The Graffiti Artist


On nights when the heat won’t let her sleep, Mariah is prone to wandering. When the humidity of the city is so oppressive, the walls are closing in on her, she hefts her bag of spray cans, paints, rags, brushes and turpentine onto her shoulder and climbs down the fire escape to the alley below and into the empty streets, in search of whatever trouble she may find.

It is July. The weather has been unbearable for days. Mariah’s night prowling is becoming a habit. She returns to the scene of her most recent crime, a billboard advertisement by a brewery with ties to arms dealers.

Mariah knows her work is ephemeral. But then again, so is life. When her grandmother died, leaving her penniless and alone, she learned that lesson. She used to dream about becoming a real artist with her work displayed in galleries and purchased by collectors.

When she was twenty, after Mariah had spent a couple of years being bored out of her mind in a general arts program in college, her grandmother paid for her tuition to a local fine art school with an excellent reputation. She believed Mariah had true talent.

Initially Mariah loved being there. She’d always sketched and painted, ever since she was a little girl, but being able to study the greats like Van Gogh, work with live models, talk to the working artists who were her professors and gain their advice was thrilling.

One instructor in particular, Professor Josef Markoviz, became her mentor. He was the most striking man she had ever seen, with his flashing eyes, dark beard threaded with silver, thick shoulder length hair, and an Eastern European accent, which caused her body to shiver with desire and her mind to conjure up fantasies. He was originally from Poland, but had left in his late teens to lose himself in the exuberance of art, as he explained to the students on the first day of lectures.

He introduced the class to abstract expressionism, to the energy and beauty of Mark Rothko’s work, the geometric precision of Barnett Newman. He strayed off topic to the antics of the New York School, the jazz, the poetry, the dance theatres, the unbridled sex. The latter was a subject not breached until after class with a group of adoring young disciples, of which Mariah was one.

He took the group to openings where they met other artists. They went to bars and discussed art, sex, death and beauty. To start with Mariah was enthralled, but every time she looked into Josef’s dark eyes, all she wanted was to be alone with him. Everything about him mesmerized her: the way he held his cup to his lips, the way his fingers brushed over hers when no one was looking. Soon it was clear they both wanted to be away from the crowd and alone together.

At first, she resisted his attempts to see him in private, but that didn’t deter Josef. They continued to meet in public at a local bar, a smoky dive that played jazz and served moonshine after hours. They talked all night. He told her stories about Paris, about Modigliani’s tragic lover who killed herself after his death, about Jean Cocteau’s back room parties in an opium den. She wished she was a decadent bohemian living in Paris between the wars. She wished she wasn’t so conservative, so staid and bourgeois.

Her grandmother wasn’t pleased. During Mariah’s teenage years, her grandmother had insisted that she not associate with boys throughout school. Warned her to focus on her studies. Mariah’s mother had slept with a fellow high school student and ended up pregnant with Mariah. When her lover discovered she was going to have his baby, he left town and never looked back. Mariah’s mother worked multiple jobs to take care of her child and died young from exhaustion and overwork. To Mariah’s grandmother, it felt like Mariah had forgotten all this and was heading down the same path. They had words over it. But Mariah assured her grandmother that she wasn’t going to sleep with Josef.

When she wasn’t with the professor, she worked in the studio her grandmother had set up for her, painting rough seas, layering coat after coat of dark blue, green, turquoise, gold, orange, violet, red, silver, brown and black, transfixed by colour. She had stopped going to class entirely, and never spent time with her grandmother. Her grandmother grew increasingly concerned, but there was nothing she could do.

One night Josef finally succeeding in convincing Mariah to go home with him. Perhaps he took advantage of her naiveté or his constant teasing of her bourgeois values had the desired effect. Perhaps Mariah succumbed to the little voice inside her head that told her she was being uptight. After all, none of her art school friends were virgins. Technically neither was she, having lost her virginity through the usual means of self-exploration as a teen; however, she’d never slept with a man. When he offered to take her to his place for a taste of Sliwowica, a Polish drink made from vodka and plums. She acquiesced. He insisted it would set her creative juices flowing and it did. All over him.

