Performance Art

by Chris Holden

Chapter Two

 

The man eyed the bra and panties an extra beat before turning to the woman, smiling down at him.

"Am I supposed to do something with those?"

"Try them on, for starters."

The man sat up. She dangled the bra and panties inches from his face. He exhaled and stood, stepping around her. He was more than half-a-foot taller, and was once more assertive, in control. Exactly how she wanted him, for the moment

"Chris Holden doesn't wear a bra. Sorry."

"Too bad. Black bra and panties against your pale skin; white bra and panties against my black skin. Perfect contrast. Make a striking couple."

Sitting on the bed, she flopped onto her back. Lifting her leg, she wiggled her toes inside the nylons. Pink nails squirming underneath.

"Chris … that your real name?"

"Keisha yours?"

She chuckled to herself. He was almost too perfect.

"From birth."

He seemed hypnotized by her uplifted leg, such a dark hue next to his, the wiggling toes eel-like within the stocking.

"Go ahead, don't be shy."

"Huh?"

"Go ahead, kiss my feet. Suck my toes. You want to. And I want you to. Where's the downside?"

He swallowed, repressing his excitement. For a moment, he did nothing. And then he was gripping her ankle, licking the bottom of her foot. Back and forth, back and forth. He

started sucking each toe through the nylon stocking, one by one, lingering, running his tongue between each toe. Taking all five toes at once deep into his wide-open mouth.

She loved his excitement, his male heat. He'd be perfect tomorrow night. In front of everyone, the press, TV cameras, the entire gallery jammed with New York's A-List. THE MAN OF TOMORROW – TODAY.

But first things first. Time to do a one-eighty. She yanked her foot free and rolled out of bed, jamming her shoulder into a startled Chris as she shoved by.

"What the hell—"

"If you're so bored, split. Get out. Jesus … you are one bastard!"

"Are you crazy? Bored … I was …" His voice died off, at a loss. He stared at her, utterly mystified. She glared back, a challenge.

He crossed over to his clothes, which were scattered across the couch. Slipping into his long-sleeved shirt, he glanced over at Keisha, still holding the black bra and panties.

"You're crazy, know that? What is it, you into all this fetish stuff? You weird?"

"What's so weird about wanting your lover to wear your bra and panties? Maybe then you'd've had some spark."

He paused, his pants midway up his legs.

"If I'd had anymore spark, I'd've taken your toes off--, lover?!?"

"What have we been doing all weekend?"

He finished dressing, ignoring the question. He was in over his head, out of his depth.

"You splitting?"

"You just told me to, remember!"

"Do me one favor … please?"

He was wary, the abrupt switch in tone catching him off-guard. She took a black PVC mini skirt from a standing rack and tossed it to Chris. He caught the skirt and scowled.

 

"Hold it at your waist. Just for a sec. Give me a smile, big smile."

"You are crazy!"

"No doubt. But what's the big deal? Not asking you to wear it. But you can if you want. Bet you'd look hot. I have a matching mini, light blue."

Still utterly at sea, Chris shrugged and held the mini skirt at his waist.

"Smile. Real smile, like you're hot to wear it."

Chris started to grin, stopped, rolled his eyes in bemusement and then, almost surprising himself, broke into a wide grin. Keisha clapped and rushed over. Kissing him quickly on the mouth, she took the skirt and hung it back on the rack. It dropped to the floor, but she left it there.

"Guess if you're splitting, means you're wimping out on the exhibition tomorrow night, eh? Well, it's 3 am, so, I guess, tonight, to be accurate."

"Not wimping out."

"You're the one who said it didn't take any cojones to do performance art in NYC. Blowing smoke, were you?"

"You told me to split, Goddamn't! Talk sense!"

"So leave. Who's stopping you? Although I could … if I felt the inclination."

The words hung like a casual threat in the silence. His chest seemed to puff, barely noticeable. Keisha smiled inwardly.

"Don't believe me, do you? Little black chick, eight inches shorter, fifty pounds lighter, now Keisha's blowing smoke, right?"

He answered with a shrug, all male, uncommunicative. Perfect.

She turned away, showing him her rich dark muscular back. She knew he was watching as she bent to pick up the mini skirt. Her firm rear cheeks stood out like ebony melons against the white panties. She hung the skirt back and looked over her shoulder, surprised to see him still there.

 

"I know men are helpless, but surely I don't have to show you to the door."

"What the hell game are you playing, anyway?"

"Game…?"

"You heard me."

 

(Cont'd.)

  

  

  

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