It was hard enough being an artist in NYC with studio apartments renting for $1200-$2000, but it had been 96 degrees outside for the last three days and nights. The heat exhausted them even more than the treadmill that they were on. Doggedly, determinedly, Jennifer and Steven made it work as they had for the last two and a half years — with gallery jobs, putting up walls, consulting, waitressing and sometimes dalliances — the ultimate cause of all their problems. Because when they lived in downtown Manhattan before it was so popular and called SoHo, spaces were large, rents low so that no one had to work hard to eat or sleep. Art then was about a lifestyle which happened in luxurious time/space frames. Now it was business — no longer mental and physical play. The money then was hardly an issue, seemingly to come miraculously from little effort or maybe the sky…..that's how easy it was.
Now was entirely different. Both of them had made it, were famous overnight, stars with reviews in Artforum, Japan Times as well as 150 other newspapers and magazines. To keep everything going, they needed more money yet had less time to make the art that might bring the money. This resulted in extraordinary amounts of stress which they blamed on the system. "Once you're famous, they think you're rich," Jennifer told Steve almost every night over steamed veggies and Sue Simmon's nightly report. Steve responded with his own worries. "I'll have to call my agent to see if she booked that 10 week teaching gig at Ohio State which should cover the costs of the new video that I'm working on." They often wondered if this is what the Buddhist precept Right Livelihood was all about. Would their pace and need to be in the world so intensely co-produce enlightenment? Or was the work similar to a Herculean boulder pushed up an unquenchable art hill? Maintaining the fame to pay the rent was a dialectic seemingly without solution or merit.
That was the pattern. Days at other people's jobs and nights at their own work; but after four and a half hours in their studios, even that was forgotten. Jennifer's 36D breasts responded first, signaling that there was more to come, anticipating Steven's hot hands. Although they never needed the added excitement, she often put on a red push up bra spilling herself over the top, nipples half showing. "Steven would you like some milk before we go to bed?" she asked appearing at his studio door, pushing her body into his, a Judo-like strength, her ass sliding against his — cock which massaged his balls since they were both sitting on an
"art chair that he was working on for a performance at the Kitchen. He felt her up from behind, wanting to nurse but limited himself to touching her ampleness. Reaching behind to grasp the back of his head, she would pull his face into her neck, upper back…his nose nuzzling her hair, smelling everything.
She felt him grow even harder if that was at all possible… but constrained by her ass pushing against him, a mini-bondage. Unable to stand it any longer, he picked her up, turned her around to face him so that his tongue could be satisfied…a hunger that never ended, an eating without food. Their mouths were caverns of delight, caves of pleasure, wet rhythm makers. They played there, slowly at first, giving completely with soft lips, teasing, thrusting, pressing their tongues together as if on a pane of glass…exchanging wave lengths and twin vibrations — ionizing with that watery muscle.
No more was needed but they continued, generous with their pleasuring, giving gifts, getting gifts. His cock was now tight between them, both of their stomachs created vaginal lips, large ones, lubricated with summer sweat and spit that she dropped purposely down on the head of his erection. Like-wise, his balls imitated or became a mock vagina for her clitoris, now hard and large enough to rest between and in their softness. "Who's first tonight?" she asked, knowing that it was her turn since they traded off every week. It was her turn to be assertive, to ask, to come first or not at all, to tell the truth. "Me first," she breathed into his ear, "me first and I'll tell you how I want it." She led him into the bathroom, hardly able to walk — his penis a divining rod, desiring her ass, her cunt, her cleavage, her mouth…a place inside. Lowering themselves slowly into the hot tub, they sat, re-birthing, breathing, cleaning out old conditioning. "This is sex too, Steven. I'm coming all over, up my spine, in my crotch, around my eyes and it's because of us. This is what I wanted tonight and more." The dance was not over, in fact the im provisation had just begun. She swam to him, he lowered himself into the water and simultaneously into her clean cunt with the punk haircut.
Lifting her legs over each side of the tub spread her more so that he could eat her higher and deeper. "Harder, harder, yes that's right," instructing him shyly, assertively. With her orgasm, she descended down his body, a slide, a fish-like move eventuating in his cock going deep inside her, becoming an anchor. They moved as if twins in utero, safe in placental liquid. "Now let's dry off and go to bed, I'm not finished with you," she said after a half hour of lying together in the water, joined at the genitals, absorbing mucous, rhythm, warmth. By then they were deified, prepared, opened…having set up an atmosphere of trust, exchange and potential flight.
The reality of drying off didn't break the mood or concentration, just tuned it to another level — that of practicality, but done so consciously that is was sensuously sacred. "Do my back, Steven," and he dried her shining skin with an attitude so maternal, so unabashedly adoring, that she cried with gratitude and an even deeper release. "Steven, I can't bear another moment.
Do I deserve all of this love?", secretly thanking the years of therapy and hard work both of them had done on themselves to clear any barriers in the way of trust.
They were now truly innocent, as if in Paradise that guilt free, that available, that giving. And they continued. "Let me on top. I'll slide slowly, then suck you so that I can taste you and myself,"and she began arousing his balls…both in her mouth at the same time as if bowling…propelling them out of her mouth into the penis which got exceedingly harder as she ate. "You are my ice cream, my son, my tower, my father, my god. Fuck my tits, push into my roll." He slid in, wet with her saliva. "Jennifer, I can't wait any longer. Let me come." "Wait," she pleaded, "it's my night. I want to give us more." And she began riding him, all seven inches, in-then out, in-then out. "Use your fingers on me. Let's come together." He knew exactly how to do that, light streaming from his sculptor's hands, setting off a current that flowed from the base of her spine to the crown of her head. "Fuck me, show me how much you want to fuck me. I'll give you everything. Just fuck me. Love me, fuck me." And he did. He did it over and over. They groaned like lions that night, like the earth thawing in the spring, like an electrical synapse in motion, exquisitely timed and synched.
While laying together afterward, consciously moving the energy between them, she didn't have the heart to tell him that she would need the abortion after all, since her pregnancy was fallopian.