10
Erotic: Book 1
Dallas Black
Published by Dallas Black at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Dallas Black
Author Dallas Black introduces his collection of fictional short stories published from the perspective of the modern, urban, cultured man. 10 Erotic: Book 1 is Dallas Black’s first formal foray into erotica and includes 10 short stories and 10 poems. Each erotic story is followed by an erotic poem. Dallas seeks to paint images with his words and often writes his prose with eyes closed, trying to capture scenes and vibes. Stories such as “Organic Chicken” and “Fucking Jocelyn’s Mother” attempt to avoid the obvious while providing detailed images and vivid, erotic thoughts. Any writer can tell you a story, but only an artist can paint you a picture, using his vocabulary as his medium. Dallas Black invites you to explore 10 Erotic: Book 1, and ultimately yourself.
All contents copyright C 2010 by Author Dallas Black. All rights reserved. No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.
Dallas Black
Dallas Black is a well-traveled, thirty-something, African-American technical professional by day and a writer of erotica by night and early dawn. Early in his college and professional career, Dallas suppressed his writing abilities in favor of his more marketable technical prowess. It paid off. Dallas enjoys a career that has allowed him to frequently travel internationally and to live in cities such as Los Angeles, Dallas, Miami, Sao Paulo and Helsinki.
In his professional life, Dallas Black has authored technical blogs, been quoted by TIME magazine and has had his research and articles published in major journals. Dallas regards himself as a guilt-ridden Catholic. At a young age, he was exposed less to relationships and healthy love than to overtly sexual images, books, videos and sounds behind tightly shut bedroom doors. Sexuality was never discussed in the household. But anything left to grow in the dark can take on unexpected and creative forms. Dallas Black’s pent creativity emerged in short stories of lust, irony, repressed foreboding, risky trysts and forceful affairs with an African-American tint. His stories each take a unique path; not all end in gratuitous sex, but most end in carnal gratification.
Connect with Dallas Black online at http://www.10erotic.com
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/dallasblack
dallas@10erotic.com
10 Erotic: Book 1 is dedicated to Lovebabz, who encouraged me to share my erotic voice, and who continues to be an inspiration.
—Dallas Black
Contents
Santa
Fe
If
Only for a Second
Table
6
Downtown
Organic
Chicken
Light,
Bright and Almost White
Car
Head Science
An
Exercise in Compulsion Catharsis
Ocean
Work
At
the Well I Wait
Cool
Restraint
Second
Date
Lisa
at the Circus
Preserves
and Pussy
Laundry
Lust
Questions
Smoke
and Mirrors
Evelyn
Fucking
Joselyn's Mother
The
Moment
Yes, dinner was great, the scotch decent and my date for the evening was her normal self, but I was over it. Shelly and I were essentially friends with no benefits. She enjoyed my company and didn’t mind my seemingly limitless American Express. As for me, I preferred a meal with her over the Wall Street Journal—most of the time. I wasn’t physically attracted to her, and she knew it, but frequently after a bottle of Pinot Grigio, I could feel her eyes staring at my chest. Most of time she ranted about her job, her ungracious little nephews or went through monotonous plans for the upcoming weekend. And I just sat there, listening, looking through her.
The waiter placed the bill near my wrist. Without glancing at the total, I inserted my card and sent him on his way. Shelly finished up her story and asked me my plans for the evening.
“I have an early morning with conference calls, so I’m heading home.” I followed it up with my patronizing smile. A smile she still failed to recognize.
“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll check up with you later in the week.” She reached for her purse.
“Shoot me an email and we can do a happy hour.” I gave her a half-hearted hug, my face barely touching her cheek. The valet jumped as I hit the door.
In seconds I was at 90 mph on the turnpike, wrestling for my cell phone deep in my slacks. One-handed, I texted: “Eh babe, what’s the deal?” to contact “Santa Fe.” I switched lanes with gusto while turning up the Bose system, cell phone between my thighs. Vibration came in seconds, and I read: “He’s on 3rd shift.” Placing the phone in the cup-holder, I exited the turnpike and made a sharp right into a bank parking lot.
