver, fine white porcelain. The scent was sublime, candle-wax and mimosa. Only the paintings on the walls had electric lights, tiny spots recessed in the ceiling, focused to fit within the frame of each work of art. There were only four paintings, four very large paintings, one on each wall.
A Brandon, a Dunmellyn, a Rothko and a De Kooning. It was a spellbindingly beautiful room. For a few moments the atmosphere in that room created a powerful presence that took over the guests. It silenced them, and then the hum of admiration resumed. People milled around and sat where they chose, next to whom they wanted to talk to. Mimi was quick to see that Rick sat next to Barbara.
There were courses of cold cherry soup, ravioli stuffed with lobster and dusted with finely grated Romano cheese, roast breast of duck with white peaches, a salad of endive and watercress dressed in a raspberry vinaigrette, a pudding of white chocolate mousse, served with a hot dark chocolate and Grand Marnier sauce. Jay and Mimi wandered from table to table. The wines in the Steindler household were always perfection, their guests prodigious drinkers. They changed places between courses. It was the norm at a Steindler dinner party, such as this, when almost all present were close friends. It was particularly nice for Rick and Zoe to be there this evening because they were swept up in the hospitality and made to feel as if they too were old friends.
The Steindlers did not smoke dope, it was not offered in their house. Yet, with people sitting on the floor, in the chairs, on chair arms, drinking coffee after dinner, three-quarters of them were stoned. Where or how they came by grass and Lebanese Gold, no one asked and no one cared. The scent of sweet smoke in the guest bathroom pointed to an answer. All of them were riding on a wave of good company, stunningly fine food, great wine and exquisite music.
Mimi went to sit on the arm of her father’s chair. She saw him looking across the room at Barbara, who was engrossed in conversation with Brandon and De Kooning. Rothko, sitting on a cushion at her feet, looked pensive.
‘She’s remarkable, don’t you think, Poppa? And looking as beautiful as ever tonight.’
‘Yes. My God, she’s done well.’
He held his daughter’s hand and squeezed it, but his eyes never left Barbara. He loved the way she looked tonight. Because of him she always kept her hair the way he liked it, long and loose on her shoulders. She was dressed in a long dress of gloveskin leather, the colour of dark, rich honey, sleeveless and cut Chinese style with a long slit on either side to almost above the knee. A Pierre Cardin dress few other women could wear. Around her neck she wore an Aztec necklace of soft twenty-two carat gold that time had burnished. A magnificent work of art that Karel had bought for her from the best dealer in the world in pre-Columbian art. A gift for the more than twenty years they had been lovers. On her arms she wore pre-Columbian golden bangles.