Bailey
I unlock the door to my studio and step inside. I breathe in deeply, savoring the thick scent of paint hanging in the air. I know I shouldn't – that it's bad for me – but, the smell of paint has always been something I found enjoyable. To me, it smells like – art. Beauty. Passion.
My studio is small, but it’s everything I need. I rent it out from a guy who built an artist’s commune of sorts – a safe space for artists to work. It’s located in one of the shadier parts of town. A neighborhood that I'm sure Colin and his ilk will eventually tear down in the name of wealth and progress.
Until then, I'm determined to keep creating art here. And I'm going to keep working my ass off to get my art noticed by the right people. Influential people. People who can help get my message out to the world, where it might do some good for the people who need it the most.
I flip on the lights and look at the row of canvases leaning against the wall. I think I'm a better photographer than a painter, but I don't think my painting is all that bad. I'd stack it up against some of the works I see in a few of the posh galleries downtown. It's my subject matter that's the problem. My art doesn’t come close to resembling what passes for provocative and challenging these days – mostly abstract works.
My paintings trend more toward realism with elements of pop art blended in. It's a mixed media deal, where I use photographs, or magazine cutouts – anything that strikes me, really – in combination with the focus of the piece, which is always painted. My work depicts scenes from the world around me.
Perhaps there are a few abstract concepts thrown in, but only for effect. The main subject of my work is the people.
I walk over to the canvas on the easel right now. It's of a woman I know named Mona. She's in her early thirties and has been living on the streets since she was nineteen or twenty. She’s had a hard life and it's taken a toll on her. You can see it in her eyes, and in every line on her face. The portrait I'm doing of her – based on a photo I took – shows her juxtaposed against obvious symbols of wealth and privilege.
Maybe my work isn't the most revolutionary, but I think it's striking and bold, all the same. I think it tells a story that needs to be told in a clear and concise way. I think that other people would see and understand that –if I somehow got my message out to a wider audience. They would connect with it, and my work would have a genuine impact on them.
Of course, I could be biased, but whatever.
I'm not here to paint tonight, though. No, tonight I'm here to develop some photos I took the other day. I personally don't feel photography is appreciated enough, and that it can be as beautiful and striking as any art form. Photography has an immediacy that other mediums don't. They can elicit a really visceral, emotional response. And it's because they're real. There's no fancy elements, no different brush techniques – a photograph is raw and in your face. To me, that makes it all the more powerful.
Locking the front door behind me, I cue up some music. As Janelle Monáe's voice echoes throughout my small studio, I step into my small darkroom and draw the curtain tight. I line up all of my chemicals, and check the last batch of photographs still hanging up. In my opinion, there are some good ones, and some that are simply garbage. They're dry, so I take them all down and slip them into a folder. I'll go through them later.
With that done, I flip on the red light and start to develop the latest batch of pictures. It's a tedious process but going through all the steps is something I always find soothing. Because I know the process like the back of my hand, I can do it without much thought or effort.
In this age of digital everything, developing your own film has become a lost art form, and I take pride in my work from start to finish.
The entire process takes a while – it's not nearly as fast as you see in the movies – but, because I can pretty much do it blindfolded, it gives me time to think. To clear my head. Doing this is like meditation, in a way, and it puts me in a calm state of mind.
As a picture I snapped of Colin at the protest the other day starts to resolve itself, I think back to our encounter earlier. I hadn't meant to go off on him like that. I didn’t mean to debate or engage him. I know we're on opposite sides of the divide, and I don't know if such opposing views can be truly reconciled. Which is why I never intended to debate the issue with him.
No, all I wanted to do by going to his office was to thank him for saving my job, and to apologize for what happened to his car. I really can't afford to make restitution for the car, but I can at least apologize that everything got so out of hand.
It's the thought that counts, right?
I hang the picture of Colin up on the line to dry, studying his handsome face for a moment. His tall, lean, strong body is framed perfectly in the designer suit he's wearing. His face is chiseled and rugged, the thick beard only adding to his gruff allure. He really is a gorgeous man. If only he weren't so damn infuriating.
He's deeply entrenched in that elitist, corporate mindset. He's steeped in that, “screw the people in the name of profit,” attitude. I find it incredibly appalling, and despicable.
Having grown up poor, I know what it's like to live like some of the people in those buildings.
When you're poor, you don’t know where your next meal is coming from. You don't know if you'll be forced to choose between keeping a roof over your head or feeding your child.
