Read Online Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) by Daryl Banner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Daryl Banner
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stops to cross his arms, bringing a thoughtful finger to his lips as he studies it.
Finally, just when I’m ready for him to offer his admiration, he lifts his face, meets my eyes, and says, “And what in freaky hell is this?”
I lift an affronted eyebrow. “Well, what do you think?”
He tilts his head. “It’s a naked woman,” he observes, “on all fours … and her mouth has … a ball-gag with a censor bar over it.” He shakes his head. “The hell kind of sick shit is this?” He laughs suddenly, his chuckles whistling through his fingers. “Some kind of BDSM thing?”
My face hides all emotion—except for my eyes, perhaps, which feel like they’re glowing with green fire. I merely stand there, my stomach tight and my breath held, and let him observe. It’s like I’m in class all over again, awaiting my stupid peers’ criticism.
“Her hands and ankles are handcuffed to the pedestal,” he notices. “Sorry, but uh … seeing as she’s papier-mâché … or clay, or something … I don’t think she’s going anywhere.” He laughs again.
His laughs ring across the gallery, ring into my ears, into my heart.
“You don’t think there’s a point to the cuffs? That a woman can be objectified … without her consent?” I ask, my voice soft and low.
“Okay, is that what this is? Sorry, but no.” He shakes his head, leans back against the glass wall as he smirks. “Welcome to the new age, my friend. Men are just as objectified. You see ads nowadays? Men with sculpted abs and big, fat biceps and no fuckin’ waist to speak of?”
“It’s not the same.” Now I’m crossing my arms, my words growing more clipped by the syllable. “Women are treated like objects beyond that. Tools only meant to advance men . A pretty, opinionless wife on the arm of a CEO. The First Lady. The slut in a movie. A billboard of—”
“I live in an apartment with two gay men,” Brant cuts me off, and his voice is neither mad nor argumentative; in fact, the asshole sounds downright amused. “Between them and the carousel of pretty boys who slip through my pad on a nightly basis, they have so much damn body dysmorphia and body image issues and objectification between them that even I catch myself counting calories. Hey, did you know that I’m ‘straight skinny’ … but ‘gay fat’? Me. Fat.”
I feel so many thoughts bubbling up my throat and so much anger stewing around inside me that I suddenly—and uncharacteristically—find myself completely devoid of words. I simply stand there and stare at him stupidly, my eyes cold and my lips locked.
Didn’t I say I wouldn’t let him get to me? Didn’t I just say I knew exactly what kind of boy I was getting to know?
Why do I insist on engaging with him?
“And why’s the censor bar over just her mouth?” he asks, giving the work another quick, haphazard inspection. “I mean, you can clearly see her nipples. And her pink taco. I can see her cute little pink taco.” He points at it demonstratively and whispers, “ It’s right there. Her a-cooter-mah-twat-a. Right there. ”
Maybe I should start offering spoons with my work. “I guess that’s all I’ve brought you here to show you,” I say, giving up. “Y’know. Artist to artist .”
He looks at me suddenly. “Who’s the artist of this work?”
I narrow my eyes. “Some bitch named Nell.”
He nods thoughtfully, then seems to appraise me with his eyes. “So are you done showing me all this art stuff? You ready to … show me a little something not currently on display?” He does a little cheesy dance as he circles the naked sculpture, growing closer to me, his balled up fists in the air bouncing to some beat that only he hears.
My cold stare stops him short. “Let’s be real for a second,” I suggest to Brant—ignoring his soft, inviting eyes and his ridiculously terrible-yet-oddly-sexy dance moves. “The only thing you and I will ever be … is friends. You got it? I brought you here to
Finally, just when I’m ready for him to offer his admiration, he lifts his face, meets my eyes, and says, “And what in freaky hell is this?”
I lift an affronted eyebrow. “Well, what do you think?”
He tilts his head. “It’s a naked woman,” he observes, “on all fours … and her mouth has … a ball-gag with a censor bar over it.” He shakes his head. “The hell kind of sick shit is this?” He laughs suddenly, his chuckles whistling through his fingers. “Some kind of BDSM thing?”
My face hides all emotion—except for my eyes, perhaps, which feel like they’re glowing with green fire. I merely stand there, my stomach tight and my breath held, and let him observe. It’s like I’m in class all over again, awaiting my stupid peers’ criticism.
“Her hands and ankles are handcuffed to the pedestal,” he notices. “Sorry, but uh … seeing as she’s papier-mâché … or clay, or something … I don’t think she’s going anywhere.” He laughs again.
His laughs ring across the gallery, ring into my ears, into my heart.
“You don’t think there’s a point to the cuffs? That a woman can be objectified … without her consent?” I ask, my voice soft and low.
“Okay, is that what this is? Sorry, but no.” He shakes his head, leans back against the glass wall as he smirks. “Welcome to the new age, my friend. Men are just as objectified. You see ads nowadays? Men with sculpted abs and big, fat biceps and no fuckin’ waist to speak of?”
“It’s not the same.” Now I’m crossing my arms, my words growing more clipped by the syllable. “Women are treated like objects beyond that. Tools only meant to advance men . A pretty, opinionless wife on the arm of a CEO. The First Lady. The slut in a movie. A billboard of—”
“I live in an apartment with two gay men,” Brant cuts me off, and his voice is neither mad nor argumentative; in fact, the asshole sounds downright amused. “Between them and the carousel of pretty boys who slip through my pad on a nightly basis, they have so much damn body dysmorphia and body image issues and objectification between them that even I catch myself counting calories. Hey, did you know that I’m ‘straight skinny’ … but ‘gay fat’? Me. Fat.”
I feel so many thoughts bubbling up my throat and so much anger stewing around inside me that I suddenly—and uncharacteristically—find myself completely devoid of words. I simply stand there and stare at him stupidly, my eyes cold and my lips locked.
Didn’t I say I wouldn’t let him get to me? Didn’t I just say I knew exactly what kind of boy I was getting to know?
Why do I insist on engaging with him?
“And why’s the censor bar over just her mouth?” he asks, giving the work another quick, haphazard inspection. “I mean, you can clearly see her nipples. And her pink taco. I can see her cute little pink taco.” He points at it demonstratively and whispers, “ It’s right there. Her a-cooter-mah-twat-a. Right there. ”
Maybe I should start offering spoons with my work. “I guess that’s all I’ve brought you here to show you,” I say, giving up. “Y’know. Artist to artist .”
He looks at me suddenly. “Who’s the artist of this work?”
I narrow my eyes. “Some bitch named Nell.”
He nods thoughtfully, then seems to appraise me with his eyes. “So are you done showing me all this art stuff? You ready to … show me a little something not currently on display?” He does a little cheesy dance as he circles the naked sculpture, growing closer to me, his balled up fists in the air bouncing to some beat that only he hears.
My cold stare stops him short. “Let’s be real for a second,” I suggest to Brant—ignoring his soft, inviting eyes and his ridiculously terrible-yet-oddly-sexy dance moves. “The only thing you and I will ever be … is friends. You got it? I brought you here to
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