Black Iris: Chapter Three
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CHAPTER THREE
The black space in my memory begins around midnight on Friday, July 2nd, and lasts until the morning of Sunday, July 4th. From what I remember, things had actually been going quite well for me right up until that segment of missing time.
I was at a pub near City Hall Plaza called The Top Hat and Monocle. It’s the bar of choice not so much for the local politicians themselves, but for the miserable members of their support staff who like to stop in and unwind before going home to their pets. These people are stressed-out, lonely, and down to fuck. I showed up with a bag full of balsa rods and a plan to drown my sorrows in alcohol and pussy. Upon walking in, I ordered an entire bottle of their cheapest rum and had them serve it in a pitcher. I took it to a corner in the back of the bar, poured myself a glass, then dropped a dozen rods in the pitcher and stashed it under the table. The glass was just for appearances — I kept it in front of me and pretended to sip it all night. Bringing it anywhere near my face burned my sinuses, but once I was drunk, it didn’t bother me so much. The rods were ready after 30 minutes, though the longer they soaked, the more potent they became.
The mystery woman came in at around 9:00 p.m. She was barely five feet tall, flaunting a slender frame in a tight blue dress, straight blond hair that may have been a wig, creamy white skin, and enormous chocolate eyes under generously mascara-ed lashes. After an exchange of smiles from across the room, she came and joined me at my table. Her name was Quinn, I think, or maybe… Carmen? Queena? Is that a name? Anyway, something about her commanded honesty, and I came clean right away about my process for consuming alcohol. To my surprise, she thought it sounded fun and wanted to try it herself. That’s how I learned she wasn’t wearing panties.
From there, my memory of the night becomes more abstract. I see vague images with no sound. Our knees touching under the table. Her hand on mine. The two of us walking together down an alley, possibly to her place. The details are gone, maybe forever. All I know for sure is that I was genuinely connecting with her. I didn’t feel like I was just trying to get over someone else.
Once my dick got demolished, it seemed pointless to look for her, especially since I didn’t remember her name. Could she have had something to do with what happened to me? My gut tells me she wouldn’t have hurt me on purpose, but my gut has been wrong before. Whatever this woman’s involvement might have been, my life changed after that night. I woke up with new pain, new obsessions, and new interpretations of old senses. Colors now have flavor, Smells have texture, and sounds have color.
The key to all of this might be the flowers. My memories are trapped inside them like chlorophyll. Georgia O’Keeffe may not have been my initial inspiration, but she knows flowers better than anyone. It’s time I paid her another visit.
***
Last summer, after serving 35 years as the curator of Egyptian Art, my father became the director of the Kibble Museum. He never asked for the promotion — he more or less fell into it after the former director turned out to be a psychopath who murdered the leader of my mom’s cult.
My dad likes his new paycheck, but the position requires more direct interaction with the elitist Board of Trustees. He describes the group as a roundtable of James Bond villains, though the only member who is actually a criminal happens to be the member my father gets along with best.
Newly elected chairperson Seamus “Meatballs” Makarov is known for his real estate empire (including the city’s top restaurants and strip clubs) and his alleged ties to illegal drug trafficking and prostitution. As a life-long art lover, Meatballs takes his new role seriously and involves himself in the museum’s day-to-day operations more than his position requires. There were some embarrassing missteps in the beginning, including a Topless Tuesday fundraising event that didn’t go over well with some of the more conservative patrons, but you can’t argue with results. Membership is up 20%, and daily attendance has increased by 45% since Meatballs joined the board. My father, for his part, is happy to yield some of his authority if it also means yielding some of his responsibility.
The Georgia O’Keeffe retrospective was Meatball’s idea, and it’s proving to be one of the most popular exhibits the museum has had in years. When I arrive, a crowd is gathered around the show’s centerpiece — a painting called Jimson Weed on loan from the Indianapolis Museum of Art. In 2014, the piece sold for $44,405,000, which set an auction world record for work by a female artist.
Seth, former Meatballs enforcer, now director of museum security, lurks nearby with his dull jackal eyes fixed on the priceless art. As a direct descendant of Anubis, Seth is a fellow Aaruvian.
One pointy ear pivots towards me as I enter the gallery. “How’s it going, Snowball?”
“I’m ok. You?”
“I’m going a little nuts, actually. I’ve been here nine hours a day, seven days a week since the show went up.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because Meatballs doesn’t trust anyone else with the $44 million painting.”
