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Ursula

Bears
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with the Woods

The Alpha’s Need

Ursula Maya

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very special bear

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Ursula

As they circled me closer, I felt their hot breath on my legs and on my fluttering stomach. I spun to watch the three of them close in. Even on all fours, they almost came up to my chest. Their noses lifted and their nostrils flared.

Their low growls were unmistakably hungry. Needing. Wanting. They were huge men. Soon I would be lost in their great embrace. There wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Not now, now that I’d made my choice. However hasty that may have been.

Bernardo’s hot breath fanned my thighs and the warmth of it crept upwards. Another nose sniffed at the swelling of my breasts, heaving out of the constraint of my silky bra. I looked down at the honey-colored thatch and Bruno’s two beautiful, watery brown eyes sparkled as his big head tilted at me. Behind me, Orsino’s big hands cupped my buttocks.

The remains of my underwear obviously wouldn’t last much longer. How long would I be able to take what was coming?

Some good came out of the bad. If I hadn’t gone with Paulie to that art gallery, then I would never have met Orsino.

Seven months I wasted with that jerk Paulie. Seven months listening to his rambling twaddle about his blog and about art and basically all about his ego. When we first met, I was perfect. He adored every curve and every slope of my luscious body.

‘Goldie, you could wear a sack and I’d still fall in love with you.’ He said. Back then. All of my habits were charming and everything that I had to say was something to treasure, something that he really wanted to hear.

Fast forward seven months, and the ideas that I gave him really have helped him to get some credibility for his stupid art blog. My lowly EvilDayJob at Dewar Hackett PR involves some social media work, so I know a few of the tricks. Soon enough, he’s getting invited to SoHo gallery openings and the artists want him to visit their studios.

Now he’s beginning to feel important and he starts thinking that I ought to cover up a bit more, maybe hold back when I’m talking to artists’ agents and dealers, and, do I really need another piece of cake?

At the start, our love life was wonderful, thrilling, unexpected and fresh. Paulie lusted after every part of me, every new situation, and every new possibility. We practically lived our lives in each others’ bedrooms. Lately, what had been lusty, slamming, hot, shouting, soaking wet sex, was now a dry, empty dustbowl. Tumbleweed would have livened it up. Then, last night in the bar, he gave me the ‘we need some space’ speech. FUCKERRRR!

The cracks had been starting to show for a couple of weeks, and at Ak Tung’s opening at the Efluvia gallery, I saw the writing on the wall. It was my networking that got him the invitation, me tweeting about the fact that his blog piece was quoted in Art & Artists magazine.

Me telling Tung’s agent that Paulie is ‘the go-to blog page for the pulse of the TriBeCa art beat,’ or something equally ridiculous. Actually, the more I put that kind of puff around for him, the more he grew into it, and now he really is the go-to blogger for the pulse of the up and coming TriBeCa art beat. For whatever that’s worth.

I never had an easy time with boys or men, and I’ve been wary since school. At high-school you were either called ‘frigid’ or you were called a ‘whore.’ The girls who got a by were the super-popular Miss Perfect cheerleaders, most of whom really did act like whores.

I heard that some of them actually went on to become whores. When guys came up to me, they were usually looking for an easy hookup. One boy, Aaron, he was so cute and I did literally dream about him. He was the biggest in his year and he had shaggy brown hair and sweet, sincere blue eyes.

Well, they looked sincere. Turns out you can’t always tell. He told me all the sweet shit you want to hear and we made out in the back of his daddy’s car. The next morning I overheard him telling his buddies how fat I was and mimicking my voice saying, ‘Oh, Aaron, you’re so big,’ Which I never said.

In the equipment stakes, he was on the smaller side of medium in fact, I just was too devastated to step up and say that to all of his friends, like I know that I should have done.

So Paulie got in under my defenses. He shot me a lot of charming lines and – dammit, if he didn’t mean any of that, if it was all just bullshit, why did he pursue me the way that he did? OK, it’s in the past, but it can still sting.

The minimal, 3
rd
floor Efluvia gallery bustled respectably with lively people with edgy hair and makeup, dressed mostly in black. The art crowd was out for Ak Tung’s private view, enjoying champagne and canapés and their brittle laughs, and making me feel dowdy and drab.

Little red stickers appeared by a few pieces to indicate that sales had been made and Colm, the gallery owner, was running about, directing Juliette, his willowy blonde assistant, towards the clusters of potential buyers. At gallery events, most of Paulie’s energy went on cultivating agents and journalists, but this time he spent an unusual amount of his evening with the artist.

I was out among the throng and flying the flag for Paulie’s blog and twitter feed. That involved pretending that I knew what the art was about, which in Tung’s case wasn’t hard. Not compared to pretending that I cared.

Ak is an adorable person, and gorgeous, and she’s making a heroic transition from a shy, geeky boy to a sassy and admirable woman, but her deconstrictivist nihilism – meaning she broke stuff into very tiny pieces then stuck the pieces on cardboard – it went way under my whelm. I was looking at a piece that consisted of sparse, shimmering dust entitled, Manic Monday, when a dark, honeyed voice behind me said, “Now, here is a work of art.”

I spun around so fast, the front of my breasts pressed through my bra and silky top into the crisp white linen on the huge chest of a devilishly handsome man. Tall, with golden brown hair and with a wicked grin spreading across his wide, full lips, his gleaming brown eyes made my stomach drop.