Imagine our young Mariah, innocent, wide-eyed and pliant, entering the lair of a sophisticated svengali. When they kissed for the first time at his bedroom door, he tasted of plums. Mariah let herself fall into his arms. He picked her up and tossed her on his bed.

This was the first time she had ever been alone with a man in his bedroom. Mariah knew she was ignoring every piece of advice her grandmother had given her. Don’t drink too much when you’re with a man; don’t let him get you alone; don’t let him touch you…

Mariah’s brief pang of guilt was dispersed with kisses on her ear, her neck, her lips. Josef took her lower lip between his teeth and sucked it. Mariah’s heart caught in her throat. Her pulse raced. She shut her eyes as Josef’s hands grasped her breasts through her thin blouse, pinched her nipples until they were stiff and erect beneath the flimsy white blouse. He ran his teeth along her neck, sending shivers through her. He tore the thin fabric off to reveal her naked breasts, so firm and untouched. It was thrilling and frightening. Never had a man looked at her like this, with such a burning need in his eyes. Never had her body felt such yearning in response.

She’d craved to be touched like this, to have a man’s dark head bent over her nipples, licking, sucking, teasing her tits with his tongue and lips. He probed her mouth with his tongue, grabbed her head and pressed her against him. The muscles of her stomach tightened as she her arousal grew.

Josef’s hand yanked at the shredded material of her blouse. Remnants of silk fell to the floor. He lifted up her long peasant skirt and put his hands on her cotton-panty-covered mound.

“You’re wet, girl,” he said, “so wet and ready.”

He yanked the panties down and placed his thumb against her aching cunt. She rubbed herself against his hands as he parted her lower lips and found her clit. The first man to touch her nipples and stroke them into erectness, to put his hands on her body, her aching cunt. She’d wanted this for so long.

Mariah froze. She tensed up as she felt a finger pushing into her.

“Sssh, little one, it’ll be alright.”

He slid his hot, trembling hands along her thighs. Spread them wide, dipped his head down and pressed his lips against the soft skin of her naked cunt. Mariah grew more aroused, rocked against his face, took more of the finger inside her.

“That’s right, baby, open up for me, let me in.”

She put her hand on his head and pushed it toward her body, thrilling at the feel of his cool lips against her cunt. He licked along her labia, put his tongue against her clit and held it there. Mariah writhed and moaned.

“Keep still, let me fuck you,” he said.

She tried not to move. The tension in her body mounted, the feeling of his tongue on her cunt made her greedy, she never wanted it to end. The pressure built. She felt taut, like a wire being pulled tighter and tighter. His fingers thrummed her clit. She couldn’t hold it any more. She had to let go. Mariah lifted her hips and cried out as the orgasm coursed through her body. For one brief moment she was all cunt, that part of her body was all she felt. So good, so right. Josef had licked her to orgasm, her first orgasm with a man. Better than any she’d ever had on her own.

Josef rose from the bed, his lips wet with her juices. He removed his clothing. For the first time, Mariah saw his naked cock, strong and thick. She wanted a taste, so she rose up on her elbows, but he pushed her back.

She lay back on the bed, wide-eyed and naked, her legs parted, wanting to please him. She looked up at him. Her legs trembled as he parted them roughly and lowered himself onto her body.

She felt the weight of a man’s body on hers for the first time. Warm, unyielding and pressing her down into the mattress. She was afraid, but she wanted this.

He grabbed a condom from the nightstand by the bed. A flash of how many women he’d likely had on this bed went through Mariah’s mind, but she shook it away and focussed on the aroused man above her.

His eyes were closed, he shoved his cock inside her quickly and humped into her. She cried out. He was so brutal she thought she’d break in two. The pain caused her to bear down on his cock. He groaned as he came.

