Best Black Women's Erotica 2 (21 page)

One morning I came inside after my swim and started making a smoothie for breakfast. While I was blending, I noticed the message light blinking on the answering machine. It figured to be either my mother…or my mother. I'd met no one in my new town yet, and back in civilization exactly two
people had my number. One was my sister, and she never called. She'd always understood the importance of solitude to my work. My mother, on the other hand, had been calling two or three times a week to complain about—of all things!—how my latest move was statistically decreasing my chances of Marrying a Good Man or even Meeting Someone Nice. I didn't know which one would be her pet cause today. She alternated.

I pressed the PLAY button, waiting for my mother's wailing. Instead, a polite, somewhat gruff male voice filled my tiny space.

“Hi…this is Marlon Washington, I'm returning your call about the studio rental. The monthly rent is $250 and you'd be sharing the studio with my metalworking shop and a textile artist. I'm actually on the way over there now, if you'd like to come see it. There's no phone in the space, but you're welcome to stop by anytime today at 1546 Water Mill Road…. I should be there until pretty late in the evening. If you can't make it today, feel free to leave a message at my home number and we'll arrange another time.”

He left his number and the machine beeped its approval. I stood there for a moment, turning over that voice in my head. It sounded like a brother. Marlon Washington? Of course it was a brother. Even if I didn't get the studio space, it would be great to have connected so soon with another black professional artist. I hoped he was good. Not that I was here to hang out or immerse myself in a “scene,” for I had work to do. But I couldn't help hoping that my isolation from an artistic community wouldn't be as painfully total as I'd prepared myself for.

Then my eyes fell to the table-sized stack of clay and wax sculpting supplies that the answering machine was resting on. I snapped to my senses. Meet other artists, my ass—I needed that studio space in the worst way! I nearly stumbled over a bundle of carving implements, I was in such a hurry.

It took me ten minutes to get from shower to door in a strappy sundress, a hold-everything tote bag, and a pair of flip-flops. Desert heat had quickly turned me on to little-bitty dresses. At home I was a strict jeans or overalls girl. But with triple-digit temperatures every day, heat sitting on your skin like a wool hand holding tight, a breezy dress can be your best friend. Plus, I figured there was no harm in showing a little leg to the brother if it would help the real estate decisions move smoothly. I rubbed something sweet-smelling through my short-cropped hair and brushed my eyebrows.

 

The address was in a fairly empty industrial/warehouse kind of neighborhood. I rang the bell and waited for the hammering to slow down. Then I realized how stupid that was; whoever was hammering probably couldn't hear the bell. I pushed gently with my hand and the door, propped ajar with an ornate metal wedge, swung inward. I headed down a dim hallway and pushed the door at the end.

Wow.

Space just…fell away from my eyes in all directions. From outside, judging by the rows of windows, the warehouse had looked to be a four-story building. Inside, though, it was just one space. The ceiling seemed a mile up, and windows stretched up in many-paned stacks toward the roof. Some of the panes in the front windows had been broken, and there was a loading door open at the back of the building. A breeze ruffled through in a constant, irregular current.

I know because I saw it. It was fluttering through a cascade of cloth. The first third of the huge, high space was hung with enormous sheets of textured, decorated, brightly woven and vibrantly dyed cloth. There were banners, huge ribbons, immense scarves, curling streamers. They were decorated with paint, batik, stitching, dye, stuffing. They spilled down from a scaffolding structure built against the
front windows. The light filtered through the colorful mass like a rustling rainbow.

I stayed close to the wall, just taking in the beauty of the spectacle. Then I saw a figure in the middle section of the room, back-lit from the windows and directly across from the doorway in which I stood. He stood over a huge metal-topped table and lifted and swung a pointed hammer, rhythmically. In his other hand, he held a blowtorch trained on his work.