My headlights lit up the parking garage wall and I opened the door to a whirl of German warning tones emanating from the car. The walls echoed my R&B music as I sauntered to the trunk. One touch, and the trunk hiccupped open to reveal a briefcase, gym gear and Timberland boots among a pile of blue jeans and undershirts. I stopped and snapped around to make sure no cops lingered nearby. I was stuffed from dinner: Balvenie 12 heavy on my breath and my pocket full of dinner mints. I started to unbuckle my slacks. My belt buckle cracked against the concrete as I exchanged slacks and Ferragamos for jeans and Timberland boots. Slipping on the CK shirt that accented my shoulders, I headed back to the driver’s seat.
“Meep meep, meep meep!” exclaimed my phone as I slammed the door and threw the car into reverse. “So what’s up?” the phone said, insistent. I snapped out a quick “On my way,” pressed “Send” and gripped the steering wheel, heading south. Seconds later my phone yelped and I looked down: “OK.”
As I got closer, I started thinking about her fiancée. I had no clue what he looked like or who he was but I figured it was his apartment and they were probably engaged. The place was furnished with cheap Ikea furniture and always smelled of low-budget microwaveable meals. I remembered seeing his glasses and laundered clothes folded on the couch the last time I was fucking his future wife. At least she was keeping up appearances. I could always tell which one was his pillow on the bed as I lay beside her. It smelled of some cheap brown “designer” cologne from a local department store. That was the most annoying part of this whole situation: his cologne in my nostrils while his fiancée gyrated on top of me. It made my mind wander during sex and made it nearly impossible for me to climax, no matter how many times we tried. I wondered what he looked like, wondered if he was into firearms, why he liked her, and if that was his rusty Bronco that slowly passed me the last time I left. The light went green and the questions left my mind just as quickly as the speedometer hit 50 mph.
I slowed so as to not attract attention of neighbors or rented cops, and pulled into her apartment complex. I downed three dinner mints, buckled my belt and started walking towards her door.
Hopping over wet grass, I grabbed the hand railing and ran up to the second floor two steps at a time. She always left the door unlocked when I was coming. I slowly turned the knob and awaited the inevitable ADT door chime, then stepped all the way in. The yapping of the two poodles locked in the second bedroom filled my ears. Even through the door, they knew I wasn’t supposed to be there. The place was dark. My Timberlands thumped against cheap kitchen linoleum as I made a beeline for the master bedroom. I could hear the TV on low. My Jean Paul Gaultier cologne followed me around the corner.
She was lying on her side. Her hand on her knee, legs spread in a Farrah Fawcett pose. Cotton boyshorts hugged her inner thighs while her matching pink top strangled her areolas. I hated pink.
“Hey!” she said sweetly. I took off my shirt and threw it on the end of the bed, revealing a grey undershirt. “Come here,” she whispered as she cupped my cheeks in a playful kiss. Kneeling on the bed, she reached for my face while I kicked off my boots. She grabbed a handful of my beard as I exhaled liquor and mint in her face. I helped her out of the ghastly pink top and stood up, staring down at the top of her breasts restrained in a pearl-colored bra complete with a bow on the front. She leaned forward with an anxious smile and I felt her warm nose burying deep into my belly button. Her dimpled forehead pressed hard into me while her tongue played with my stomach. Reaching down, I ran my hands through her tangled reddish hair. My right hand entered the front of her bra and cupped her breast pinching erect nipples through forefingers.
Unbalanced, she sank to her knees on the bed, the TV reflecting against her curvy torso. Her hands rose to the backs of my upper thighs, right under my ass, her chin hovered inches from my tented groin. I reached for my zipper as she reached for her bra clasp. There was a pop, and, her breasts came tumbling out as she faced my open zipper.
She leaned back, her legs spreading instinctively. Her breasts hung heavy. I put my left knee on the bed and then my right. I slid my jeans, then boxers, to mid-ass. She rocked forward, gleaming eyes affixed. I reached down and handled myself mischievously, already elongated. I was swollen, inches from her face. She licked my knuckles, my forefingers, then moved towards me ravenously. My hands retreated to my side as she engulfed. She worked forward then retreated, worked forward then retreated. Her eyes rolled back like a Great White: she was where she wanted to be. I stood perfectly still while she readjusted her stance without losing a glug. I loved watching her work up a lather around her lips. Her breasts swayed in unison with her sucking. I closed my eyes for a moment, exhaled and reopened to see her steal a glance at me. I palmed the top of her head, forcing her down lower.
