Act 2. Part 4.  "... just can't get enough."

Act 2. Part 4. "... just can't get enough."

A Chapter by B MacGregor

I was twenty-one when I experimented with things I shouldn’t… like love.


Act 2. Part 4.

“… just can’t get enough.”




I was twenty-one when I experimented with things I shouldn’t… like love.


I was an adult.  Not because I was a legal age or anything.  I became an adult because of the lessons I learned.


Why is it harder to fall in love with yourself than with someone else?


It’s not easy to give love to someone, but learning how to love myself�"that’s a hard thing. Very.


Choices aren’t always easy to make, like falling in love.  Do you choose to fall in love or does it choose you?


The first time I “fell” in love was the summer of my twenty-first year.


New York City.  I had a small apartment in Chinatown.  I like that neighborhood.  Nobody notices you.  Everyone's too busy looking at the colorful junk sold on the streets. 


I lived above a dim sum restaurant.  It was my favorite place in the world. It was an exotic and far away.  I love Asian food. I eat it constantly.  I just can’t get enough.  I never get full. I was constantly hungry, smelling the food below me�"always tempted. 


I had a small apartment.  Two rooms, a kitchen thing and a bedroom.  The bedroom was big and the kitchenette was like a closet.  I squeezed everything I owned into the kitchenette. I slept in that room, ate, and yeahm, the bathroom was in there too. 


The other room was empty.  I kept it empty for dancing. 


I was in the last year of dance school.  Money was slowly dwindling away.  But I had enough to make it through the summer. That’s what I like about the start of summer in mid-May. There’s always an abundance of hope.


It was in mid-May, that's when I met an artist.  He was fascinated by the movements of my body. 


The art students at the school had the challenge to sketch dancers, bodies in motion.  The aspiring artists sat on the floor in the studio, watching us dance. Our audience scribbled and tore at their tablets, struggling to capture the beauty of our bodies floating on thin air.


The class rehearsed a five minute ballet performance as part of our final exams for the semester. 


I’m not comfortable with dancing the ballet.  It’s a dance of discipline.  The ballet requires devotion, practice and study.  I respect ballet dancers.  They have more dedication than any sloppy football star. The pain and attention to detail requires deep conditioning.  It’s not something just anyone can do. 


My ballet instructor told us ballet is like the first date. It’s the anxiety over asking someone out. It’s a controlled dance.  It’s the possibility someone might reject you.  It’s a dance that illustrates the courageous struggle with confidence.  Self control and discipline always win out.


One artist didn’t sketch.  He kept his focus on me the entire time.  Maybe he was fascinated by my movements and my fouette en tournant.  Or maybe he liked the way my leotard showed off the most fascinating parts of my body. I think he liked watching the subtle curves of my body more than he enjoyed my perfect turnouts.


By the end of the performance, the art students showed us what they saw.  We reviewed their sketches.  The class giggled and fawned over the rough pencils etchings.  We laughed at how we appeared to be in unison during one single second caught in a fleeting moment.


One man, one student, had nothing to show.  He didn’t sketch. The canvas was blank. His teacher asked why he hadn't created any sketches. He was on the verge of flunking his exam. 


Don’t worry.  His answer saved his scrawny little behind.  In fact, his confession made the ballet class swoon, in unison.


“I couldn’t draw. I was too stunned at the raw beauty of the class and the dance.  I couldn’t sketch a single stroke. I was lost, lost in the dance.  And… captivated by a one of the dancers. It was all beautifully raw.”  He looked at me when he said it. He had my attention after that. 


He had the bravado to ask me out after class.  I was tired, sweating, so was he.  He was nervous. Or maybe he was high on the moment. One or the other... I get confused.


I said yes.  I should have known better.  I wished I had more self-control. I should have had the ability to restrain my curiosity, but I didn’t.  I succumbed to his moist lips and his dazzling eyes. 


Our first date was in the dim sum restaurant below my flat.  I wanted to bring him in, to some place close to home, just in case my fortune cookie told me I should get to know him better.