My God, his back. He wore an old green T-shirt, not tight by a long shot but so old and weathered that it stroked every contour of his muscles as he worked. His arms were smooth, and glossy from sweat. A light denim shirt, still tucked into his jeans, hung inside out and down from his waist, as if he'd shrugged out of it in a hurry in the middle of working. The shape of his butt made me want to reach out and grab it. I took a few steps toward him and was pulling out my camera, thinking “no flash, gotta catch the silhouette,” before I realized that might be rude. I mean, we hadn't even been properly introduced.

I put the camera back into my bag and called out to him. I said, “Marlon Washington?” first, and then a louder “Hello!” which I had to repeat twice before he shut off the blowtorch. He turned around, lifting a rectangular welder's mask off his face.

My God. His face.

His eyes were so low-lidded they were almost sleepy-looking. A fountain of dreadlocks was tied up securely on the top of his head. His skin was an even bronze-brown, from his clean-shaven cheek to the sweat-glazed back of his hand.

To make it even better, he was walking toward me and starting to smile. His grin widened gradually, slightly sheepish, as he wrestled his way back into his shirt and buttoned it halfway up his T-shirted chest. It was quite a walk from one
side of this cavernous place to the other. I figured I could meet him halfway.

My future studio mate—I had already made the claim in my mind—pulled a bandana from his back pocket and wiped his hands before extending one to me. His hand was large, coppery, squared off, rough. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and we shook.

He was in his middle thirties, I guessed, looking at the threads of gray winding through his thick hair. “Ms. Cooper?” he said, looking directly into my eyes. Not in a flirting way, just straightforward and genuine. And businesslike. Definitely businesslike.

“Yes, but please call me Taya,” I said.

“Sure, Taya, thanks. And I'm Marlon. You know, I'm glad you were able to make it so soon. From your message and your name I thought you might be a sister and I wanted to make sure you got first crack at the space. I was planning on answering the rest of the inquiries after lunch.” His smile continued its journey across his face to end up lodged securely between two dimples.

Dimples.

He kept watching my eyes but this time with that “don't we got to have each other's back?” kind of pleased-to-meet-you look. I returned it warmly, acknowledging the hookup, holding his hand with both of my own.

“You.…rock,” I said, a wide grin broadening my own face at the vastness of the understatement. Simple gestures like that can make all the difference for an artist; for anybody. It can be a cold, cold world out there. I looked around me, noting the powerful, organic-looking metal sculpture that surrounded us in Marlon's section of the studio. Above us, an ornate sign festooned with steel vines and hammered-metal blossoms said “EarthWorks MetalShaping” in script so delicately wrought that the light shone through it like music. The entire
back third of the place was empty and open. As I watched, it actually seemed to shimmer with potential.

“I need studio space badly,” I said, looking back at him. He was watching me with an amused expression in those low-lidded eyes. “But I didn't even dare to dream how perfect this place is. I brought the deposit with me. I'd love to take it. Do you have to approve my work first or something?”

A different kind of warmth spread over Marlon's expression as he glanced down at my hands still holding his. His gaze skimmed down my legs, over my shoulders, to my face. He met my eyes again with an open appreciation.

“I'd love to see your work, Taya, but I'll give you a key right now.”

 

In the next day's early morning cool, I loaded my pickup with my first round of equipment and materials. My mother's keep-yourself-beautiful advice running on unwelcome repeat through my head since adolescence, I rubbed my hands with Vaseline, and put on my work gloves before I started swinging the bags of clay and hoisting the heavy jugs of photographic chemicals.

I thought about my work schedule while I loaded up. I decided I'd still spend the early mornings at home, doing quiet, small-format work such as sketching and claywork. After that, I'd take a swim, have breakfast, take a nap, or spend some various free time. Then I'd pack a little picnic dinner and head to the studio by around two or three. That way, I could get in a good eight or so hours of large-scale work on my installations before it got too late.

My mouth stung, I was so excited.

When I brought my first load to the studio, it was empty. I just got started lifting, rolling, and stacking my truckload of materials in the corner. The whole back of the loft seemed to grow around me, yawning cavernously over equipment
that had engulfed my apartment. Compared to the rest of the studio, the space around me looked mighty empty.

