Page 36 of Dirty Diana
“Diana,” Jasper says, “where’s the twenty-five?”
I look around me at the sea of equipment spread around Annie’s kitchen. We’re shooting Annie in various casual-seeming positions around the room she probably uses the least. I peeked in her refrigerator and there was a carton of milk, some organic blueberries, and a jar of face cream made with manuka honey. Does she have another kitchen, I wonder, where the food actually is?
“Diana? The twenty-five?”
Recognizing my limitations, Jasper comes over to grab it.
I manage to finish out the day by thinking of everything as a tray of hors d’oeuvres that I need to pass out. It’s a kind of meditation. This camera lens is any one of Barry’s minicreations. The bounce boards are platters. This man asking me for a lens is the host. You don’t talk to hosts. You just smile at them politely. That spectacular woman being photographed is just another guest at a party who won’t eat what I offer her.
—
“You were quiet today,” Jasper says as we’re driving back to the hotel late that evening.
“Was I?” He’s clearly finding the delineation between work and play much easier than I am. Every time he gets near me I want to slip my hands under his clothes and feel his bare skin on mine.
Jasper nods. “Very quiet. You have this talent for making yourself invisible. I’ve noticed that. It’s like you’re getting smaller before my very eyes.”
Maybe to seem bold, I place a hand on his leg and rest my fingers against his inner thigh.
He stares straight ahead, then slows and pulls to the side of the road, still a few miles from the hotel. There is nothing around us but the desert scenery and the deep black sky. I climb onto his lap and straddle his hips. “I’ve been waiting for this all day,” I say.
“Me too.”
I slip my hands under his T-shirt, feeling his warm skin. I unbutton his jeans and slide his erection inside me. We both exhale in relief—relief that it still feels this good, that he is finally back inside me where he belongs. I begin moving my hips, but he stops me, his voice rough in my ear. “I’m going to come…Don’t move. Please. Don’t move.” So we both sit there, still, staring at each other like aliens dropped from the sky into a magical field. Neither of us moves an inch. We don’t close our eyes or look away. Jasper teeters on the edge of orgasm—he bites on his lip as the pleasure rolls through him and I clench myself around him, tighter. That’s when my own pleasure floods through me, meeting his, waves rolling over us both. Sweat drips from his forehead and down the middle of his chest.
After a quiet minute Jasper asks, “Are you a witch?”
“No,” I say, laughing.
“Has that ever happened to you?”
“Has someone made me come just by looking at me?” I ask. “No. That’s never happened before. Not even close.”
“Good.”
The boldness I felt on that first night at the gallery has never left my body. But there’s an intimacy that has come to meet it tonight—and it has taken us both by surprise. I feel the hot prick of tears behind my eyes and quickly turn my head, looking out the window at the stars stretched across the night sky. I don’t want Jasper to see me cry and mistake this feeling I’m having—a kind of happiness at the overwhelming feeling of our intimacy—for sadness.
He reaches for my hand and holds it in his. When I turn, he’s looking out his own window. His voice comes out low and hoarse. “I was thinking about staying here in Marfa for a few more days. Maybe renting an Airstream at Cosmico, maybe even camping and checking out the Marfa lights. Would you want to stay with me?”
I don’t think about missing shifts or how pissed Justine will be if I fall behind or any of the usual excuses. I don’t wait for my fears to well up and spill over. I just say yes.
That night, we check into our rented Airstream. It’s painted turquoise and pink and has its own small shower. We squeeze in together, and Jasper lathers my entire body with soap, working from my feet up to my shoulders. Then he gently shampoos my hair and wraps me in a robe. We lie together on the queen-size bed and I fall into a deep sleep, my head on his chest.
—
Morning is my favorite time of day in Marfa. The air is cold and the sun is just starting to burn. The sky is a light show, at first pale and moody and then, by early afternoon, beginning to slap on its makeup. We wrap blankets around ourselves and drink coffee by the fire in front of the Airstream. I tuck my feet under me and feel giddy. I don’t need anything more than this. I really think I could stay for months, surviving on only sex and s’mores.
We visit the same spot each day for lunch, and then shop for supplies in the tiny grocery next door, which caters to a wide range ofeating habits—bologna in the same aisle as organic tofu, boxes of Fruity Pebbles next to hand-labeled bags of heirloom grains.
Packs of dogs roam the desert during the day and one straggler makes its way to the porch of our Airstream. She’s a chihuahua mix, with two milky eyes and a patch of mange on her forehead. Her nipples are dark and rubbery from countless litters and she has an underbite that makes her look as though she’s permanently growling. I sit down slowly, and she runs into my lap, tail wagging. “Look at this!” I say, and Jasper startles when he sees her.
“Is that a dog?”
“Yes, it’s a dog. She’s cold, I think. And obviously not in the best shape.”
“I thought it was an armadillo.” Jasper takes a step toward us and the dog growls, warning him away. “I’m not going to hurt you, buddy.”
“I don’t think she likes men,” I tell him.
