You reminded me of New York. Where the filthy and sleepless streets sparked the recollection of your mouth between my thighs, while our bodies were parked in an alleyway at night. The gritty sounds flowing throughout the city made my pulse race, thighs quivering, while eating lunch on the freshly cut grass in Central Park. I haven't felt you this much in years. But just like this infectious and addictive city, you have a way of making me feel at home even when I'm lost.
Last I heard, you were dating an art dealer from Chelsea. A successful one at that. Her collections were top notch, and her pockets deeper than the thoughts of the struggling artists you used to love to collect in bed. I laugh as I enter the subway car and squeeze into the middle of the crowd, thinking you must be bored out of your mind. You didn't like pretty and shiny things. You preferred the scraps, the things no one bothered to claim anymore, just so you could polish them with your own twisted vision of what this world made you feel. I always felt as if your wandering eyes weren't just about your inability to be faithful, but the hungry artist in you trying to find the perfect blank canvas that would be able to withstand your idea of perfection.
In my mind, you were mine. It was hard to find someone that checked every one of my boxes, and you checked none of them, but you were still here, in my veins, contorting throughout my body, as I walked by your old loft space and decided to torture myself some more with your ghost. You no longer lived there. And I can tell by the dusty windows on the top floor of the building where your apartment overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge.
You were messy, and tended to over-analyze the smallest of things, and I'd found it amusing most days when you were too high, and filled with anxiety over your latest piece to clean your apartment. I still had the key you'd given me out of complacency, not because you actually wanted me in your space. I was hard to say no to, was what you whispered in my ear the night we met in the dimly lit indie club just a few blocks from here. Your hand on my breast, mine in between your legs, midway through our time there, circling your clit, forcing your hips to grind quietly against the worn leather booth seat. Our sexual chemistry had never been the problem. It'd been electric and insatiable, creating a high that only we understood, or at least that's what I had thought at the time.
It'd been spoken word night at the club that same night. The room eerily quiet, as the poets spilled their hearts out to everyone listening, and relating to their inner turmoils and pleasures. I never told you this, but you were both for me. The angsty and deliciously addictive kind of poetry, that only increased the pleasure I received from seeing you every night after we met.
Walking up the same staircase I'd done so so many times, I reached for the key I always kept at the bottom of my purse, hoping the locks were still the same, so that your memory would grow more vivid the second I stepped inside what you used be your space. The floor was quiet, with no onlooking nosy neighbors while I jammed the key into the lock and turned the knob. The door opened so easily, and it took me back to a time where we fought over things with never ending solutions, including how emotionally closed off you were, considering how you were an artist and feeling things louder than everyone else was your meal ticket.
The place was empty now, but your old floor mattress still stood by the center of the room, rid off bed sheets and pillows, with just acrylic paint and coffee stains left behind. The sun was close to setting now. The different colored hues breaking through the windows, reminding me of the golden flecks in your eyes I couldn't get out of my mind the night I picked up my clothes and dignity for good, and never looked back.
I felt the knot in my throat grow, tears threatening to break through my pride, as I lifted my chin up and took a deep breath. I was better than the person I was in your company. I no longer needed to feed off of someone who lacked affection, and had no idea how to value the piece of art right in front of them. And yet I still couldn't paint over the wreckage you left with me when I realized I'd been too intimate, too personal with someone who had no real connection to what my words and my body had been trying to convey all along.
I'd loved you so intimately, so vividly, that the blindfold you'd placed over my eyes disguised as happiness had grown tighter and tighter, until my mind and my heart exploded with overflowing shards of happiness. Had I known the pieces you used to cut through my insecurities would eventually turn into resentment and sadness, I wouldn't have let you fuck me in this apartment the night we introduced ourselves.
Turning back towards the door, I closed my eyes and remembered how we had stumbled into your apartment in the dark, adrenaline igniting a fire that had been burning through us throughout the entire night around the city. We hadn't even made it to your bed. before you got on your knees and pulled my skirt down to my feet, prying my legs apart, moaning into the dampness in between my thighs. Your tongue had finessed its way in between my wet folds, flicking around my clit, forcing my body to cave into your impatience. My fingers ran through your dark waves, gripping them in clumps, as your tongue lapped at my inner walls and my sweet spot. I had lost my mind the second you took my clit in between your lips, and began to suck, until I had no choice but to squirt my juices into your mouth.
I fell apart for you over and over again that night, and every night we spent together after. It had always been about your pleasure, your pain, with the exception of my problematic and toxic love for you. And I realize now, that I had never once made you want to lose all of your barriers, to bare your soul to me not just in bed, but in the small pocket of time we had together. I never heard you confess anything that would give me inkling as to why you were so indifferent towards the people who loved you, or why you tended to hurt them the most. Maybe you simply saved those secrets for the ones you could discard easily, those who wouldn't think any less or higher of you in the morning. Maybe you did care enough to spare me of the consequences I would've had to endure while loving you in the long run. In the end, I wasn't the kind of sculpture worth finishing, apparently. I was too sharp, too emotional, difficult to visualize as being something you were proud to showcase in front of the world. Maybe that's why you kept me as your vanilla secret.