During dinner, he kept offering me choices�"dim sum choices.  He let me eat heavy, as heavy as I wanted to.  He made it a point to tell me he was buying.  He was a rich little puppy.  Well at least his parents were.  He had the fortunate luxury of time.  His parents or patrons enabled him to dedicate himself to his passion, which happened to be his art. 


I had to earn my passion.  Yeah, my passion has a price.


His family supported him at home on Park Avenue.  All the way up there.


He’s always been an artist.  By the way, he hates the word: artist.  He’s an editor… of time. He loves to edit time. He loves capturing the ease of effort. he can;t wait to take a single moment and freeze it, preserving it.  He's a romantic.  It made me pause from eating long enough to pay attention to his magnetic eyes and his scattered disposition.


You would too. Right?


He said he wanted to paint me.  He would be greatly honored if I would be generous enough to give him the longest second of my life. It would only take months and months of hours to accomplish.  Again, poetic.


How could I refuse?  Right.


We started after he paid the bill for the dim sum.  He left a generous tip.  I know, I know… I should have practiced more restraint.  But my soul told me to take it while it’s offered.


I let him explore every inch of my body.  He wanted to know the origin of every wrinkle and patch.  He was particularly interested in my skin. He was consumed by the story behind each scar.  Like when I crashed my bicycle into a tool chest at the age of three. The small bump above my ankle held his attention.  He traced his fingers along my body.  He was an artist after all, becoming familiar with the outline of his summer masterpiece.


We were together every day.  We were together each spare minute. And during those ravenous moments, he kept me locked up, trapped above the dim sum restaurant. All I could smell was that delicious food, craving and desiring more and more.


We made love.  It was the first time for me.  He couldn’t resist.  He couldn’t refuse my body when I danced.  “I love to watch you dance, Velvet. You leave me undone when you stop.”


I know. I couldn’t resist either.


I was a junkie for his poetic phrases and his artistic eye.  I wanted more each time he dealt a great line or a tender moment. Like when he would brush the hair out of my eyes in the early morning or the times I caught him staring at me for no reason at all.


The summer was all well and good, IF I wanted to fall in love with his poetry, with his addictive nature to study every aspect of me, with his dedication and uninhibited self control.  


At the end of the summer he had enough sketches and drawings, paintings, and photographs to keep him occupied for years if he chose. It was a gluttonous array of images to satiate his unique appetite. 


It was at the end of the summer he told me goodbye.  I was only a summer masterpiece, a seasonal exhibit.  A showing of one with a finite engagement.


“See ya later Velvet. Hopefully in a gallery.”


Crushed. Destroyed.  Undone.


How could you leave me?  I was still dependent on you and your art. 


I knew it would happen.  Deep down, inside, my heart told me it was too good to last.  Well, I least I learned one thing from the experiment.  He taught me how to dance for the most intimate of all audiences.   Him… Dealer. 


Love is an addictive feeling, a powerful sensation, one I wouldn’t sacrifice anything for. Does it help to know I still miss you Dealer?


It was hard to withdraw and quit you.  I’m grateful you did it for the both of us.  Because, in the end, I don’t think I could ever get enough. You would have turned me into a cold and bitter junkie. 


So long Dealer. I knew it had to stop too. It was time for it to end and love always ends.  Doesn’t it?  Either someone dies or leaves. But, it always ends. I should have known better to experiment with an emotion, or something vital, like a heart.


In the end you helped me fall in love with myself.  Don't be conceited, it was just a little bit. And now, well, now, I just can’t seem to get enough.


© 2010 B MacGregor

My Review

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I swore up and down that this one would be Diablo - especially when I found out the character was an artist and her first.
Hm it'd be bad if i could predict every one
Loved the chapter and character
Keep writing :)

Posted 10 Years Ago

very deep chapter ... very nicley done...

Posted 10 Years Ago

That was really sad, almost made me cry. This is my favorite of all the chapters. The reader can now fully connect with Velvet and her innocent heart.

Posted 10 Years Ago

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3 Reviews
Added on September 13, 2010
Last Updated on September 13, 2010
Tags: Love, artist, ballet, mystery, dance, dim sum, new york city.


B MacGregor
B MacGregor


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