Love- a Forgotten Art Read online

  Love: A Forgotten Art

  Ivy Symone

  Copyright 2019 © Imperial Publishing Group, LLC

  Copyright 2019 © Ivy Symone

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  I simply want to thank all of you that have been with me from day one. No matter what I may have been going through personally, you never stopped rocking with me. It’s appreciated and I’ll continue to do this for you.

  Love ya!

  I Am Love

  I’m emotions expressed from my heart

  Spoken from selective words received by a cautioned thought

  Perceived to be no more real than the last

  So, it’s seen as fake…

  Slightly disengaged caused by a very emotional past

  But they came with a front

  I come as me, no fabrication, all heart…no mask

  Some say love is a forgotten art

  A word used with an agenda

  But my only motives are to comfort, respect, and value the meaning of love

  I cherish the thought of an emotion that breeds happiness, exudes joy

  The forbidden promise of the soul

  …A hopeless romantic

  And when it’s real, it comes from above

  And because I’m still a believer

  …I am love

  ~~ Kent Braden, Jr.

  Chapter 1: Dasani

  Le Petit Mort, the sensation of orgasm as likened to death. An expression that translates to an orgasm so inconceivable it renders a loss of consciousness or a weakening.

  Imagine that? I feel my soul leaving my body at just the thought.

  They have associated this expression to their latest private “social” party. As with the others, a theme has been assigned as well: The Art of Orgasm. I think this one is pretty creative, as they have conflated the act of sex with the beauty of art.

  The rules are 1. Dress according to theme. NO street clothes. 2. NO means NO! 3. Ask for permission before touching. 4. Don’t interrupt or involve yourself in an engagement already in progress, unless invited. 5. Read signs for each playroom before entering. 6. Be Safe. 7. Be friendly, relax, and have fun.

  Those are the rules every time; no matter the theme.

  I haven’t indulged thus far. Not one single time. However, I have enjoyed gazing upon the attendees’ faces, measuring the amount of pleasure they’re experiencing by how their faces contort. If I get nothing physical out of it, at least these parties are like live-action pornography. I find it to be more entertaining than privately being in the comforts of my bedroom and viewing such acts on a television screen.

  Not to be mistaken; my presence here is to participate in these very tempting sexual activities, but no one had ever snagged my desire in such a way.

  That’s a lie.

  I simply haven’t mustered up enough courage to participate. I’m terrified. But my appetite is intense. It’s overwhelming and feels unbearable at times. I feel like a fiend and I need something to satiate this hunger I’ve been staving off for a while now.

  I need to put it to rest.

  Breathe.

  Focus.

  Relax.

  I persuade myself to do these things, as I walk warily through the party. I’m not at ease enough. The complimentary elixir giving off its gaseous dry ice vapors given to me at the entrance has yet to work its magic on my psyche.

  I hold my clutch tight to my abdomen and try to normalize my breathing and heartbeat with slow easy deep breaths. My eyes dart around the area looking for a safe place to hide and relax until I’m ready. I see an occupied booth in the corner, away from all of the madness; but it has a small space right there in the very corner where I can make myself unnoticeable. I walk over and make myself comfortable and become a spectator.

  Breathe. Focus. Relax.

  I survey the huge area and realize it’s simply for socializing and relaxing. The “other” activities take place in those playrooms that were mentioned in the rules.

  There're people gathered at several round tables and a huge circular baroque style club sofa with double-sided seating. A few of them look important; like they have power. The men hold cigars in between their fingers. Glasses of champagne and other dark-colored liquors litter the table. The ladies, a variety of races, were all beautiful in their leather and lace. The men, beautiful as well. Some adhere to the theme, while others came close to it.

  There’s an LED lighted open bar, buffet, and other recreational activities directly in the middle. There’s space for people to dance if they want to, or just stand around and mingle. Lining the walls are various styles of club furniture where small clusters of people also gather to socialize.

  “First time to one of these?”

  My nerves are so wound up that the sound of his voice startles me. I turn to reply but my voice catches in my throat. The beauty of the man before me has rendered my vocal cords inoperable.

  His high cheekbones, full lips, and defined nose are familiar to me, but I can’t place his handsome, butterscotch, cream complexion face. He boasts a thick healthy head of locs reaching down his back that hasn’t been retwisted; unless he’s going for the semi-free forming kind of locs. They’re a little frizzy, but his hair texture is very fine; a wonder how his tresses loc’d in the first place. A few of his locs are knotted around the back to secure them from falling into his face. They’re still neat and sexy in a messy kind of way.

  His eyes are hypnotizing. They’re hazed over, low, thinly almond-shaped slits outlined in long lashes. And right under his right eye is a mole. He dons a simple well-trimmed mustache and neat goatee. Around his neck is a diamond and gold thick chain link necklace. Both earlobes are embellished with diamond and gold earrings, the right side a small hoop and the left a tiny cross. He wears a tiny diamond stud in his right nostril. Across his fingers are various diamond and gold rings. There are a few beaded bracelets on his wrists along with a brown leather watch on his left.