After he climaxed, he wasn’t interested in more sex; he fell asleep and soon began to snore into his pillow. Mariah was shocked. She thought he’d want to touch her more, to lick and caress her, give her another orgasm, take her more gently. This wasn’t what she’d imagined when she read romance novels as a teen.

The fireplace was full of ashes. The dull varnish of the black cherry wood of the four poster bed looked like it hadn’t been polished in ages. The room stank of sweat and semen. The ashtray on the night stand was full of cigar butts. The cold aftermath of reality dulled Mariah’s bright eyes. She looked down at the snoring professor and saw a washed out has-been, a lousy lover, a desperate man, old enough to be her father. She was disgusted with herself.

She grabbed one of his t-shirts from the pile of laundry on the floor, since her blouse had been ruined, quickly rinsed off in the bathroom, straightened up and left.

She chided herself for being such a fool. A cliché. She couldn’t believe that was all there was to it. Everybody had talked about losing virginity as a remarkable act, and the pain of it certainly was remarkable, but not the least bit fulfilling. It wasn’t losing her virginity that set Mariah on fire, it was the way his mouth and hands had felt on her skin, on her lips, on her clit. The desire in his eyes before he fucked her, the pent up feeling of wanting him for so long.

She went back to attending classes but never returned to Josef’s bed again, despite his pleas. Instead she explored her desires further with other men, satisfied her appetite with students her own age.

After leaving art school, she continued to paint, but when her grandmother died, so did her ambition to have work shown in galleries. She knew she was disappointing her grandmother, but Josef and his pretentious peers had demonstrated to her that it was all bullshit. The real reason those guys wanted young ingénues was to get into their pants.

Mariah was heart-broken. She felt guilty for not spending any time with her dear grandmother, for wasting time with the lascivious Josef instead of devoting her attention to her classes.

After selling her grandmother’s treasured art collection, she had some money but it didn’t last long. All that her grandmother loved was so easily traded for a pittance. She took only what she could carry on her back in a large backback, a big dufflebag and a suitcase of her grandmother’s and found shelter wherever she could, rooming houses, the occasional couch of a well-meaning stranger, and occasionally an abandoned house.

* * * * *

To paint over this particular beer ad, overflowing with hulky masculinity and testosterone, Mariah sketches a naked woman standing in the middle of lush greenery, breasts and sex covered by leaves, the portrait inspired by Gaugin’s Tahiti primitive, exotic abstractions. Just looking at it makes Mariah feel cooler, more at ease. The woman’s eyes are daring, the kind of fuck you look Mariah often sees in her own eyes when she looks in the mirror.

Mariah paints self-portraits on office walls and billboards. Illegal and unsanctioned by the authorities. There’d even been a brief write-up about graffiti in the city and her work was mentioned. No name given of course. She’d never been caught by the police.

She’s always on the move. She squats in various abandoned houses, often having to leave due to their demolition. She likes this way of life, but it means she doesn’t keep many friends, or lovers.

Of course there are still men, from time to time. A desirable and insatiable young woman like Mariah with her caramel-coloured skin, soft brown hair and penetrating black eyes can have men anytime she wants. And she often wants.

Most of the time she tries not to draw attention to herself. Wears thick plaid shirts, ball caps, men’s baggy cargo pants. She travels incognito.

The art on the billboard is still intact. She makes a few touch ups, packs up and climbs back down. That’s when she feels a hand on her back. Her heart hammers hard against her chest. She tries to run, but the guy has her. Damn, it’s some security guard. She stomps on his foot and makes a run for it.

There are several places she can hide. The rent-a-cop doesn’t make enough money to bother giving chase. He’ll likely call the police, who will file a report. They’re too busy with drug busts and domestic violence cases to allocate any resources to chasing down graffiti artists and taggers, but if they catch her red-handed, she’s doomed. Or at least she’ll be fined and she has no money.

Once she loses the security guard, she heads over to an all night diner where her old friend Pedro, the line cook, works early mornings. She opens the kitchen door, and he hands her a plate of fried mashed potatoes and eggs with salsa. She grabs some milk from the refrigerator, pours herself a big glass, and sits as far away from the grill as she can in the hot, greasy kitchen. They don’t talk. She eats; he cooks. They’ve known each other for years. He’s one of the rare people who Mariah keeps in her life. He never makes a pass at her, is excited by her graffiti and never judges the way she lives her life.