“Well, there was a theft last year.”
“Yeah, and nobody’s letting me forget it. Even though I wasn’t even — hold on.” He dashes over to a man aiming his phone at a painting.
“Hey!” Seth barks, pointing to a “No Photography” sign on the wall. “What does that say?”
The man squints at the sign. “Oh, I thought it was just, like, describing the show. Like, ‘There are no photographs in this gallery, only paintings.’”
Seth bares his canines, and the man stuffs his phone back into his pocket.
He rejoins me in the back. “Sorry about that. I tell ya, I will not be sad when this show comes down.”
“Really? You don’t like O’Keeffe’s Southwest landscapes? I figured they’d remind you of home.”
“Do you want to be reminded of home?”
“Ha. Fair enough. Ok, I’m going to have a look around. Stay sane.”
“I’ll try.”
While everyone else is gawking at the main attraction, I take in lesser-known works that speak to me personally. My favorite is a piece called Black Iris. Painted in 1926 while O’Keeffe was living in New York, the dark, muted colors represent a departure from the sunny vibrance she was best known for. Critics have long projected a theme of female sexuality onto O’Keeffe’s flowers. Black Iris, even more so than the others, looks like a vagina with a luscious purple clitoris. The artist rejected this analysis, insisting that her work was really about representing the beauty of small objects found in nature and magnifying the details that often get overlooked. Maybe it’s specific to my current situation, but I identify with the drab coolness of the piece. Maybe I just appreciate the fact that the entire palette falls within a cat’s visible light spectrum.
I hear a familiar voice echoing from down the main hallway. My ears go flat, and the fur on the back of my neck stands up. For a moment, I entertain the idea of scurrying under the nearest bench, but I manage to fight the impulse. Seth gives me a sympathetic shrug — he hears her, too. I can see O’Keeffe’s flowers anytime, so why did I come here at 3:00 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon? Because I’m a masochist.
“Oh, shit,” Gia whispers when she finally enters the room. “Snowball’s here.”
She forgets how powerful my ears are. Unless she’s at least a football field away, she needs to keep her words inside her head if she doesn’t want me to hear them.
Except, maybe she did want me to hear…
“We should say hello,” says a baritone voice I don’t recognize.
“No, Brett, where are you going… Brett!” Her heels clack on the vinyl floor as she chases after him. They arrive at my side together.
“Hi, Snowball,” she says, avoiding eye contact. She’s in a low-cut summer dress that reveals her boney sternum and shimmering golden pentagram necklace. As a museum employee, her Satanism was something she used to have to hide, but in the Meatballs Makarov era, she can express her beliefs freely. She turned 55 last month but still looks 35.
“Hey, Gia. How are you?”
“Pretty good, pretty good. Class just finished up, so we thought we’d swing by the O’Keeffe exhibit on our way to lunch.” Gia teaches a figure drawing class here at the museum. It’s how we met.
“Cool,” I say.
An olive-skinned man with close-cropped hair stands by, waiting to be introduced.
“Oh, sorry,” Gia says. “This is my friend, Brett.”
Brett extends a large manicured hand. “It’s a pleasure. Gia’s told me so much about you.” The man is five inches taller than I am.
“All good, I hope. Though I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Gia laughs awkwardly.
“No, she’s always talking about what an awesome artist you are. She’s even shown me some of your work. Very impressive stuff.”
I wonder if she showed him the painting we did together. The one covered in my jizz.
“Glad you like my work. Gia’s an excellent teacher.”
He smiles. “Oh, I know. I’ve actually taken a few of her classes myself. I’m not an artist or anything, I’m just doing it for fun.”
Gia pats his arm. “Like I tell all my students, everyone’s an artist deep down inside.”
“So, what is it that you do, Brett?”
“I work in marketing at Helios.”
You can’t get more “corporate sellout” than working for Helios Industries, the behemoth pharmaceutical company. I can see the embarrassment in Gia’s eyes. She knows she doesn’t belong with the kind of guy who wears a collared shirt tucked into jeans. Is he good-looking? Sure. Does he have wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and excellent posture? Maybe, but that’s not what Gia’s into. He must have a huge —
If his dick works at all, he’s got me beat.
“I’m sure it’s very fulfilling work,” I say.
Gia scowls subtly, hoping nobody notices.
“Well, it pays the bills.” He clears his throat. “So, Gia says you’re a P.I. What’s that like?”