She dropped her lips to my sacks. I tightened my grip on her head and both sacks were politely in her mouth. Her tongue was everywhere, searching and probing, and I tensed in delight. She returned to my member as I shifted my pelvis backward. My cue was impeccable and she opened, holding her breath with closed eyes as I moved forward to fill her throat. Out. In. Deeper. I heard her about to gag. Out, and she coughed harshly. Dribble fell from her bottom lip. I paused, staring down, mutely reminding her that there was more to come. She found her focus and moved forward for more. The top of her teeth skirted me, making me wince as I pushed deeper. She retreated, panting, looking at me as if she had failed. But I coaxed her on, and with her eyes closed tight she obliged. Numbness followed by tightness ensued.
My breaths quickened as she cocked her head at an angle, waiting for the inevitable. Her eyes focused on my thighs while I stroked myself the last couple miles, my knuckles banging against her cheek. She flicked her hair behind her head in anticipation. Tongue out, her eyes closed. Then that effervescent pause. Channels opened and anticipation ended. Her face was assaulted with repeated warm lashes as I grunted and flexed. Her nose, her eyes, even her dark roots now coated. She knelt motionless under the cascade.
When it was over, she hopped off the bed and headed to the bathroom. I patted myself down; shoes, shirt, keys, phone. Squinting at herself in the mirror, she wiped the junk away with a damp towel and proceeded to tie her hair up with a black tie. I leaned against the wall and quickly glanced at the scene. In the center was the rumpled bed with baby blue sheets that she now had six hours to replace.
Like a freezing stripper, she hugged herself while searching for her shorts. She found them on the ground and pulled them to her waist with a snap. I felt my heart start to shut down, and in haste I grabbed her waist as she grabbed my forearms. Her light grasp and meek look said, “Thanks, but don’t stay too long.” One pouty kiss, and instantly I was hard again. She stood, taking me all in and I took my next step backward.
“Bye,” she giggled, hands folded across her plump breasts. And I couldn’t help but break rank and smile as I turned to walk back through the kitchen.
The door chime gave way to barking mutts and a much balmier night. A quick peek through the neighbor’s kitchen window confirmed they were not interested, and I walked gingerly towards my car. The apartment security gate opened and creaked loudly as I punched the gas. I glanced at my phone. “No missed calls.” I smiled at myself thinking about how much I loved Santa Fe.
I understood, if only for a second. I understood why there were hundreds of big muscular tattooed black men incarcerated over pussy. I understood, if only for a second, the reasoning behind a man punching his woman’s ex repeatedly in the face while she watched in the background, screaming his government name. I understood upon the wettest insertion how a man could strangle a woman nearly lifeless until she denied ever fucking her ex. All the gaudy rap videos, spray-painted chains, cars on blinding rims, overweight girls in black spandex made perfect sense. If only for a second.
All I knew was that Nigerian weddings had great food and expensive gifts, and everybody danced. I sat at table 6, taking in the scene. It started out stodgy and polite, but after the Heinekens took effect, the risqué jokes began to grace the microphone and ganja smoke drifted across the main ballroom. My suit was already making me sweat and the wine I kept downing wasn’t helping.
Most of the other men wore elaborate outfits adorned with bright colors and native patterns. I was at a table encircled mostly by wealthy couples and a sprinkling of those pretending to be wealthy. As the dancers began their performance, I wondered when the buffet would open.
A large black hat caught my attention as a young, dark-skinned woman rose to quietly make her way to the restroom. She wore traditional garb; however, hers had a wonderful split in the rear to reveal powerful thighs ending in five-inch black stilettos. She quickly rearranged her dress, as if she felt my gaze from table 6.
At the beginning of the third song, she dashed back into the rear of the room, noticeably relieved. Her full breasts bounced two beats behind her and I could hear the ruffle of her gown as she sat down. I glanced at her table: three older couples and her. Her gaze was distant and she barely nursed her red wine. Turquoise eye shadow accented her headdress and two gold necklaces graced her slim neck. Her jaw was strong, in contrast to her soft cheekbones, and she had a glow of fertility about her. Her shoulders implied strength, while her mild lips invited sweet, quiet kisses.
A resounding crescendo ended the act, and I offered lazy applause while others cheered with glasses and beers in hand. I kept drinking. It was announced that it was time for what I called “the money dance,” and I readied my ones and fives to waft over the head of the bride. I made my way towards the dance floor through a maze of red hotel chairs, and other guests started to leave their tables to do the same. The music intensified, young boys with drums stepping closer to the bride, making the scene loud, bright and vivacious. Under hot lights, I gyrated to the rhythm, waiting to get the bride’s attention.