Once her belly’s full, she burps and Pedro lets out a throaty guffaw.

“You’re not exactly refined, are you, babe?”

She sticks out her tongue at him and wipes the milk off her upper lip.

“Some dude in a suit asked about you last night, Mariah.”

He sits down in the chair opposite her. There aren’t many orders this early in the morning, thankfully. He can rest his feet.

Mariah wipes the salsa off her mouth and looks up at him in alarm.

“What man?”

“Don’t worry. He didn’t know your name, and I told him nada, just that sometimes you eat here. He wanted to talk about your graffiti. Gave me a card to give to you.”

Mariah reads the card. “Alessandro Aleguera,” it reads, but there’s nothing other than e-mail and telephone number. Seems suspicious to her. She crumples it up.

“Could be a trick, the beer company or cops or something.”

“Relax, hon, if anybody wanted to have you arrested, you’d probably be in jail already. He seemed interested in your art, your training, that kind of shit.”

Mariah drinks the rest of her milk in silence while Pedro cooks up a batch of grill cheese sandwiches for some construction workers.

As she walks back to the current squat passed on to her when a fellow street artist moved out, she thinks about the suited guy hounding her in the diner. Wonders if it’s time she moves again, maybe to another city this time. She’s got too many memories here though, of her grandmother and their life together. In the back of her mind, there’s this flicker of a memory, more like a memoryette, of a woman singing to her, rocking her in the cradle. Her mother. She’ll take gladiolas to her grave again soon. Her grandmother said it was her mother’s favourite flower, the tall stalks with their bright bursts of colour. Her mother loved colour. Mariah inherited that love.

Another night of restlessness drives Mariah back to the streets at dawn. She’s out earlier than the garbage collectors and the street cleaners. She loves having the city to herself, calling it her own. It’s just barely light enough to paint, but Mariah has good eyesight and is used to working in the wee small hours.

On a chain supermarket wall, she’s started a new painting in the style of one of Georgia O’Keeffe’s erotic flowers. Inside the store they sell dying and neglected plants which haven’t seen sunshine or been tended by a loving hand in their lives. This orchid will have a brief life, but it will be full of sunshine. She’s concentrating hard on her work. For Mariah, painting is like caressing a body, stroking the blank canvass into an ecstasy of colour, bringing out its beauty by cherishing it . She’s so absorbed by what she’s doing she doesn’t notice the man standing across the street and smoking as the sun finally rises, as he watches the splendour of her work take shape before his eyes.


* * * * *

Alessandro Aleguera is overjoyed. He’s finally found her, the graffiti artist responsible for all the bold and compelling outsider art he’s been seeing around the city since he moved there to curate the local art gallery a few months ago. She’s incredible. She’s not a typical graffiti artist, she’s trained, influenced by the great masters, driven by passion. She’s using acrylic paint in addition to the usual aerosol spray cans and markers.

He wonders how she can wear such thick clothing in the heat? She must be so dedicated she doesn’t even notice. She leans down to pick up a rag and he manages to discern a fine, round bottom in the ragged cargo pants. His cock stirs.

“Che se bella da morire,” an old Italian pop song goes through his head, “You’re so beauitful, I might die.” He doesn’t want to make her skittish again. Since he left his card, he hasn’t heard a peep out of her or seen any more of her work. This is a breakthrough. She’s going to have to return to finish the piece. He’ll take his time, not rush her. It’s her art he’s interested in, or perhaps more than just her art.

He comes back for the next few days, but she doesn’t show up. He wonders what’s happened to her. Why is this woman so damned elusive?


