Still Life with Strings (16 page)

Perhaps he used a
mirror and wrote it on himself.

“This is Keith,” says
Ben, introducing us. “He wants to know if we’ll take part in his interactive
art installation.”

“Ah,” I reply, folding
my arms and going to stand by Shane. “And what does it entail?”

I can’t hide the
sceptical note in my voice. An interactive art installation usually equals
embarrassment in some form or another. It could be anything from sitting on a
stack of mattresses while people throw basketballs over your head to stripping
naked and frolicking about like a nudist on a tropical beach while a choir
sings the lyrics to “Over the Rainbow.”

Not that I’ve done
either of those things. Ahem.

Keith starts to explain
excitedly. “You partner up with someone, but it has to be someone you know
personally, and you use a non-permanent marker to draw the first words that
come into your head when you look at different parts of their body on that
particular body part. I call it ‘Words and Skins.’ There’ll be a small audience
watching. It’s all about opening up and losing your inhibitions.”

Christ, I knew it was
going to involve nudity. Didn’t I
just
say it was going to involve
getting naked? Sometimes I think these “installation artists” are simply
perverts who spend their time coming up with ways to see a few tits and arses.

“So we have to strip
for this?” I question, my cynical eyebrow almost hitting the ceiling.

“Just down to bras and
knicks,” Ben puts in with a cheeky wink.

“Bras and knicks, you
say? In that case, I hope you wore your good ones tonight. Otherwise your date
might be unimpressed,” I quip, nodding to Clark.

“Actually, I went
shopping in Ann Summers this week. The word ‘crotchless’ was involved,” Ben
shoots back.

I nearly choke on my
laughter when he says it, which puts me in a good enough mood to turn to Keith
with a grin and reply, “Okay, I’m in. How about everyone else?” Then, turning
back to Ben, “Also, Ann Summers? You classless swine. Get thee to Brown Thomas the
next time, or I’ll refuse to have any further associations with you!”

Ben looks to Clark,
who’s sputtering a laugh.

“Have you been teaching
her how to speak like a dandy again?” he asks him, hands on hips.

“I might have been,”
Clark manages to get out past his laughter.

Ten minutes later,
we’re in a different room to the rear of the building. There’s a large stage
set up, and about twenty people are sitting on bean bags on the floor. The
audience, I presume. I watch Shane as he chews on his lip, and I place a hand
lightly on his arm.

“Nervous?” I ask with a
touch of a smile.

“I have no idea how I
managed to be talked into this,” he replies, letting out a quick breath.

“It was probably the
prospect of seeing Ben in his crotchless lingerie that got you going,” I joke,
and he gives me a little amused scowl.

“But seriously, you can
back out. This night is supposed to be fun. However, I will remind you that you
wanted me to teach you how to live, and this, my friend, is living,” I say,
gesturing around the room.

He gives me a confused
look. “Stripping off in front of a bunch of strangers and baring your feelings
is living?”

“It’s all about
throwing away your inhibitions and putting your trust in other human beings.
Believe me, letting this bunch see me in my unmentionables isn’t something I’m
comfortable with, but I want to push my boundaries, see how fearless I can be.”

“You stand on the
street in the middle of the night in a fairy costume. That’s fearless enough
for one person, Jade,” he replies, reaching out to stroke my cheek. “And now
that you mention it, I’m kind of looking forward to seeing those
unmentionables.”

“Ah, I knew you were a
scoundrel,” I reply with a laugh.

“A total cad and a
bounder,” he says, voice low and hushed as he leans over to my ear. The way his
breath caresses my neck gives me tingles and by the look on his face I’d say he
knows it, too.

“You’re a cruel master,
Shane Arthur, to tease me the way you do,” I tell him with false indignation
just before Keith starts ushering us up onto the stage.

Those participating in
the installation include me, Shane, Ben, Clark, and three other pairings, all
male/female. Keith puts on some peaceful sort of meditation music and hands us
each a marker, and then we begin to take off our clothes. I’m aware of the fact
that this is going to be the first time Shane has seen me sans clothing, and me
him. I caught one or two glimpses of him at the photo shoot, but nothing
substantial. The night we had sex doesn’t count because it was dark and we only
exposed the parts we, uh, needed to expose.

Although I’m not
getting into my full birthday suit on this occasion, so there will still be
parts left to the imagination. I’m like a high-class French courtesan who knows
that partially covered flesh can be far more enticing than stark nudity. The
unknown is sexier than the revealed. All magic tricks are a disappointment once
you learn how they’re done.

Not that I want to be
enticing here. Ah, crap, this really isn’t working.

Shane is already in his
boxer shorts by the time I’ve dragged myself from my thoughts. He’s watching
me, waiting. Only a minute ago I was the one telling him not to worry, and now
I’m the one who’s stalling. Quickly, I lift my top over my head, revealing my
ivory silk bra. I undo the zipper at the back of my skirt and shimmy it down my
legs until there’s nothing left but the matching panties underneath.

“Do you want to go
first?” Shane asks, his voice throaty, his eyes on the swell of my breasts.

I grip the marker in my
fist, my palm growing sweatier by the minute. I’d been so caught up on the
stripping part of this installation that I didn’t get the chance to think about
which words I’m going to write on his skin. What do I see when I look at him?

I nod and swallow
before stepping forward. Like all Band-Aids, it’s best to pull them off
quickly. Uncapping it, I raise the marker to his collarbone and begin to write.

A few seconds later the word
“vulnerable” is scrawled across Shane’s collarbone. For some reason he has his
eyes closed, and I’m glad he probably isn’t going to be able to see half the
things I’ve written on him unless he gets his hands on a mirror.