  He wears a black button-down shirt that’s opened a few buttons down with a pair of black jeans. I see that he has tattoos on the skin that’s exposed. The shoes he wears are all black; I’m not sure what they are, but they appear to be designer.

  I think he has money, but that’s not what’s important now. I really don’t care about that. I have my own money. I would just need him for one thing tonight.

  His tongue slowly glides across his bottom lip before he offers me a smile. He brings a fat cigar to his mouth and takes a pull. Jokingly, he says, “You can speak back any time.”

  “Huh?” I finally utter.

  “I asked you if this was your first time to one of these parties before.”

  I sort of get lost in his words as I try to decipher if that’s an accent I hear or if he’s just articulate in his speech. There’s an aristocratic tone to it.

  He waits for my response, but I have to snap out of my awestricken state.

  “Oh yeah…Yeah, yeah—I mean, no, this is my third time.”

  “Really? It doesn’t seem like it. Relax, love. Here…” he says as he motions to a barhop passing by.

  Mr. Afrocentric ret
rieves an individual clear drinking pouch, similar to the popular kids drink, from the tray and hand it to me. He takes one for himself. He also picks up a smaller bottle with an eyedropper top. He removes the dropper and suck up some of the yellowish liquid inside and squeezes it into his mouth. He repeats the previous actions, but this time he offers it to me. I’m hesitant at first but I’m no stranger to recreational drug use. Besides, it may be what I need to get over my fear and finally conquer what I set out to do.

  Fuck it. I accept and hold my tongue out to receive the droplets of liquid. It’s got a bitter soda taste to it, which is why there isn’t much of it.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  Mr. Afrocentric gives a wicked grin. “Just something to get you rolling.”

  Rolling? Really? Aw hell! Ecstasy and I are not a good combination.

  I chase the bitterness with the mixed drink in the pouch. Now that’s delicious. I could use another one of those.

  I guess he sees I’m pleased by the drink because he says, “Pretty good, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s tasty.”

  Tasty? Did I just use the word tasty and had the nerve to do a little girly giggle afterward? What’s wrong with me?

  Mr. Afrocentric, that’s what’s wrong with me. He has me behaving like a little girl reacting to her biggest crush.

  There’s a predacious gleam in his eyes as he looks me over. He lets out an amused chuckle and echoes, “Tasty.”

  Flustered, I shy away from his gaze and try to find something else to focus on. But he’s making it hard being that he has moved closer to me. He leans into my space, and with slow deliberate, sensual, movement he brushes his lips against my neck.

  I try not to squirm and maintain my composure as he places a very delicate kiss behind my ear, then whispers, “Can I find out how tasty you are?”

  Oh shit! He’s the one! This is it. This is the night.

  Before I respond, a beautiful dirty-blonde walk over to where we’re sitting and bends down to whisper something in Mr. Afrocentric’s ear. I sense his attentiveness leave my side; his energy shifts.

  He stands to leave but before he walks away, he remembers me. He holds on to Dirty Blonde and gestures to me, “Keep my friend company and don’t let her out of your sight.”

  Dirty Blonde smiles at me, gives Mr. Afrocentric a nod of assurance and sits down where he was just seconds before. I try not to watch him walk away but a part of me is disappointed that he’s no longer in my presence.

  “I’m Chell, by the way.” Dirty Blonde offers me her hand.

  I take it. “I’m Dasani.”

  Ugh! I immediately regret giving my real name. But it’s okay because no one really refers to me by my government anyway. Besides, this party is taking place in Gemsville, a whole hour away from my city. No one should know me here anyway.

  Chell smiles with delight and wonderment twinkling in her eyes, or maybe that’s just the drugs that got her eyes glossed over. “Dasani! That’s beautiful and you are so gorgeous. Ever been with a woman, Dasani?”

  Chell is definitely a beauty, but she isn’t really my type, so I tell her, “Yeah, and you are gorgeous yourself, but that’s not what I’m in the mood for tonight.”

  Chell gives off a playful disappointed pout. “Too bad. I was just thinking of all the wonderful things we could do together. Sure you don’t wanna give it a try tonight?”

  I may settle for Chell if I don’t reconnect with Mr. Afrocentric. However, my quest is to be with a man. I need to feel a man. I need that skin to skin touch. I crave the weight of a man against my body.

  “I’m sure,” I tell her.

  Another barhop comes over on her own with an array of concoctions on a wooden platter resembling a paint palette soliciting everyone in the area to another round of drinks. I swiftly pluck another pouch with a fluorescent orange liquid. One hadn’t been enough for me. I need another. Maybe two. I grab the bright pink one too, and immediately I gulp it down. I think it’s some kind of tequila drink. Just what I need. Tequila always brings out the freak in me.

  Chell grabs my free hand and stands to her feet as she pulls me up. “C’mon babe, you won’t get any dick sitting in the corner. Let me show you around.”