* * * * *

Mariah scores a gig teaching teens to make art and even makes a bit of money. Is too tired at the end of the day to return to the orchid, her work-in-progress. She finds it rewarding to spend time with the kids at the local community centre, with a budget for paint and craft paper. She relates to their shyness and reticence to show their attempts, but she works right along beside them and establishes a great camaraderie. Once they are comfortable, the teens exhibit unbridled creativity. Her supervisor is so impressed with their paintings he suggests they have a show and contacts the local art gallery. The curator is receptive.

The night of the opening Mariah’s nervous. At the last minute, she’s included a painting of hers. She doesn’t know why. She leaves it unsigned. She doesn’t own fancy clothes to wear to the opening, but she’s kept just a few of her grandmother’s things. Inside her grandmother’s suitcase is a lacy yellow chiffon sleeveless dress with a flower on one of the shoulders and some shoes. She feels like Cinderella. The dress and shoes fit perfectly, as if they were made for her. It dawns on her that maybe the dress and shoes belonged to her mother or maybe her grandmother. It’s vintage, they’d say today. Evocative of the Roaring Twenties.

She wonders if the dress is too elaborate, too fancy for the opening. But it feels like she’s wearing a costume. Like the dress of one of the daring women in Paris, off to meet Picasso or Dali at a ball. She’s in a decadent and dreamy state when she arrives at the gallery. The place is packed with parents, friends and family of the teens.

She stands off to one side as she watches a suited dark-haired man appraising her painting. He lingers for a long time. Her supervisor whispers in his ear and he looks around. She realizes he’s looking for her, the artist. She takes a deep breath and walks toward him.

He smiles and takes her hand.

“I know you,” he said. Mariah is confused. Wonders if it’s some cheesy pick up line.

She blushes and turns to go, but he holds on to her hand. She feels a spark of desire as she looks into his eyes, which are gazing into hers with a burning intensity.

“I’ve seen your work, all around the city, on store walls, billboards, in back alleys.”

Mariah doesn’t know what to say. Has this guy been stalking her? Is he going to report her to the police.

Her supervisor introduces the two and wisely leaves them alone. Mariah can’t believe this guy is the curator of the gallery. He seems too young and even though he’s wearing a suit, he has kind eyes, doesn’t seem like some boring business type at all.

“Look, I have to stay until we close tonight, but can we meet for coffee so I can talk to you more about your art? It’s too good not to share with the world, Mariah.”

Mariah trembles a bit. Remembers Josef and how he flattered her to get her to sleep with him.

“Uh, thanks. Maybe some other time. I have to go now,” she says and rushes away.

Alessandro doesn’t let her get far. He rushes out the door, thinking ‘to hell with the opening.’

Mariah can’t run very fast in the high-heeled shoes she’s wearing. It doesn’t take too long for him to catch up.

He doesn’t think, he just steps up to her and kisses her. She slaps him, hard.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you asshole. Get your hands off me.”

“God, I’m sorry, Mariah, I’m so sorry. I’m just so damn thrilled by you, have been for months. It’s your work, so erotic, so unleashed…but you’re a difficult woman to get hold of. Why are you so goddamn …? Hell, I’m babbling. Can we please just go grab some coffee and talk for five minutes?”

Mariah starts to laugh. She has been skittish, it’s true. Sitting for a few minutes with this guy in a café isn’t going to kill her. Clearly he’s not going to have her arrested. He calls his associate on his cell, lets him know he’s had to leave the show early and asks him to put away the crackers and cheese, show the guests out and stack the wine crates in the fridge.

“Now we have all the time in the world,” he says to Mariah, as he turns to her.

A spark. She feels it. Has this urge to kiss him, but resists.

They find a café that isn’t crowded.

“Do you want a coffee?” he asks.

She twirls her hair in her fingers and notices the way his eyes follow adoringly. She puts her hands on the table and smiles.

“I don’t really like coffee.”

They both laugh.

“They make a great Chai here; shall I get us a pot?”