I loaded my second truck-full back at the apartment, but it was getting close to ten A.M. and gearing up already for the day's heat. I threw on my bikini and did some laps. After the workout of all that lifting and moving, my muscles really welcomed the smooth, graceful motion of working in the water. I stretched out in the sun and relaxed for about twenty minutes before my excitement got the better of me. I went inside, showered, and packed a big lunch/dinner cooler. Clothes made no more sense today than they had the day before, but it would hardly be appropriate to unload my truck in the nude. I threw on some jean shorts and a tank top and headed out to my new office.

As I pushed through the door wheeling a stack of boxes, Marlon was sprawled out sketching on a blanket spread over his huge work table. When he saw me he jumped up and shouted across the room, offering to help.

“Me and Dolly got it,” I said. He looked around behind me for another woman. I pointed to my bright pink hand truck, a sexy pair of eyes painted on her top crossbar. I grinned, “Hey, if you had to lug around as much stuff as I do, you'd develop a pretty close relationship with your hand truck, too.”

He laughed, and I told him I'd love some help. As he approached me I grabbed his arm—rock hard under my hand—and pulled him playfully toward the loading door.

We unloaded the pickup companionably. Marlon teased me a little about how strong I was. I've always been built lean and muscular, and after years of building installation environments, and dragging around the artwork that belonged in them, I can pack an amount of weight that surprises most people. I could tell he liked a woman who knew her way around her muscles.

Once the pickup was unloaded, I offered Marlon one of
my juice boxes. They were only half-thawed, just the way I like them. We sat on the loading dock at the back of the warehouse and watched the sky, slurping the slushy sweetness and talking about the desert. Like me, Marlon was originally from the northeast, and both of us had come out west to focus on our work. I told him about my fellowship and he showed me the brochure for EarthWorks, his metal shaping business; which was successful enough to have paid for the old building and still financed his more abstract sculptural work. His portfolio of intricately wrought security gates, bed frames, and ornamental furniture was stunning.

We clicked in that conversation, in a pleasant and familiar way. He wasn't just good to look at: He was open, intelligent, with a great sense of humor. Also, which I respected, his passion for his work was almost palpable.

After our juice break, Marlon got started on a deck railing he was building. I threw myself into The Great Unpacking Project: assembling shelves and organizing my materials. I stacked supplies, connected equipment, hung tools. Used pencil and pad, chalk, and the floor to try to lay out plans for this vast amount of space. Installation and large-scale sculpture projects I'd mused about for years were becoming clearer in concept just from standing in an area large enough to hold them. When I'd finally finished unpacking the first day's loads to my satisfaction, I curled up on my orange corduroy papasan chair and began sketching furiously.

When I looked up next, a blaze of color was crawling down the sky directly outside the loading door. My pickup stood outside, still pulled up to the dock, and Marlon stood in front of me, casting a shadow over my sketchbook. This time there was no denim shirt buttoned demurely over his T-shirt. His chest had the nerve to ripple as he held out an apple in his hand. I took it with a smile, thinking that surely someone had gotten the story backward with that temptation-in-the-garden
scenario. Marlon looked even better lit by sunset than he did by daylight or blowtorch. I quickly offered him a turkey sandwich before my aesthetic consideration turned into a full-blown crush on my studio mate. He accepted. Dragged over some snackables and a chair.

We munched and talked for hours while night descended, soft. He made jokes, talked about the town, and even flirted with me a little. I was warming to him like cornbread rising.

I asked about the other artist in the space, an MFA student who he told me used the studio most during the wee hours of the morning. “Cassie's very talented, very industrious. She's been here for a year. I don't see her often, though. We keep different schedules.”

Marlon pulled two dark, plastic-wrapped squares from a brown paper bag.

“We do have one studio arrangement you should know about: I leave weed in the table drawer, and she leaves brownies.” He stretched his hand out to me, offering. “They takeabout an hour or more to kickin, but after that you're good for a long while. Eat one now, you'll go to sleep smiling.”