I’m hoping he decides
to forgo the mirror and simply wash himself clean, because this shit is going
to be embarrassing in the cold light of day. I lift his hand, and on each
finger I write one letter until they form “skill.” His eyes are open now, and
his attention is solely focused on what I’ve written.

I take his other hand
and turn it palm up before scribbling “warmth.” On his abs I simply write the
word “hot,” and he cranes his neck to see, looking pleased with himself when he
reads it.

“Did you ever think
this was what you’d be doing when I asked you here tonight?” I say, smiling up
at him as I lower myself to my knees.

“In all honesty, I had
no idea what to expect. You’re full of surprises, Bluebird.”

“Hmm, that was a good
answer. By the way, those two girls sitting on the red bean bag are eyeing you
up like you’re a prize turkey.”

His eyes crinkle.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Sure,” I reply
sarcastically before lifting my marker to the defined muscle on his outer thigh
and writing “strength.”

“Jade, you’re on your
knees, and your face is right by my crotch. That’s the only thing I’m noticing
right now,” he replies, all husky.

I start at his words
and glance up at him again. Our eyes lock, and there’s a definite moment,
though what we’re trying to communicate I couldn’t say.

“You’ve got a dirty
mind, Mr Arthur.”

“And you’ve got the
best cleavage, Miss Lennon. I mean, like, the best cleavage I’ve ever seen. I
just want to put my mouth on it.”

“Somebody’s feeling
frisky,” I observe, trying to sound calm and ignore the hot blush that’s
spreading across my chest. In my head all I can see is Shane bending over me,
his tongue flicking my nipple.

I stand again and move
on to his shoulder. For some reason the word “regal” pops into my head. There’s
something refined about the sharp lines of his muscles there that reminds me of
royalty. On his inner forearm, the one that holds the bow when he plays, I
write “strings.” On the left hand side of his chest, right where I imagine his
heart to be, I write “pain.” I don’t know how he’s going to react to that, but
I’m being honest when I write it. When I look at him, I see a heart that was
badly broken and is only just sewing itself back together.

He stares at the
letters for a long time and swallows deeply, his Adam’s apple moving. His eyes
close then, and I wonder what he’s thinking about.

“You see a lot,” he
whispers a moment later.

“We all see a lot when
we decide to truly look,” I respond as I write “sex” on the “V” of his hip. He
opens his eyes to see what I’ve written, and his gaze heats up.

“Why sex?” he questions
intensely.

I smooth my hand over
the word and bite my lower lip. My voice is barely a whisper when I say,
“Because when I look here, all I can think about are your hips thrusting when
you fucked me.”

“Jesus.”

“You asked the
question.”

From across the room
where he’s sitting in the audience, Keith rings a little bell and calls, “Okay,
now it’s time to switch.”

Looking anywhere but at
Shane, I screw the cap back onto my marker and wait. I was wrong when I thought
being the “writer” was the hard part, because being the “writee” is much worse.
The anticipation of knowing you’re going to find out what someone thinks of
each part of you strips you bare. You’re completely at the mercy of their
judgement, and that judgement could make you either plummet or soar.

This whole thing
suddenly makes sense. Who we think we are is completely dependent on what others
perceive us to be.

I now realise that
Keith must have had a moment of pure genius when he came up with the idea for
this installation. And to think I thought he just wanted to get his rocks off.

The first place Shane
decides to write is on the side of my neck. I hold completely still, barely
breathing as the soft brush of the marker moves across my skin. His other hand
is on the opposite side of my neck, as though to keep me in place, but the only
thing it’s really achieving is making me burn. Jesus, I’m practically panting
here, and all he’s doing is touching my neck.

“What did you write?” I
ask on a deep swallow once he’s finished. “That felt like a long word.”

To be honest, it
probably just felt long because every second he has his hands on me feels like
an hour.

“Wait and see,” he
replies, and when I meet his gaze I find his eyes still haven’t lost their
heat.

His marker goes to my
breasts, where he scrawls “soft,” and then to my hip. I have to bend slightly
to see he’s written “need.” Oh, God. His attention moves to my chest again, to
my heart, and I swear I feel tears forming when I see him write “too big,” but
I swallow down the emotion. Let it sit in my belly; better there than to seep
through my eyes.

He turns me around,
brushes my hair aside and begins writing along the expanse of my shoulders. It
doesn’t feel like he’s writing, though. It feels more like he’s drawing
something. I twist and glance over my shoulder, but it’s pointless. I can’t see
a thing.

“That’s cheating,” I
pout, and he reaches up quickly, rubbing his thumb over my bottom lip. I suck
in air.

“You look cute when you
do that.”

He bends down and
writes something on the lower part of my arse, and again, I can’t see what it
says. Damn him, it’s almost like he’s intentionally selecting parts he knows
I’m not going to be able to read. His hand cups my cheek lightly, the touch
making my heart pound. Moving along, on the top of my belly he writes “still”
and on the bottom “life.”

Ha. That was clever.
When I’m being a living statue, I find stillness in my core. I’m alive but I’m
also a statue.

He takes my hand, and
on each finger spells out the word “touch.” Then he turns it over and writes
“me” in the centre of my palm. Wow. Does that mean he wants me to touch him?

I look at him, and it’s
like he can read the question in my head because he answers, “All the time.”

My entire body is
burning up, and right now I’m just hoping for this to be over so that I can
wash his words off me and try to forget how he makes me feel. A moment later I
get my wish when Keith rings his bell, signalling the end of the installation.
Unfortunately, movement catches in the corner of my eye, and I realise that
it’s not quite over yet.

Curtains that have been
hung all around the stage, and which I thought were there simply for
decoration, begin to be pulled back to reveal dozens of mirrors. There are big
ones and small ones, round, square, and rectangular ones. Some of them have
fancy wooden or metal frames, while others have no frames at all.