Then black stilettos shimmied up to me and her arm bumped mine. She looked at me clapping my hands fiercely and gave me a wide smile, showing off ivory teeth. Stepping past me to the bride, she hugged her tightly, revealing again those tense thighs through the split in her dress. My eyes took an elevator from her stilettos to the shelf just below her buttocks, quickly readjusting my gaze as she turned back towards me. I met her eyes. She leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”
The bride was breathtaking, and even under the hot lights and in the midst of the ruckus her face was an oasis of calm. Her makeup was impeccable. Her handlers flung her into my arms as I hugged and yelled “Congratulations!” She couldn’t hear me but knew I’d said something congratulatory. I held her left hand high and we danced in a tight square. I gave way to the looming shadows behind me and let the huge dark couple to my rear have their go. A stream of laughter and Yoruba filled my ear as I exited the dance floor, heading to table 6.
As I rounded the tables, I saw Ms. Black Stilettos talking to the older couple at my table. I cleared my throat and continued walking. She shifted apologetically as I approached, making room for me to sit. I grabbed her shoulder and said, “Oh no, you’re good, please, have a seat.” She gave me a cautious look, but my eyes calmed her natural fight-or-flight instinct. She sat next to me. As if I had planned it, my glass was topped off by an anxious server, who also offered to refill her glass of red. The night was certainly improving.
The music continued, and soon the entire crowd was invited to the floor. Without a hitch, table 6 sprang into action. Black stilettos danced as she navigated chairs heading towards the dance floor. I felt like a long-forgotten war hero until she turned around and gestured “Come on!” I was only a few steps behind when she was swallowed up by the wooden dance floor. Soukouss music blasted, the scales scampering up and down.
After a quick two-step to the middle, I found myself in front of her. I reached for her waist and my knee thrust forward, requesting permission to enter her legs. She accepted and her right arm rose in approval as her long nails dug into my shoulder. We started to dance. Her sleeveless dress flowed and so did my forehead as the wine took effect. After a few elementary steps I dared a turn. She obliged, adding her signature dip. The music was too loud for me to introduce myself, so I continued to take the lead. She followed and I feared for her shoes to hurt or an overbearing mother to beckon her.
As we danced, I could smell her nervous musk combined with indigenous perfume. I looked at the symmetry of her face while she looked over my shoulder. I wanted to plunge my mouth into her neck and taste her; lick her like a salt mine in the darkest midnight. Her thighs stuck to my knee with sweat. She learned my rhythm, my pattern, felt my wants, contemplated my needs. My hand gripped her waist harder and I leaned in on the down-step. My ear was on fire as we danced inches from each other. Like opening an oven, I felt heat waft across my face. She stared over my shoulder and her breasts, sheltered by layers of imported fabric, pushed deep into my chest.
The song ended on an abrupt downbeat and as she dismounted from my knee her hand draped my chest and she smiled. Returning her smile, I suddenly realized my forehead was streaming with sweat. The floor cleared as we heard the announcement for another ceremony. I followed Black Stilettos to the edge of the dance floor, grabbed a Heineken off a nearby tray and stood next to her while she fanned herself. I suddenly felt awkward. I noticed a couple stares from older Nigerian couples sizing me up as we returned to our seats. Obviously they had seen my well-placed knee and had noted the sensual movement of my waist on the dance floor. I wasn’t going anywhere.
“Sit down!” she commanded like a tribeswoman as I stood next to my chair. Her accent was stronger than I’d expected. I sat and turned towards her. “So who are you here with?” she barked. I rattled off my friends’ names, carefully pronouncing the Nigerian last names, and she nodded.
We both stared at the cake being sacrificed among flash photography. “Do you live here in LA?” she asked, without even looking at me.
“Yes,” I replied, and asked about her. She lowered her chin and said she was visiting from Iowa. My brow furled and I repeated: “Iowa?”
“Yes, Iowa,” as if there was nothing unusual about that. “I have only been in the States for two years—I may move to LA after nursing school.” I began to wonder how she got to Iowa. I was sure it had to do with a scholarship and two relatives she’d never met before, who’d told her Des Moines was a great city.
“Oh, so you like it here in LA?” I said loudly.