She nods. He takes off his jacket and lays it on the chair. She studies him while he’s at the cash. Tall, well-built, strong shoulders and muscular legs. She remembers the feel of his hand in hers, his fingers were lightly calloused, not smooth like some desk jockey. She runs her fingers over the lapels of his jacket, which gives off a subtle scent of wood smoke with a hint of musk. Mariah wonders what it might be like to leave his bed, the scent of that musk and wood smoke still on her body. She imagines caressing his naked back. She licks her lips.

“Hi,” Alessandro says as he returns to the table, the tea spilling as he puts the pot down.

“Oh, damn, sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

Mariah realizes she’s flustered him. She blushes and they both laugh. It’s awkward but a good kind of awkward. They talk for ages. It turns out he usually spends his summers at a kid’s camp as a counselor and has taken over the gallery for a change of scene. He used to paint, but gave it up, took a business management course, got bored, has been kind of lost ever since, but is enjoying this stint at the gallery.

“Especially now,” he says.

She winks at him. Before they know it, the hours have passed and the café manager asks them to leave.

“We’re probably the only art nerds in town who manage to shut down a café and not a bar,” he says, causing her to laugh again. Mariah’s enjoying herself so much, she doesn’t want the night to end. She surprises herself by inviting him back to her place to see more of her work.

“I hope you’re spry,” she says, and shimmies up the fire escape to her current room in an abandoned old house. He follows right behind her.

“Haven’t done that for years,” he says, but he’s not out of breath.

“The place is chaotic, I’m afraid…it’s just temporary…I’m moving out soon.”

Mariah holds her breath while Alessandro gets his bearings. He doesn’t seem to notice all the junk piled up on the floor or the hotplate in the corner. He makes a beeline for the unrolled canvas stretched out on the mattress with its bright blue triangles, star-shaped silvers, flecks of gold.

“I’ve been working on some abstracts since I started working with the teenagers,” Mariah says.

“It’s gorgeous. There’s a melancholy tone to it. I love it, Mariah.”

His eyes hold hers for a moment. She wants to lose herself in them.

Alessandro smiles at her.

Do you have more?”

Mariah gulps. Realizes she was standing there completely still, gazing into his eyes.

“Sorry,” she says and blushes.

Her hands tremble as she opens her duffle bag. She’s never shown this work to anyone. She pulls out a series of small paintings.

“These are just roughed in pieces, ideas for graffiti. I can’t make anything big because I don’t stay in one place long enough…” Her voice trails off as he sits on the mattress and looks at the art.

“These are really fine, Mariah. You’ve got a keen eye for detail.”

He asks her a question about the work, and she sits down on the bed near him to answer. Their legs touch.

She examines his face. Thinks he’s a work of art himself, those long eyelashes, the dimple in his chin, the warm brown eyes. She turns toward him and they kiss, a long, lingering kiss.

He gets up and gently takes the art off the mattress and asks her where to put it. She walks over to the duffel bag and he passes the paintings to her. Their hands touch. The art falls to the floor as they embrace. His body feels hot against hers. She kisses his lips, his chin, his Adam’s apple. He removes his jacket and lets it fall. She undoes the buttons of his shirt and kisses his chest. His fingers trail along her shoulder, he lifts up a curl and twirls it.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you playing with your hair in the café,” he says.

He kisses the side of her neck.

“You have beautiful skin, it glows.”

He kisses her naked shoulders, slides his hands over her shoulder blades and down her back, pressing her against him. She feels his erection through their clothes and moans.

She reaches for his belt buckle. He takes her hand away, presses it against his lips, kisses each finger and down her arm, then down the other arm. He turns her around and unhooks the clasp at the top of her dress, caresses the nape of her neck, and slides the zipper all the way down. He kneels and kisses the base of her spine.

Mariah feels warm and languid. This man is in no hurry. He takes her hand and she steps out of the dress. The floor is covered in yellow lace. They step around it. She removes her bra and panties.

Mariah is naked except for the black high heels.

“You’re a vision. Just like in those self-portraits you’ve made, which drove me crazy, you know. Portraits of sexy little Mariah scattered all over the city in the nude but impossible to find. I should punish you.”