And when some rich developer swoops in and pulls the rug out from under you, essentially kicking you to the curb, they're pulling out whatever small shred of security you have in your life. And to my way of thinking, there is nothing more cruel or callous than that.
Yet, Colin, and other developers and real estate agents like him, speak about it so cavalierly. But, they're not the ones who have to worry about where to lay their heads down at night. Nor do they have to worry about how they’ll feed their family. They frankly don’t have to worry about anything – ever – because their wealth makes them immune to such trifling, pedestrian problems.
Still, despite all of that, the fact that we are so incredibly different – and I loathe his mindset – I can't shake my attraction to him. I should find him utterly repulsive. And yet, I don't. I've tried. I've tried to hate him. Despise him. See him as a monster. The ugliest man on the planet.
Try as I might, I can't shake the feelings he inspires in me. Whenever I see him, hell, whenever I think of him, I feel a flutter in my breast, and a warmth spreads through my belly – and even further south.
I can't explain it, and I can't help it. I feel a raw, animal magnetism for the man, no matter how hard I try. I just can't deny it. It's strong and powerful. And it consumes me.
I lean back against my worktable and look at the picture of Colin again. I focus on the lines of his face, and the contours of his body and feel the familiar sensations flowing through my body. As I look at those perfectly kissable lips of his, I suddenly feel myself becoming aroused.
I bite my bottom lip as I imagine having his big, rough hands on me. The heat between my thighs flares as I imagine the way they'd feel sliding across my body. Heat spreads through my body like a raging wildfire.
Lifting my dress up around my waist, I slip my hand down into my leggings. I let out a gasp as I circle my clit and imagine Colin taking me into his arms and kissing me passionately. I close my eyes and try to feel his lips pressed to mine. I let my mind drift, imagining what it would feel like to have his tongue in my mouth, feeling our kiss growing in heat and intensity.
A shudder passes through me and I feel goosebumps raise along my skin. I picture Colin pressing himself against me, and feel his long, thick cock grinding against me.
Even though I’m still a virgin at twenty-three, I do my very best to imagine how it would feel to have Colin’s hard cock slipping into me as I slide two fingers past my velvety lips. In my fantasy, Colin has me up on my worktable, my dress pushed up around my waist, my leggings in a crumpled heap on the floor. He's driving his cock into me with immense force.
I cry out, calling his name softly as I grind myself against my fingers, pretending that it's Colin instead. The waves of pleasure washing over me are intense and tendrils of flame engulf me as I picture him flipping me over and taking me from behind. He's rough and commanding. He grabs my hair and pulls it hard, wrenching my head back, and makes me call out his name.
I'm so firmly in control of every aspect of my life, and I refuse to cede that control for anything. In my fantasy though, Colin takes it from me. He strips me down totally and completely as he pounds himself into me, taking me, doing everything he wants to me – and I let him.
I completely give myself over to Dream Colin. Let him have me. Let him command me. I drive my fingers deeper, wishing it was Colin's long, thick cock filling me instead.
Fantasy Colin is gripping my hips tightly, and I can hear him grunting and groaning with pleasure. I look back over my shoulder at him, see the look of absolute rapture on his face, which only takes my own excitement higher.
I picture Colin fucking me. As hard and fast as I want him to fuck me.
“Mm… God, yes...” I murmur.
I feel stretched so wide – just how I imagine Colin would feel inside of me – and feel the pressure building up deep within.
In the theater of my mind, Colin is pressing me down hard against the table, keeping me pinned there so I can't move as he pounds his cock into me vigorously. I hear the deep baritone rumble of his voice as he talks to me, whispers dirty things that only draw me closer and closer to climax.
My body starts to spasm and shake. The explosion of pleasure deep within my body shakes me from head to toe. I'm moaning loud as I'm hit with wave after wave of sensation.
My knees grow weak, and I have to hold onto the table to keep myself upright as a powerful orgasm rocks my body.
Slowly, the trembling fades, and I'm able to stand on my own two feet again. The orgasm passes eventually, but I find myself wrapped in a warm afterglow, as images of Colin flood my brain.
It's a fantasy I know will never come to pass, but rather than sate my desire for the man, masturbating to him seems to have only increased my hunger. I want Colin Anderson. Want to feel him inside of me.
It's a desire I know I need to shut down – ruthlessly and immediately. It's a fantasy that will never play out in real life. I won't let it.
I want the man, but I will never give myself to him. Not in this lifetime.