“Yes, there seems to be much more to do.” She took the last swig of her red wine. Suddenly she seemed so simple and young to me. She looked up and saw a woman she recognized, and stood up, excited. Planting her hand firmly on my shoulder as she pivoted out of her seat, she excused herself and skipped along to her friend, who stood waiting with a shocked smile.
I leaned back in my chair, realizing we were in hour three of the party and beginning to wonder where my friends were. I found them over by the bar and was welcomed with pounding fists and wide drunken smiles.
“Eh man, we saw you over there with Umola, getting your groove on.”
I couldn’t hide my smile, but said piously, “Yeah man, she seems cool,” not stressing the situation. This was the first time I had heard her name and it matched: it sounded traditional. We stood in silence gawking at the attendees and I started to wonder what was next.
“We may go to a club afterwards, you down?”
I didn’t feel like a club tonight, but kept my reply hopeful. “Yeah, okay, let me know.”
Another hour passed, and I started to make my way through the main ballroom to the hotel bar. I remembered the bar had a widescreen TV, and figured I could take a breather and catch up on some sports highlights. As I rounded the corner, I saw that the bar was packed with people from the wedding. Not one barstool was open, and each one had at least two people in between. I definitely wasn’t ready to go up to the room, but didn’t have the energy to fight for a seat. I found a comfortable chair in the atrium where I could barely make out the scores on the TV.
A petite Latina walked up with a small tray. “Anything to drink?” she asked. “Perfect,” I thought, and asked for a double McAllen 12 neat. She nodded and continued along her pre-planned route. I leaned back and tried to concentrate on the TV among boisterous Nigerian laughter and loud stories in another language.
My drink appeared and, after an exchange of way too much money, I looked up to see Umola strolling towards me. She was walking with a mission and I figured she was on her way somewhere specific and had a time limit. Nonetheless, I called out, “Hey there!”
She pursed her lips and replied, “I was wondering where you went.”
In reality she was the one who’d wandered off but I went with it. “Oh, I just needed a breather,” I said, brandishing my drink. I took a sip, sucking my teeth.
“Well I need to get out of this dress.” she said, towering over me. Her eyes were on my waist.
From deep within my arrogance, I said, “Need any company?” As the words tumbled from my lips in a freefall, all I could do was watch them and wait for the tragic result. I lifted the glass to my lips immediately, trying to chalk it up to the alcohol.
She laughed, brushing off my advances. Her bosom shook like an orange tree. I felt like I got away with murder. There was an awkward silence. I filled it by asking for her number, and she fumbled through a pocket deep in her garb for her phone.
“Well, call me after you change and we can see what’s up,” I said.
“Okay,” she said “but I need to find my cousin and see what they plan on doing first.”
I took that as a no, but my eyes continued to trace her outline under her garb.
“Talk to you soon,” she said. And as she walked away, her eyes washed over me from waist to neck. I felt as though she’d just undressed me.
Ten minutes later, I was in my room on my bed, flipping through a loop of twelve channels. Four were some flavor of CNN. It was 1:15 a.m., and I was a bit wired. I pulled off my slacks and was looking around for basketball shorts and a t-shirt, when my cell phone exploded on the hotel desk. I figured it was my boys looking to head out to the club. I was wired, but was in no mood to be in a car for an hour, only to stand in line for another hour to stand at a bar full of sober women talking to their girlfriends. But picking up the phone, I saw a foreign area code and a text message that read: “I COULD USE SOME COMPANY.” The obnoxious capital letters forced me to shake my head. It took me a second to realize it was from Umola.
Okay, I figured, great, she wants to go out and now I can see how she looks like in some jeans and high heels. “Okay, sounds good,” I texted in reply. “Meet in the lobby in 20?” I laid the phone on the desk and turned around, looking now for my jeans. I found them wrinkled on the chair. My cell phone blurted a reply. The message was just two words but I read them twice: “ROOM 618.” I waited a second for another message but nothing came. I stood there with the jeans in my hand, perplexed.
“Okay,” I texted, and proceeded to take off my underwear and run to take a whore’s bath. I hit the hot spots with a facecloth and followed it up with three layers of cologne. I donned my jeans with no underwear for some odd reason, stuffed my back pocket with a newly minted condom and put on a cotton t-shirt. I then thought to myself I could be completely reading this wrong. But either way, I intended to find out.
