Lush Lives, page 6
“You may know more about her than I do. That could come in handy.”
“I’m a handy sort of girl,” Parkie said.
At last, Glory slid open one of the giant paneled pocket doors that led to her studio/living room. Parkie followed, taking a seat on the worn green leather sofa as Glory switched on various lamps around the space. What struck her immediately, even in shadow, was the presence of three or four enormous rectangles of canvas tacked to thin wooden strips on the walls. Judging from her own height, Parkie figured most of them were at least seven feet tall. Thickly layered in patterned and printed paper, they were complex and tactile and, she thought, seemed to walk an interesting line between figuration and abstraction. On one canvas, she could easily make out the décollaged form of a woman’s breasts and hips, but there was nothing more particular or personal than that. If it was a portrait, only Glory could say who the sitter was. The paintings—did Glory call them “paintings”—appeared to be in various stages of completion, though she knew enough not to say so.
“Try to ignore the art,” Glory said, following her eyes. “Rule number one of visiting Glory’s studio: we never talk about the art in Glory’s studio. What are you drinking? I dare you to come up with something I don’t have or can’t make.”
“Now I’m intimidated,” Parkie said.
“Took you long enough.”
Glory was standing at a vintage drinks trolley in the corner, shaking a tray of ice cubes into a metal bucket.
Underneath those coveralls she’d worn to Cuthbert’s, Glory had the kind of figure Parkie would have died for when she was growing up—opposite hers in almost every way. Glory was maybe five five at the most, and her hips were slim and her breasts were high and perky and her ankles were tiny. At almost five ten, Parkie was just plain bigger on all fronts, but not in the places she’d ever wanted to be. Her own hips were broad to the point of making her less hourglass than pear-shaped, despite taking a D cup. And even before the accident and during sports, she’d never had the kind of muscle definition Glory had. Everywhere.
“It did take me a while,” Parkie responded, making no attempt to disguise what she imagined her face revealed, “but I’m plenty intimidated now.”
“Because you were making assumptions before, weren’t you? And you thought I was some kind of, what, delusional low-rent player with champagne wishes and caviar dreams?”
“Oooh. Harsh,” Parkie said. “Definitely not that. Or at least not any more than I think that about most of the people who come in on Wednesdays. Or any appraisal day when I’m in some church basement in Bronxville or Ridgewood. Most people have no idea what things are worth. That’s quantitatively the truth.”
“You can’t put a price on sentimental value.”
Glory speared three green olives with a toothpick and dropped them into her martini glass. “There. I’ve made my bed. Time for you to make yours.”
“How about a boulevardier?”
Glory sniffed. “Not bad. I’m relieved. If you’d said a cosmopolitan, this date would be over before it started. Bourbon or rye?” Without turning fully around, she gave Parkie a quick smile over her shoulder.
She wants me to know she’s in charge, Parkie thought, finding the notion amusing.
“Surprise me,” she said, smiling to Glory’s back. “So, you think this is a date?”
“It’s something,” Glory replied, twisting the cork off the Basil Hayden.
*
By the second round, they were postgaming the Chelsea opening, and in Glory’s case, the aspirationally outrageous dinner that followed with Manya and her “old friends.” As fate would have it, the same couple Glory tried to avoid in the gallery were the only other attendees of Manya’s intimate gathering. From the way Glory recounted their practiced swinger moves, Parkie was almost sorry she had declined her invitation. She hadn’t trusted Manya Shah not to call her out again in front of Glory, but it might have been worth it to see her A game.
“So then, who was graybeard? Manya’s ex-husband or her ex-lover?” Parkie asked gleefully. Glory’s deadpan delivery had kept her laughing for the length of the surreal dinner story, which involved embarrassingly on-the-nose song requests and way too much Cristal.
Parkie stretched out her legs. She was resting her face on the sofa’s cushiony arm, the better to watch Glory, who was perched opposite her on a club chair that felt painfully far away. When Glory leaned forward for emphasis, Parkie could see her breasts settle into the cups of her bra. Now was probably the time to get romantic. But the mood wasn’t quite right. They were still too giggly.
