Porn Star(51)

“Well, it’s hard to think it’s silly with all the death imagery,” I say, a bit grumpily.

“The Hanged Man isn’t dead, he’s suffering. There’s a difference.”

“Well, that cheers me right up. Thank you.”

“But in the end, he sees the world completely differently. Sometimes perspective is painful.”

“You know, maybe you should also be fired from the fortune cookie factory.”

She puts a hand on my thigh, her fingers warm and slender, and I relax under her touch. “It’s not divination, Logan. It’s not prophecy. It’s just something to think about.”

Sigh. “Sure, Cass.”

“I think I know what would cheer you up.”

“What’s that?” I ask, but then her seat belt is unbuckled and she’s kneeling on her seat and leaning into me, her lips against my neck. And then she’s sucking, soft and wet, sending shivers down my spine and straight to my balls, which start feeling heavy and constrained in my jeans. I want to slide my hand up her thighs and see what else is soft and wet, but my stupid car is a manual transmission, and the thick L.A. traffic means I’m constantly shifting between gears as I slow down and speed up.

“This isn’t fair,” I murmur. “I can’t touch you back.”

“Mmm, good,” she croons into my ear. “I get to be the one in control.”

“Don’t say that stuff to me, Cass, or we may not make it to our destination.”

She doesn’t respond, just keeps kissing and licking all around my neck and earlobe and jaw, and it’s only by the grace of God that I don’t crash the car. As it is, I still arrive at our filming spot with a hard-on straining the seams of my jeans. I can barely focus enough to get the car parked and turned off.

“Where are we?” Devi asks, finally relenting with the necking and peering out the windshield. We’re outside a small mural-covered warehouse near the river, with the skyline towering in the background, shimmering in the evening heat.

My skin dies a little when she pulls away, but it’s probably necessary unless I want to walk in there with a giant erection tenting my jeans. “It’s an art gallery, a new one. They’re doing an exhibit I thought you might like.” I’m a little shy when I say this, mostly because I’m worried she’ll think it’s lame, and I want to impress her, dammit, and not just with my ability to make her come in under two minutes. “The gallery owner let me rent it for the night, so after it closes to the public at nine, it’s all ours until morning.”

Her face splits into a huge smile. “That sounds amazing. Porn in an art gallery?”

“Yeah, I’d like to say that I have this meta vision for juxtaposing high art and low art, but really it’s because I thought the exhibit was something you’d like, plus it was cheap to rent.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” she says with a wink, and then gets out of the car. I get out too, grab our bag, and walk to the front door to open it for her, catching a glimpse of the inside through the glass as I do.

It’s still eight o’clock, meaning that the gallery is open, and to my dismay, I see that there’s some sort of reception going on, so the space is crowded with people drinking free wine and milling around. I was hoping to get some shots of Devi walking around the exhibit, since I got permission from both the owner and the artist to use it as a backdrop, but filming her will be difficult with a bunch of randos walking into my shot and needing releases or whatever.

I quickly decide it’s okay, and that I can always film her later. I’m too excited for her to see it to wait any longer. I open the door all the way, unleashing the normal gallery onslaught of music and voices. I gesture for Devi to walk in and she does.

I follow her in, admiring the way her ass moves under her dress as I do. Rich orchestral music reverberates throughout the space, deep strings and discordant piano keys, and I see the exact moment that Devi realizes what the exhibit is, understands why I thought she’d like it.

“Logan,” she breathes, reaching for my hand without taking her eyes off the display in front of us. “This is...you...I can’t believe…” She finally stops trying to put her feelings into words and simply squeezes my hand, overcome. My heart soars so far above the ground that I’m certain it’s reached lunar orbit.

If this is all it takes to make her so happy, then I’m taking her to an art gallery every day.

The exhibit is called Zodiactive and is laid out in a large circle. All throughout the gallery, tiny light bulbs of various brightness are arranged, in a manner that looks completely random and discombobulated to me, but that I know from the gallery’s website is designed to mimic the constellations visible from Los Angeles at this time of year. The bulbs are strung up high, but also line the walls, creating the dazzling effect of being surrounded by stars. Gauzy strips of fabric in deep lavenders and pinks hang from the ceiling, wafting with the movement of the guests, the ephemeral panels representing nebulas and gas clouds. And punctuating the gallery space at regular intervals are huge, magnificent paintings, each one representing a sign of the zodiac, with more light bulbs studding the canvas to show where the actual stars are in each constellation.

The artist in me appreciates the effect of the light and the color and the spacey music, but the Logan in me, who doesn’t know shit about the zodiac or the constellations they come from, is deeply bored. So instead, I turn all of my attention to Devi, watching her eager eyes drink everything in, watching the way her lips move as she murmurs quiet things to herself that I can’t quite catch. We make our way around the circle, stopping every three feet for Devi to examine the light bulbs and declare which constellations they are supposed to be, and once for me to grab a couple cups of free wine.