Exiting the elevator on the sixth floor, I did some quick math (618 is less than 675 and greater than 600), and figured out I needed to turn right. In front of 618, I stared at the peephole intently, swearing I could see a black eyeball staring me back. My middle knuckle rapped her door twice, hard. Then I strained to hear any commotion, her in the shower, on the phone: nothing. The door clicked open and there she was in a white hotel robe. She seemed two feet shorter and wore no makeup; a natural beauty.
My eyebrows rose and she said, “Hey, come in,” motioning me in and closing the door tightly behind me. I walked past a steamed-up bathroom, figuring I had jumped the gun and come too early. I snapped around and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were still getting dressed.”
But she ran into the bathroom and I heard: “Oh, no problem, give me a minute.” echo from the bathroom. I sat on the bed and saw two open mini-bottles of red wine; both bone dry. I lay back on the bed next to her suitcase and stretched out like a tired leopard. My hands were behind my head and the jeans low on my waist.
Scooting back into the room, she feverishly rummaged through her luggage next to me, her hands digging deep through satin panties and cotton tube socks looking for some long lost makeup. Her robe opened and the front fell away to reveal a black sea. A flat stomach, dark areolas and a bush suitable for a safari. Her belly button was a small bubble sitting atop a core worthy of a junior Olympic tumbler. A dark birthmark dotted her upper thigh, providing a waypoint for a lost explorer. My head didn’t move as I stared. Her breasts sat high and looked fertile enough to nourish all of Lagos. I smelled freshly applied cocoa butter. Her pores were still open from her hot shower and I quietly inhaled the very essence of her. She continued to burrow through her luggage and my eyes moved to her face. She had to know and at least feel her skin exposed. She looked up and her eyes met mine.
“Have you not seen a woman before?” Her tone was almost angry. This gave me an indication of the idiotic look on my face.
I chuckled. “Not as beautiful as you,” I said, simultaneously running my hand past her robe and behind her thigh. In doing so, more of her robe fell away, adding more pieces to the puzzle. I expected my hand to be slapped after offering such a cheap line. However, it seemed my mundane flattery had struck the right note with Umola. She stood silently as my fingertips played on her ass. My head nearly off the edge of the bed I stared up at her thicket and swore it started to pulsate.
Umola grabbed and guided my hand. She moved it from her ass to her thigh and then to her now moist mound. My hand was numb and my fingers frozen as she dragged them. My middle finger entered her labia, then my forefinger. Her stomach quivered. I hadn’t breathed for the last minute and a half. I guided my finger in, hitting her natural shelf and then back. She cupped my hand with both of hers and now was biting her lip. I heard her moan. Her nipples were now pointing out the window, and I could see tiny bumps around them. My knobby knuckle entered her and I flexed it up towards her clitoris. I felt it: the size, or so it seemed, of a lima bean. I rubbed my knuckle hard against it and she gripped my hand hard, stopping all motion.
Suddenly, we were back into consciousness and she was out of breath. I saw sweat from her neck race south. To give her time, I pulled away. I moved to a sitting position on the bed. I pushed her luggage off the bed; neither of us heard the crash. She was standing now, knees between mine as I sat on the bed facing her audacious torso and her thick bush. I felt her plum-purple nails on my scalp. Her palms rested on my head just above my ears, as though she were crowning me. My hands gripped her thighs, supporting her as I reached to take a bite of her dark plum. Like a burst, split peach under the country sun it glistened. My tongue started low and rose toward her deep pink valley against a dark mocha mountain. I tasted her musk and moaned in sensual submissiveness. My back arched and my neck strained to maintain an optimal position. She was on her tippy toes, calves flexed. They look as though they were about to burst. I felt her inner thighs flex against my temples. Hearing a schoolgirl yelp, I proceeded to start my ABC’s with my tongue against her engorged clitoris. My thumbs moved to keep her door open while my tongue continued. E, F, G . . . at the beginning of H I felt her tense up and a clear waterfall gushed into my goatee. I felt it stick. I, J, K I continued, and suddenly her grip on my head was no longer bearable. I stopped, panting. Sweat from my forehead stung my eye and I leaned back to wipe it away. As I did, I smelled her divine self on my finger. I wanted to stand up and dine on her eraser nipples but she was too sensitive. Her head was spinning and her hand gripped my shoulder for balance. As though it were the end of the third act, she closed her robe and a flash of white cotton replaced the view.