“Graybeard was the ex-husband. But they were both at the opening because the ex-husband married the ex-lover, who looked about twenty-five and was introduced to me as Lady something!” Glory said. “And they purposely sat themselves on either side of me at the restaurant with the DJ.”
“Not okay!” said Parkie.
“Oh, it was definitely not okay.”
Glory hitched up her dress and slid her legs out from under her, seemingly unbothered by the possibility of flashing her guest, who was certainly not bothered by it either. She reached for the empty water pitcher and swept into the kitchen, passing through what used to be the dining room but was now evidently just another storage space for her giant, unfinished canvases.
Glory continued with the story’s epilogue from the sink. Parkie heard her twist out another tray of ice cubes as the water ran.
“She paid for everyone’s dinner except the ex-husband’s!” Glory said loudly. “Which was just awkward. Then, when I was trying to leave, they were talking about me ‘heading out to the clubs’ with them and things got even weirder. They say you can’t alienate the collectors, but I was not going anywhere off campus with those two. I’m just hoping Manya was wasted enough to think everything went really well. Even without us all in a daisy chain right about now.”
Glory turned off the water.
Parkie swung her legs around and sat up. Then she slipped out of her suit jacket, toed off her shoes, and stretched out again on the sofa.
“Come back here,” she called in the direction of the kitchen.
The Joan Armatrading album they’d been listening to—Glory had a turntable and an enviable vinyl collection—had her in a good place. Open and patient. At this hour on a weeknight, her desires were modest. Nothing needed to go beyond the living room. A little kissing. Maybe a little fooling around. Then she’d go.
But while she had assumed Glory would use her home field advantage to make a first move of some kind, it was obvious by now she wasn’t going to. Glory would be that kind of a bottom. Audacious but fundamentally passive. Even if all they were going to do was make out, it was go time. Parkie had an early start at work.
Glory walked back in, took one look at Parkie, and accidentally sloshed water over the sides of the pitcher. But then, she calmly refilled her glass as if Parkie wasn’t suddenly less dressed, her see-through blouse revealing what she hoped Glory might want to see. Parkie pulled her knees in to make room at the end of the sofa, which seemed to surprise Glory—who needed a pat on the cushion to actually sit down. Parkie slid her feet into her lap.
“It’s getting late,” she said. “I should probably head home. Unless you want me to stick around for a little while.”
Might as well put the ball in her court.
She made to get up but Glory started rubbing her ankle—the good ankle. It was a funny thing to do but it felt nice. Her touch, as she ran her small hand up Parkie’s calf, was curious but gentle.
“I hope it’s not too late,” Glory said. “I shouldn’t have gone on forever about the dinner.” Now her hand was just inside Parkie’s skirt, where she was tentatively running her thumb along her inner thigh. Parkie still had stockings on. But her panties, if Glory ever got that far, were already wet. Underneath the nylon, she was positively throbbing from all the hesitancy and waiting. And fuck did she want to change things up. To speed things up. With Glory on her back, Parkie could straddle her and unzip that tight dress. Go straight to her lips (Parkie liked a logical progression). Then she could peel back the bra and kiss her there, too. But it was never going to happen. Not with Glory’s hand in a holding pattern between her knees.
“I’m making this awkward,” Parkie said. Gallantly, she thought. She drew her knees back to get her feet on the floor and sit up. Regain control.
“No, it’s definitely me,” Glory said. “Out of practice, I guess.”
Parkie thought not. But then, she couldn’t get a read on Glory, who now seemed a little shut down. And from her sigh, frustrated. Mostly with herself for all the hemming and hawing, Parkie hoped. Too much rye and not enough necking. Let’s bring that grandparental favorite back. Necking makes a hot date hotter.