"Did you know her too?" a stranger's voice brought me back to reality, and I turned to face them. The art dealer I'm assuming. She looked polished enough to be her, but I wasn't sure.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be here," I excused myself, wondering what the hell I was thinking coming here in the first place. You were a part of my past. Hers too from the looks of it.
"She moved to Paris a few months ago," she began, as she pulled out a cigarette from her purse and a lighter followed, "thought she might find more people there to appreciate her artistic values," she concluded, with a scoff, before she took a pull from her cigarette and blew the excess away from her face. The ashes fell down onto the hardwood floors beneath her and I cleared my throat, kicking myself for being angry at her for making such a mess in your space. But you didn't live here anymore. You haven't been here in a long time, and I wondered how someone like you could still have such an in impact on people who were clearly not right for you to begin with.
"You bought her place?" I asked, and lifted an eyebrow merely out of confusion as she nodded in response.
"It's a safe place to crash in when I'm in the area," she admitted nonchalantly, but the sadness in her gaze said otherwise.
"You miss her too," I stated, and once my words made her gaze stray away from mine, I already had my answer.
"She was a good fuck, nothing more, nothing less," she claimed after shrugging and taking another pull from her cigarette.
"I can see why she liked you now," I started, and my comment grabbed her attention enough for her to look at me again, "she always thought liars were the best kinds of artists. The creative words they used to keep their lies going was considered an art form."
"And you, pretty girl? Trespassing just to... what exactly?" she inquired, waiting for me to give her a reason as to why I was in my ex-lover's old apartment, trying to feel as alive as I did when I loved her.
"The same reason why you bought this place, to remember her." I answered her, and the smirk that followed made her laugh, as she walked towards the dusty windows and opened one of them, throwing her cigarette down onto the busy sidewalk.
"I can see why she liked you too. Not only are you beautiful, but you're something she knew she could never even begin to know how to love," she countered as she shrugged off her shawl and discarded it on the floor.
"Meaning you scared her. You scared her enough to start seeing people like me, who offered her no mental stimulation, nothing as risky, as you were to her."
"She kept me a secret for years," I responded sharply, not believing a word she was saying, because it strayed from the dirty and jaded image of you I had in my mind.
"She was an artist, sweetheart. They all keep their biggest masterpieces a secret until perfected. Maybe she kept you behind closed doors because she didn't want anyone else to see the beauty behind the chaos," she explained, as she made her way towards me, her sweet and smokey essence surrounding me, as she reached up to touch my cheek. I swallowed hard, and pulled away from her. She wasn't the problem. But you were. You always have been. I haven't looked at another woman the same way I used to look at you.
"Are you saying she didn't want to share me? As if I didn't make it clear enough that I was hers and only hers and—" my sentence was cut short by her warm and ashy lips. The smokey flavor of her tongue reminded me of you and in an instant, there you were, kissing me instead of her. I let her rid me of my clothes, and push me onto your old bed, naked and exposed to a complete stranger. I hadn't done something like this since I met you. Recklessly bedding a sexy stranger I had no prior knowledge of wasn't something I'd been proud of the first time around but I was angry, tousled by the memory of you and everything I had yet to learn about you from this stranger. I needed closure, and since you were no longer in the city we both loved so much, she was the next best thing I had to getting what I needed from you.
Her tongue and mouth enclosed over my clit, tugging and licking, forcing my body to writhe while she took off the rest of her clothing, and tossed it aside. Her hands placed mine on her pale breasts the moment she positioned her wet mound over mine, and began to rub her own throbbing clit against my own. I pinched her nipples hard, forcing a moan out of her. as her hip thrusts grew quicker. The sounds of our juices mixing and our skin crashing against each other filled me with an urgency I didn't know I still had in me, since the last night we spent in bed together.
I pulled her off of me and pulled her up to my face, positioning her wet opening over my mouth, her thighs on either side of my face. Her body quivered the second I began to stroke her clit with my tongue, her fingers weaving through my blonde hair. Her swollen nub began to throb and her inner walls contracted the moment I let my fingers enter her deeply. She was soaking wet for me, waiting for me to grant her the release she'd been whimpering for as my tongue worked its magic. Her sugary nectar spilled into my mouth the moment my fingers hit her sweet spot, her wet mound grinding against my tongue as her thighs shook from the pleasure.
She turned herself around, her face at my wet opening, while her perfectly round ass stood just above my face, along with her glistening and dripping folds. Once she pulled my legs apart, her tongue dove into me once again and I reciprocated, flicking my tongue over her sensitive nub, causing another whimper to spill from her swollen lips.
By the end of the night, I felt myself reaching for a cigarette, as your ex-lover laid in your old your old bed, sound asleep after hours of pleasuring each other. I lit up the lung killer, as I stood wrapped up in her expensive blouse, staring down at the city we both fell in love with, in honor of knowing you, and what my tainted memory of you has brought to me this evening; a beautiful new woman with a Pandora's box full of her own vanilla secrets behind her wicked smile.
And I couldn't wait to uncover them.