“Dude,” much like the word “whore” or even “fuck,” also had many meanings and uses. It was all in the way you said it. And the way Tori said “dude” meant she was having the same reaction I had to the message.

“I know, right?”

I gave an awkward chuckle and rolled my eyes. I’d avoided Goya all week, blowing him off with the excuse my new business venture was taking up all my time. Yeah, I totally lied. And his message that morning was a reminder, not only about his show, but an offer he made, which filled me with terror, and a term of endearment that made me want to move to another state.

“He said the L-word,” she pointed out. “And he wants you to move in with him?” Just hearing her rundown of the text message gave me anxiety.

I decided not to let that show and deflect the whole thing with humor. “Yeah. I’m just as confused as you are. I even thought he might have sent the message to me by mistake.”

“Kath,” she began softly, “you’re not considering moving in with him…are you?”

I almost choked on my coffee. “Did you snort a big, fat line of stupid before I got here?”

Her eyes bugged out before she said with relief, “Thank God. You’ve been…weird lately. I had to ask.”

Cam suddenly appeared with two huge hiking packs.

“You just got hotter, Cam,” I declared and leaned in to my bestie. “How are you gonna do it?”

“Do what?”

“Hike along those trails and not ass rape him every chance you get?”

She leaned closer, her fingers tapping on the coffee mug, and confessed with total sincerity, “Well, we discussed it, and, after much research, decided that anything I do to his ass will be in the privacy of our own home.” She picked up her mug again and continued casually, “Besides, ticks are a real problem. The ass is the last place you want a tick.”

Cam smiled, listening with good humor, and filled his mug. Then he grabbed a glossy card from their fridge.

When I realized it was an invitation to Goya’s opening that night, I let my head fall with a thud on their kitchen table.

“He invited us,” Tori shared.

Thud, thud, thud.

“He invited everyone from the tattoo shop, too,” Cam added.

It was getting worse. He was invading. And I had to put a stop to it.

“You can’t come,” I mumbled against the table. “You have too much to do before you leave on Monday.”

“Don’t worry,” Cam told me with a grin. “I already let him down easy.”

“I’m breaking up with him tonight,” I said to the table. I lifted my head and asked through my veil of hair, “Can I borrow that strappy slut dress?”

“I thought the idea was to make yourself less attractive?” she asked.

“That doesn’t mean my next fuck-buddy won’t be there.” I winked, and with that, I pushed away from the table, squared my shoulders, went upstairs, and helped myself to my bestie’s closet.

***

When I began dating a guy, I gave no illusion we’d have any kind of future. I was careful, I got tested regularly, and I put them through my own rigorous testing in order to determine if they had the skills and necessary equipment to do the job right.

When I met Goya, he was cocky, so full of himself it was a wonder he even noticed I existed. I was at my favorite bar one night, the Saloon, feeling sorry for myself and tamping that feeling down with a drink or two before I went home. Tori was in La-la-land-o-Cam, so I decided it was time to throw my line out and see what I could catch.

Then he walked in: curly, dark hair, deep brown eyes, a tight tee, and chisled features which told me all I needed to know…almost all I needed to know. See, a man didn’t need to be hung; he didn’t need to be particularly handsome either. But I wasn’t going to fuck just anybody. I wanted passion and confidence and hopefully the ability to back those two up.

I overheard Goya talking about his new collection, how incredible it was, and my first thought?  What an egotistical prick. Then the girls he’d arrived with left and he bought me a drink. To my surprise, he didn’t talk about himself at all. He was charming, probably an act, but I gave him a chance and let him take me home.

He followed me in the door, and I called over my shoulder, “Just wait here a second,” and went to my bedroom. There, I opened the top drawer of my bedside table. For my thirtieth birthday, I’d bought myself a new dildo. This one was…meaty…ten inches of pure, fat, unrepentant silicon, and because I’d never been with a man of color—not yet anyway—I chose black. I named it Devon. For some reason, don’t ask me why, I decided it looked like a Devon.

“Devon” had this suction thing so you could place it on any surface and ride it, something I’d only done a handful of times. I arranged him on an elegantly carved solid wood chair and only then did I open the door and say, “Come on back if you want.”

I did my best not to smirk and went about taking off the boots I was wearing when Goya asked, “Is that my competition?”

“Oh, him?” I said nonchalantly and shrugged. “I guess.”

“Kath.” He held my eyes as I looked at him in the mirror. “There’s no competition.”

I raised one eyebrow and gave him a grin he took as a dare, and I can say with absolute conviction, Devon had nothing on Goya.

But Goya was exhausting. He wanted things from me I wasn’t willing to give. My friends barely tolerated him, but they didn’t know him. Yeah, he was kind of an asshole and had this holier-than-thou thing going on, but it was all for show. He lived for his art and wanted to be something special. In my moments of weakness, I could imagine breaking him down and training him in acceptable social standards. He was a good guy, he loved me (apparently,) and damn, he was a great lay.

But I hated his art.

And that’s why I had to end it. If I could find it in me to be supportive of what he loved to create, maybe I could…try to have more with him than just sex. But I’d already let it go on for far too long, and now he was emotionally invested in a way I never could be. I decided it would be soon, in the next week, but I’d wait until after his show. He was a man, he was attractive, he knew how to use the goods God gave him, he had a nice place in North Laguna, and drove a sporty, little Fiat. He’d be fine.

In an outfit that somehow stayed on my body through the magic of synthetic fabric, I alighted from the cab in five-inch strappy heels and strutted my almost six-foot ass into the posh gallery of the Laguna Beach Art Institute. I wasn’t completely whored-out; I wore a dark purple wrap and matching earrings to break up the solid black of the ensemble.

I was greeted by a young woman, very pretty with natural auburn hair, wearing a uniform of long sleeved black shirt, black pants, and a black apron.

“Welcome to Expressions in Darkness.” She smiled.

Expressions in Darkness. What a knob.

She handed me a program that I glanced at briefly. I’d seen a few of the paintings, but not all of them.

The woman continued to smile at me.

I returned it and asked casually, “Is there somewhere I can pick up a strong cocktail and a box of razor blades?”

“Uh…” She studied me for a split second then determined it was all right to let her guard down. “The one in the grand hall is…frightening,” she warned on a whisper.

A guy walked by with a tray full of champagne glasses filled with black liquid. I grabbed one, hoping I wasn’t about to ingest ink, and drank the entire thing. It was delicious.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I told the young woman and made my way into the exhibit.

It wasn’t long before I really, truly needed to get out of that place for my own sanity. Of course, that was when Goya found me, three black drinks down, one in my hand as I stared at the aforementioned frightening painting in the grand hall.

“Darling,” he cooed over my shoulder.