When he took my hand, I felt so tiny in his grasp and the touch of his fingers sent a shock all the way down to my knees. My hips tilted involuntarily towards him as he said, “I wasn’t talking about the piece on the wall.”

My breath caught in my throat and all I could manage to say was, “Oh?”

He lowered his voice and said, “I was talking about you.”

My breasts heaved and they were still almost against his hard stomach. The warmth of him was close enough for me to feel his heat on my chest. Other parts of me were heating up, too. His strong, deep voice made the whole of me vibrate as he leaned forward in a slight bow and he said, “Orsino Arturo. I’m very pleased to meet you. What do you think of this… stuff?”

“I’m pleased to meet you, too, Mr Arturo,” Where did I know that name from? “I think that Ak is a fresh and energetic talent.” That’s not the perfect art-biz playbook response, but it’s a fair approximation. The trick is to say something that sounds very appreciative and is peppered with cutting-edge buzz terms, but without giving away any actual opinion of your own.

The time that I have been helping out on Paulie’s blog has taught me that nobody in the art business actually knows anything at all, and the only opinion that really matters at an opening is the one that’s expressed in the little red stickers.

Orsino Arturo wasn’t thrown off by my evasive answer.

“You think that grinding commonplace objects to dust is modern post-Dadaism with a touch of Warhol? A little Cornelia Parker, maybe? Much more important, though, I told you my name. What’s yours?”

“I’m Goldie, Mr Arturo. Goldie Licks.”

“A golden, fairy-tale beauty? You certainly are a rare find.”

Pretty talk. I’ve heard it before. It’s usually one kind of malarkey or another. Some guys can’t help themselves, they spot a willing victim for some charm and they just pile it on. Forceful flirting, played in a low register.

I don’t remember hearing it delivered by quite such gorgeous lips before, or in a voice as deep and silky as his. There was a deep, lazy drawl in his voice and it made my insides vibrate. It’s a voice that you could just curl up in, and the look in his eye was level and hungrily sincere. My thighs tingled and my knees were unreliable at best.

Orsino was a man you wanted to be hugged by. Cuddled. Squeezed.

He really didn’t look or sound like he was feeding me a line, but whatever, right? Anyway, I was spoken for. Then. Because that was the day before yesterday. The day before the Paulie showed his true colors.

That was the moment that I spotted Paulie, coming out of a door halfway up a staircase. Ak was following him out and Paulie’s face was flushed. Ak, she seemed to be yanking up her fly. Her fly?

To the gorgeous Orsino Arturo, I said, “Please, would you excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back,” and I followed Paulie. He vanished into the crowd on the next floor up, and it was a while before I caught up with him.

Had I seen something that was just odd, but entirely innocent? Was Ak not quite as far along in her transformation as she had implied? If so, had Paulie omitted to mention his bisexuality to me? WTF? When I finally reached him through the sparkly throng, Paulie was slugging a glass of champagne like he was parched and it was water. He gulped it and he nearly spluttered when he saw me.

“Hey, Paulie, what was that?”

“What was what, the champagne?” He swayed a little and his expression was defensive.

“No, not the champagne, Paulie. What were you doing with Ak?”

“What are you talking about? Look, can we discuss this later?” He moved to brush past me. I blocked him and I said,

“Is there something to discuss?”

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, Paulie?”

“I meant that, whatever it is, can we please talk about it later. I’m here professionally, you know? I’m trying to get some business done here, OK?”

I said, “Me too, Paulie. So as your social media coordinator, perhaps you should bring me up to speed on the business that you were conducting in the room on the stairs with Ak, so that I can update your Facebook friends and the Twitterverse about it.”

“Look, it’s nothing, OK?” He was getting flushed, and that meant angry.

“OK, it’s nothing.” I said, “Look, there’s Ak now.” I waved to him. Her. To ‘Ak,’ but she acted as though she hadn’t seen me and ducked away. I looked back to Paulie and he was barging off in the opposite direction, towards the exit.

I went down the steps after him, but he shouted back, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” and he was through the door to the street.

I reached the door and saw Paulie with his collar up, hurrying along the store windows into the rainy New York night. I was debating whether to go after him and on the point of deciding against it. As I was about to turn back into the gallery, a deep growl came from down an alley, just ahead of where Paulie was.

He jumped back, his face drained and pale. Then he flattened himself against the window. Two big shapes came slowly out of the alley. I couldn’t make them out, but they were huge and they looked like they were covered in thick fur.

They hunkered in front of him. He was frozen and obviously terrified. A Bentley convertible pulling up sharply to the curb and a big man’s voice called out, “Bruno! Bernardo!” The two shapes hesitated, still sniffing at Paulie, then they both jumped into the back of the car and it swept away into the darkness and the rain.

I stood rooted to the spot. I didn’t even notice Paulie slink away, but I know he did because when I looked back, he wasn’t there. I had recognized the man’s voice. Orsino Arturo was at the wheel of the Bentley.

So Paulie was gone, and Orsino was gone. A perfect early end to a perfect evening.

On my slow, resigned walk home a lot of things bothered me. Orsino Arturo was one of them. Where did I know that name from? I thought that Mr Google ought to know, and I could ask him later. The tremors in my little world were still juddering beneath me, though, and I promptly forgot all about it.