As soon as she was upright again, Parkie reached for her shoes to signal that it was now or never. In apparent response, Glory scooched down on the sofa until they were thigh to thigh. It seemed like the time for a do-over, so Parkie dropped her loafers and put her arm around Glory’s waist and pulled her toward her until their lips were an inch apart. Glory closed her eyes and Parkie admired the glimmering turquoise shadow on her lids. But torquing her pelvis into that position sent a shooting pain down Parkie’s leg. She had to shift away.
“Why is this so motherfucking hard?”
It was all Parkie could say and she’d raised her voice when she said it. This was sheer exasperation, especially for a controlling top. And it seemed so unnecessary when they’d been making eyes at each other all night.
Glory stood up. “Hold on,” she said. Then she started hiking her dress over her hips as if she had the sudden urge to go skinny-dipping. Her blue thong perfectly matched the dress.
“Can I sit on your lap, or will I be too heavy?” she asked.
“You? Try me. I just want to kiss you.”
She gingerly climbed astride Parkie, balancing on her knees at first. Parkie found herself level with Glory’s breasts, close enough to press her face into her cleavage.
“Sit,” Parkie said, settling for a quick kiss on Glory’s chest. “It’s okay.”
She could feel Glory take the weight off her thighs as she settled more heavily onto her lap.
But they were both still wearing clothes. It was one of those terrible moments when the tension and the awkwardness, rather than progressing into breathless, wet-spot-on-the-sofa-level sex, merely stayed tense and awkward. Suddenly, Parkie was conscious of the strenuousness of their maneuvering and how it must seem even clumsier and less sexy to Glory. The magic was gone. And Parkie knew her slightly pissed expression gave it away.
But then Glory took Parkie’s hot and bothered face in her hands and gave her the sweetest look. Like Parkie had baked her a layer cake or assembled her Ikea bed frame.
“You look way too mad to kiss me,” Glory said.
“Wrong,” Parkie pouted in response. “I’m just really tired now.”
“I feel like I exhausted you. Which wasn’t my intention.”
Parkie groaned. “You didn’t. It’s not like that. Believe it or not, I do want to do this. But I have to be in really early tomorrow for a conference call with my boss, who’s got a red-eye to catch, and if I don’t sleep, I’m useless at the office. And I’m not thinking I’ll sleep much if I stay. I don’t even have my outfit for tomorrow picked out. And I have a client meeting.”
If this race was to the finish, Parkie thought, she’d need an earlier start time.
Glory looked like she didn’t want to look surprised. But she couldn’t hide her disappointment. It showed in her knitted brow and the pursing of her red lipsticked lips. Parkie was disappointed, too. But sometimes you just have to call it a day.
“All work, Parkerson. I’m sensing a pattern,” Glory said, followed by a good-natured laugh. “But I am actually too proud to beg.”
She was on her knees again, evidently preparing to swing her leg over Parkie and get up. But Parkie surprised them both and pulled Glory back onto her lap. She gently brushed her hands back and forth over Glory’s thighs, cold now with goose bumps, and she watched Glory watching her with wary eyes.
“In my defense, from what I can see, you’re not exactly crushing work-life balance here in your . . . studio. I’d say we’re both pretty into what we do.”
“I was pretty into you just now,” Glory said.
Then Parkie kissed her. And the thing was, Glory’s lips were ready. Soft and giving and warm. Soon she was running her tongue over Parkie’s teeth and biting her lip and they were lost in the kiss together as if it had been the easiest thing in the world. And Glory was panting and Parkie was bucking against the lace-covered pussy pressing down on her and they were getting a good grind on until it quickly became clear that if they didn’t stop, somebody was going to come fully dressed, and that simultaneous realization caused their eyes to fly open, and they both had to laugh.
“Okay. I give,” Parkie said, letting her head fall back but keeping her hands around Glory’s waist. “But make no mistake. I’m going to hold your box hostage until I can see you again.”
“Never gets old, does it?”
“It really doesn’t,” Parkie said. And she let Glory know with a swat to her ass that it was time to get off now and let her go home.