Later I learned that this was the closest Umola had ever come to intercourse. She’d never had a face in her nether regions. She learned early that pleasuring herself was a sure way to satisfy her selfish needs and the wishes of her stern mother to avoid pregnancy.
I stood up, and she stepped back with her hands across her chest. She was embarrassed and had shut down. I rinsed my mouth and my face with water, and fumbled over a ton of makeup products for a clean towel. I returned to the room with a smirk, and there she was at the end of the bed, arms crossed.
“Umola” I said. “Are you okay?” only half seriously. I reached out for her, but she could only look at my neck; she couldn’t bear to look me in the face. “You’re beautiful, Umola,” I said, looking down at the tops of her eyelids. She pinched her nose with her fingers, trying to hold in her emotion. I didn’t know if she was about to laugh or cry, so I braced for the worst. She looked up at me with meek eyes and followed it up with a strong smile. Everything was fine, and I gave a sigh of relief. While she spent nearly thirty minutes in the bathroom freshening up, I picked up her luggage from the floor. She came out in a long green silk nightgown with spaghetti straps, smelling of lilacs and jasmine. I looked at her face, searching for any indication it was time for me to leave. Instead, she encouraged me to take off my shoes and proceeded to ask me about Los Angeles and my job. I got her to talk about nursing school and why she loved helping people. We spent the rest of the night talking like two tourists. It was nearly 4 a.m. when I left. I meandered through dead hotel halls, past alert hotel security, and back to my room. I crashed with Umola in my head and in my nose.
Oh please don’t trim that tree,
For I love it when your wiry hair gets in my teeth.
When I fall to my knees, prepared to indulge you in heat,
I want your hair in my nostrils as I eat.
I love your bristled stubble rubbed against my face.
I rub my nose raw in efforts to get a taste.
So don’t be shy if your peach tree is full of leaves,
For some of us men love you oh so natural, please believe.
No need to wax, curl, prep and tame:
All that’s a waste of time and money and is simply lame.
For it has a purpose—don’t remove it just to be in style;
It catches and simmers them juices that drive us men so wild.
In fact, I’ll wait to pick your fruit late in the season,
Just so I can run my fingers through your thick, Zen garden.
Call me nasty, call me silly, call me wrong,
But whatever you do, baby, please don’t remove it all.
Leave it high, so high I get lost and can’t find my way.
Like a kid in a sandbox, my tongue will frolic and play.
Through thickets and thistles of black spicy hair.
I will be so thankful that, for me, you chose to leave it there.
For when your cotton panties slowly hit the ground,
It will be your dense vegetation that keeps me around.
Tease me by braiding it up or relaxing it down—
Either way, I expect busy, heavy traffic when I visit downtown.
“All this for fucking organic chicken,” I muttered under my breath while standing in line at the high-end grocery store. My weight shifted to one leg. I didn’t have time for this. The 72-year-old lady in front of me flashed a snarl while unzipping her turquoise pocket book. At least, I interpreted it as a snarl, but in reality she just didn’t see many black men on this side of the poultry counter. The old bitch was the poster child for why I loathed the northeast. I was only here because Diane and I were trying to make this marriage work. I tried to calm myself as the lady dipped into her ancient purse for a pen. I prayed she wouldn’t produce a checkbook, but in seconds she did just that. As she strained to see the total on the register I looked up to see the twenty-two-year-old brunette cashier staring at my eyes. I returned her gaze with my patented “angry impatient black man” look. Unfazed, she continued to look at me intently; at my lips, my chin, my gold rope, my pecs. She seemed to evaluate every hair on my chin, my head.
We were interrupted by the sound of a check ripped away in grandiose fashion. The old bitch grabbed her goods and scooted to her Cadillac before I could rob, rape and kill her. I inched forward, placing the organic game hen on the rubber belt. It crept forward as I reached for my money clip. As the cashier turned to weigh the hen on the scale, I noticed a high school waist hoisted on top of professional-league volleyball calves. White socks ended in two pink stripes high on her calf. The last stripe hid a heart tattoo with an arrow through it. I couldn’t make out the name in the middle: Brad, Brandon, Brynn? Her khaki shorts sat atop muscular thighs that disappeared under her shorts too soon.