“Most of the time I just follow around cheating spouses. The job’s not as glamorous in real life as it is in the movies.”
“Still, though. I’ll bet it beats sitting behind a desk all day.”
The three of us gaze down at the floor.
“Hey, you guys are both artists,” Brett says. “What do you think of this show?”
“Georgia O’Keeffe’s actually one of my favorite artists,” I answer. “Especially her flower paintings.”
Gia nods to the far wall. “I’m partial to her skull paintings, myself.”
“Huh.” Brett scratches his head. “I’ve heard the flowers are supposed to represent a woman’s vagina. What are the skulls supposed to be about?”
“That’s actually not — ” Gia and I start to say at the same time. We pause to look at each other before I let her finish the sentence on her own. “That’s actually not true about the flowers. Her goal was to bring attention to little details in nature.”
“The skulls, on the other hand, are supposed to represent schlongs.”
They both stare at me blankly.
“I’m kidding.”
“Right,” Gia says. “Actually, the skulls are meant to symbolize the connection between life and death. There was a drought in the Southwest during the time O’Keeffe was living out there. Animals were dying by the hundreds, and their bones were everywhere. She thought they were beautiful.”
“Huh,” Brett says.
“We should probably get going,” Gia says.
“Oh, ok. Well, it was great meeting you, Snowball. The three of us should have dinner sometime.”
“Definitely.”
I can’t help but look at that ass as the two walk away. The guy definitely doesn’t skip leg day, that’s for sure.
Whatever. I’m a demigod. I squat two tons, bitch.
And yet, what good does that do me if my dick doesn’t get hard?
Seth shakes his head from across the room, and I go over to talk to him.
“That was rough, man. You ok?”
On the night of this year’s Kibble Museum Gala, Gia and I had a vicious fight right here in this gallery. It ended with her storming off and me accidentally knocking over a waiter carrying a tray of baby quiches. Seth helped calm me down before I went after her.
“I’m fine. That guy’s an asshole, though, right?”
“Oh, for sure.”
“He sells insurance. How fucking lame is that?”
“I thought he said he did marketing.”
“Whatever. The point is, the guy wears a tie to work.”
“I’m wearing a tie right now. And actually, a lot of private detectives wear ties, too. You don’t all have to dress like Magnum, P.I.”
“Right. Sorry.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s ok. But you might want to think about, you know… moving on.”
“Moving on. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Seriously. Best way to do it is to get laid. You’re a celebrity. You can fuck anyone in this city.”
“I wish that were true, believe me. Anyway, I’m gonna go get drunk.”
“That works, too. Take care, man.”
“You, too.”
“Hey, tell Lincoln we have to hang out soon. Once I get a fuckin’ day off.”
“I will. He misses you. I haven’t exactly been the most attentive roommate lately.”
“Just give him some peanut butter. We love that shit.”
“Ha, ok. See ya.”
Dogs are needy, and they miss their owners when they’re away. Cats are supposed to be independent, so in theory, moving on should be easy for us. But there’s another part of our nature that causes us to obsess over what we can’t have. Thanksgiving turkey is no good if you put it in our bowls; we want to steal it off of your plate.
I didn’t appreciate Gia until she was gone. Now seeing her with someone else feels like a cigar being put out on my chest. The worst part, of course, is that I couldn’t fuck her even if she was sitting right in front of me with her legs spread begging for it.
She and Brett are probably going at it right now. They’re on their way to a restaurant or whatever, and he casually puts his hand on her back. He didn’t mean anything by it, but she’s wearing a backless dress, and a couple of his fingers brush against her bare skin. It sends chills up her spine.
She grabs him by the hand and pulls him into an alley. There are people passing by on the street, but the two lovers can’t help themselves. She runs her hand over the bulge in his jeans and feels that he’s already hard. He reaches up her dress and pulls aside her sopping wet panties. He unzips his fly and nails her against the brick wall with his railroad spike. She shudders. They’re both so turned on that it doesn’t take long. A crowd gathers as they race towards climax. When it finally hits, their orgasm is so earth-shattering that it earns them a slow clap from the audience. A policeman removes his hat and begins singing The Star-Spangled Banner. Gia takes a knee, but only to finish off the last of Brett’s cum as it trickles out of his cock.
I can picture myself in that crowd watching with the others. Cuckolding wouldn’t be so bad; in fact, I’d probably enjoy it. But when you can’t jerk off, you can’t even be a decent cuck.
I realize now that there’s only one way for me to move on…