Chapter 7
The front door latched securely, and Glory watched through the glass as Parkie got into the car she’d called to make sure she got enough beauty rest. Sleep was the last thing Glory wanted to imagine.
What just happened?
And what didn’t? Glory Hopkins lost her nerve was what. She wasn’t exactly shocked that flirty, professional Parkie was a top—really more like a domme on good behavior, she suspected. But she couldn’t believe she’d started something only Parkie could finish.
Because with her last girlfriend, Alicia, Glory was always in charge. Her household responsibilities—someone had to keep the lights on and buy laundry detergent (and do the laundry)—had devolved into oversight of all aspects of the relationship. Especially sex. Which was not what Glory signed up for when they’d started dating. In the beginning, Alicia exuded control. But in the end, all that bravura was merely sound and fury signifying the avoidance of responsibility. Who’d have guessed making actual love requires honest communication? Whereas, by the time Alicia left her (via text), they hadn’t had a real conversation for weeks.
That whole last year, if Glory had wanted to get off, she had to spend half the night—or the week—rigging the outcome. Laying the groundwork. Executing. And then Alicia would act as if she was doing Glory a favor, especially if the strap was involved.
How Glory thought she could manage Parkie from below was, in hindsight, a mystery. Parkie wasn’t merely a woman who made it clear she got what she wanted. It felt like she had something to prove. Maybe to Glory. Maybe to herself.
She was funny and intelligent and she obviously liked sex. But Glory also suspected Parkie was the kind of WASP you tend to encounter in certain cultivated East Coast circles, interesting and emotionally complex but in predictably entitled ways. Arrogant women with tunnel vision who were effortlessly competent and secure, but only as long as things went as planned. She’d fallen under the spell of women like that at Penn. But Glory wasn’t going to trip about that right now. She’d dated white women. And nobody in the family needed to know about Parkie. Lord.
They hadn’t even slept together.
*
Morning came way too soon. Glory had stayed up fantasizing about future dates with Parkie much longer than she should have.
She splashed cold water on her face and brushed her teeth. Showering would have to wait because this trifling post-hookup afterglow, this can’t-stop-imagining-Parkie’s-head-thrown-back-in-ecstasy had to stop. It was time to get back in the studio.
Once she’d put on fresh coveralls, Glory brewed coffee and did a few yoga stretches. The light would be good in the front parlor for another three hours or so, and she needed to seize this fucking day. Seize it like Parkie had seized her ass with those strong hands. Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. This wasn’t like her.
Glory was smiling, sighing—and rolling her eyes at herself—as she set up her paints on the table. The unlikely canvas she felt like working on today was the one she’d caught Parkie sneaking peeks at. Frustrated with the shape it was taking, she’d hit a wall with it a few weeks ago and hadn’t touched it since.
Hands on her hips, Glory took a moment to pull herself together. There was something going on with bodies in her work these days. That was new. In LA, when critics had written at all, they’d backhandedly praised Glory’s work for its “respectful take” on mid-century modernism. For the seeming absence of narratives or history or figures—allowing beholders to simply appreciate “a visual meditation on form and color eschewing a message”—as one reviewer ignorantly put it. They always tried so hard not to see what they didn’t want to. Because abstract or not, Glory Hopkins was a painter who was also a Black dyke, and that story, her story, was right there on the surface for anyone who knew where, or how, to look.
Lately, however, undeniably human forms seemed to want to make themselves known. Not surprisingly, they were women. Robust, life-size figures with ample breasts and plump bellies. Women with patterned skins unearthed beneath the layers of newsprint and glossy paper typically plastered on her canvases. It was like her flour-and-water glue had inadvertently generated viscera for these women, stabilizing contours that were jagged but delicate to the touch. She had to admit, it was a little like the old Michelangelo story—the bodies were in there, it was merely a question of freeing them.
Glory dropped her arms and walked into the living room to take down the canvas that had caught Parkie’s eye. Holding the giant rectangle out stiffly in front of her, she carefully walked it sideways into the parlor and tacked it to the wall there, stepping back to consider what to do.