  I want to tell her I’m fine, but honestly, I hadn’t explored one of these parties fully during my two previous visits. I chickened out those times and left after about twenty minutes.

  After speaking briefly to her friends and excusing herself, she escorts me downstairs to the action. There’s low lighting, alternating between different colors. There’s also fast-moving, spinning, and flashing neon lights everywhere. The servers walk around wearing clothing that reflects fluorescent colors that match the drinks in pouches and test tubes. Some give off the dry ice gaseous smoke and others are just plain.

  I’m wowed by the first thing I see. There’s a naked woman on a table with an assortment of finger foods displayed on her body. Mix that with a sex party, and you get a naked woman on a table with an assortment of finger foods displayed on her body with her legs wide open, and a man feasting on her like she’s the food.

  I can’t peel my eyes away from the rapturous look on the woman’s face. The Art of Orgasm in full effect.

  My middle twinges. I feel it coming alive. My eyes wander and behold the sight of other sinful acts taking place around us. There’s a pool table, but no one is playing pool. It looks like an orgy is taking place there instead.

  The glowing drinks and whatever had been in the droppers are starting to work on me. It’s starting to feel as though I’m walking through a funhouse. Images before me are becoming distorted. Kisses, whispers of tempt, soft laughter, and moans seem amplified. I’m feeling like my head is floating.

  Shit, I need dick. My loins are on fire with all of this fucking going on around me. My center is aching something fierce. I need my clit touched so bad. My insides, breasts…they need to be massaged.

  Without turning to her, I ask Chell, “Do you come to these things and participate all the time?”

  “Yes,” she answers with mischief in her tone. “I’m a co-host actually. It’s a group of us that throws these parties.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, you’re a friend of Prime’s, huh?”

  “Who?” I’m genuinely confused.

  “The guy you were just with?”

  Mr. Afrocentric!

  I answer, “Oh no, we just…” My voice trails as I try to figure out what took place between me and Prime. “I guess we just met.”

  “Really?” Chell seems amused but I don’t question it.

  After peeking in at quite a few lust sessions, we end up in a dark smoke-filled maze of sitting areas. The walls and carpet are a tasteful palette of red and black. There are different works of art sporadically placed. People are lounged on sofas and chairs inhaling their choice of smoking devices. Some are engaged in sensual lustful activities while others seem to be getting to know one another. The vibe back here is chill, relaxed, quiet, and sexy.

  Chell finds people that she knows and try to introduce me to them, but I’m distracted by the eerie feeling of being watched. Not by the friends of Chell, but this energy is coming from elsewhere. I politely speak but begin to look around in the dimly lit surroundings. I know it’s Prime, but I don’t see him.

  The ambiguous ethnic friend Chell introduces as Jessica makes room for me on the sofa. “Have a seat, beautiful.”

  “Isn’t she gorgeous?” Chell asks, eyes lit with excitement.

  “She is,” the young Black male on my other side says. He caresses my bare arm. His voice sounds off with “twang” and I know for sure he isn’t really checking for me, so I don’t take his unsolicited touches offensively. Besides, the way I feel, I doubt if I would even if he was my type.

  “Your skin is flawless, honey,” he says. “You look like you taste just like some Godiva chocolate.”

  As the others chime in with murmurs of agreement, I hear a velvety smooth male voice say, “She
’s a walking piece of art as if Augusta Savage herself took a block of the finest chocolate and created her.”

  Before I can look to see where his voice is coming from, my hand is being taken and I’m pulled up from the sofa. Chell’s friends along with Chell begin to playfully protest as I’m whisked away. At this point, all I can do is giggle at their cries of outrage.

  I’m happy and my body is ecstatic to see that Prime is my captive, and I willingly follow him to a more secluded space. He stops me in front of a printed piece of art on the wall. There are lights shining on it so that the details are clear even in the dimness of the area. It’s a drawing and the lines are shaky, but it’s clearly the image of a female, perhaps in the late 1800s or early 1900s, masturbating. It’s very sexual and erotic.

  “As you look at this, how does it make you feel?”

  I try to study it, but his cologne mixed with his own masculine pheromones distract me. He stands so close I can feel the heat from his body. There’s an energy radiating between us that I can’t quite explain. I don’t know who this man is, but God I want him.

  “I love the female body,” he states with appreciation.

  Before I realize it, I’m saying, “I do too.”

  There’s silence between us as we both admire the painting. As smoke swirls around and tickle my nostrils, I realize he’s holding a blunt this time, but I still don’t want to look back at him.

  “Is this drawing sexy to you?” he asks.

  “Very,” I whisper. “Gustav Klimt.”

  “Ah! You’re familiar with this artist’s work,” he says in delight.

  “Yeah. I’m a fan of art.”

  He places a sensual kiss on my neck and whispers in my ear, “That’s sexy as fuck to me.”

  I smile.

  “Did you come here for the art?”

  I shake my head.

  He kisses my neck again. “Good.”