Mariah grimaces, but he winks. Takes a nipple between his fingers and caresses it gently, languidly until it is a hard, puckered peak of desire. He bends down to kiss it while rolling the other nipple between his thumb and index finger.

He touches her as if she’s made of marble. Light feather kisses that tease her gently into arousal. When she can’t stand the wait any longer, she asks him to remove his pants.

He gives her a wink.

“Sit down on the bed, cara mia.”

Mariah sits as Alessandro does a sexy strip tease before her eyes. He unbuttons his belt, undoes the button on his pants, stands there with his hand at the zipper.

“Don’t make me beg,” Mariah says. He smiles at her and lowers the zipper millimetre by infinitesimal millimetre. A long shiver of desire runs through her body. She wants this man. She moves closer to the edge of the bed. She needs to taste him.

Alessandro lets his pants fall to the floor. Beneath his briefs there’s a significant bulge. Mariah wants it. She wants to feel that cock inside her.

He pulls the briefs off one hip and then the other, turns to show her his sexy ass. It’s tight. She’d love to lick it. The briefs fall to the floor. He walks toward her. She can no longer resist and presses her face against his erect cock, licks the underside of his balls, along the shaft, around the rim, then takes the cock into her mouth.

Alessandro groans as she sucks. He places his hand on her cheeks, strokes the spot where his cock bulges. Mariah feels desire in every part of her body from her cunt to her breasts to the base of her spine.

“I want you,” he whispers.

She pulls out a condom from beneath the mattress and slides it down onto his hard cock. He lies on the bed and she climbs on top of him, slowly lowering herself down, hovering above his cock.

“Now it’s your turn to wait,” she says.

“You’re an evil woman,” Alessandro says, and they both smile then groan as he pulls her close and enters her.

They kiss and keep kissing as they writhe against one another, trying to get more of his cock inside her, trying to go as deep as possible. They hold hands while they fuck. She watches his eyes darken, his pupils widening.

There’s more to this than a fuck and they both know it, can feel it in the beating of their hearts, which is in sync, the way they keep holding hands after they orgasm, their legs curled around one another. The way their breath slows down and they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Mariah wakes up at dawn, Alessandro still in her bed, lightly snoring. He’s so beautiful, like an angel. She doesn’t want to wake up, but she needs to paint. She puts on some clothes, and quiet as she can, climbs down the fire escape.

He finds her later by her orchid and hands her a cup of chai. She doesn’t run away.

© 2012 Amanda Earl. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Amanda Earl is a Canadian libertine living in Ottawa, Ontario. Her smut has appeared in numerous anthologies including “the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica” (Carroll and Graf, 2006 and 2007), “Cream, The Best of The Erotica Readers and Writers Association” (Thunder’s Mouth Press, 2006), “Swing! Adventures in Swinging by Today’s Top Erotica Writers” (Logical-Lust, 2009), “Do Not Disturb, Hotel Sex Stories” (Cleis Press, 2009), “Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission” (Cleis Press, 2011). For more information, please visit or follow Amanda on Twitter @KikiFolle.

About the Author Amanda Earl

Amanda Earl is a Canadian poet, publisher and fiction writer who lives in Ottawa, Ontario with her husband, Charles. Her books include “A World of Yes” (DevilHouse, 2015) about a woman who falls asleep during her thirty-fifth birthday party and misses an orgy; “Kiki” (Chaudiere Books, 2014), a poetic celebration of Montparnasse between the wars; and “Coming Together Presents Amanda Earl (Coming Together, 2014), a collection of short, erotic tales edited by Lisabet Sarai, all proceeds going to GMHC, worldwide AIDS/HIV health organization. Amanda is the managing editor of and the fallen angel of AngelHousePress. Amanda is an ardent fan of the Erotica Readers and Writers Association, even though she is no longer a member. The editing help, mentoring and guidance she received from members was invaluable, as was the friendship. More information is available on her site:

Treasure Chest Categories

Treasure Chest Authors

Treasure Chest Archives

Pin It on Pinterest