She turned and gave me my total orally even though I presented exact change in my hand. Her fingertips scraped the bottom of my palm as she carefully picked up the quarter, two nickels and four pennies. She slammed the cashier drawer shut and reached both hands behind her head to readjust her gold ponytail. Her smock rose as she lay back against the railing, looking at me. Her belly button made an appearance, followed by bare stomach and then the rib of her bra under a cotton top. I could see pale hair glint on her stomach. My eyes traversed her body, stopping when they reached her eyes. The color of her eyes was the same color as the ocean her forefathers had sailed in wooden ships, headed to plunder countries and races; pale blue. I reached for my orange plastic bag containing my game hen, smiled courteously and started towards the door. My body weight pushed open the glass door and a small bell announced my exit.
Gravel exploded as I raced out of the lot, made a prompt right and headed to back the summer home. Earlier in the day I had begun setting up the new plasma TV in the living room, thinking I would have a solid hour or so to myself. Diane peeked in and reminded me that Tyson’s chicken was full of steroids and I should go to the local market for organic chicken and some asparagus before they closed.
I didn’t even turn around—I was in no mood to argue. All I wanted was a nice meal, a nice bottle of wine and maybe one of her mediocre blowjobs. Of course, the latter depended on the bottle of wine and the number thereof. I really needed this evening to be devoid of bullshit. In fact, the whole reason why we bought this summer home was to get out of the city and focus on us. I told myself I would keep my end of the bargain, so I abandoned my TV and headed to the market.
Back from the market, I headed inside and dropped the game hen on the granite countertop and raced upstairs ready to finally begin my evening, I put on the black loafers Diane had picked out for me off Fifth.
“Where’s the asparagus?” I heard her inquire from the kitchen. I trotted down the stairs and stopped at their base, staring up at the ceiling fan. I’d fucked up. I walked over to Diane and confronted her like a little kid “What? They’re in there!” I made a split decision to lie and pin the blame on the dumb cashier. I figured Diane wouldn’t make me go back.
I was wrong. She shook an empty orange bag in my face. Groaning, I confirmed what we already both knew: I’d forgotten the asparagus. I gave her a look indicating that we would be just fine without the vegetable in question and started asking about the progress on the crab boil, hoping she couldn’t read the lie that sat comfortably on the tip of my forked tongue.
She gave me a quick eye roll while peering at the receipt. “She didn’t ring them up so you didn’t even get them.” Her right hand fell to her waist as her face went from curiosity to school mom. My lips curled into a smile involuntarily as my lie tickled my lips. I tried to fight it, but all of a sudden the whole thing was funny.
“Derrick, go get the asparagus, okay?” she said, as I giggled like a tardy school boy. She dismissed me, and I looked up to see the keys to the Range Rover on the edge of the granite kitchen island. I snatched them and hit the door before she could even breathe another breath.
I literally had fourteen minutes before the market closed for the weekend and I figured it would take me at least ten to get back there. The richer the neighborhood, it seemed, the earlier shops closed. These island inhabitants opened stores out of pure boredom and for a platform to gossip about neighbors versus actually earning an honest living. Hell, they were able to live out here because of their “dishonest” living back in the city. In reality, I couldn’t say much, since Diane and I always dreamed of having a summer home here and together we’d worked hard in the city to make it happen. I checked my engraved timepiece and noticed I was running out of time. I gave the Range Rover HKE Super Sport the good ole British gusto. I rolled through stop signs and passed old Jaguars driven by even older cougars. I made a sharp left into the market parking lot to see a Chevy Cavalier tucked in the corner. I assumed the cashier was still there, and I parked literally three feet from the door. I jumped out, a man on a mission. The bell announced my return.
Half the lights were off and not a soul could be heard in the store. I stood motionless at the cashier stand, waiting for someone to come investigate. I didn’t like being in a store by myself out here. I surely did not want to “surprise” anybody for any reason. But after a few seconds I shrugged off my unease, and maneuvered towards the produce aisle, selecting a stellar bunch of asparagus. I scoffed at the price and proceeded to sack it loudly, trying to make my presence known. I walked back to the empty cashier stand with pronounced steps.
Ten seconds turned into forty-five, and my patience turned into hot annoyance as I waited for the cashier. All I needed to do was pay for this asparagus and get back to the house so I could finally begin my evening. I was tempted to slam $5.50 on the counter and hit the door, but thought better of it. Then I heard a door slam towards the rear of the store. I marched towards the stockroom, past Roquefort cheese and vegetable crackers paired with a Sonoma Chardonnay.
A swaying light and the rustle of cardboard boxes indicated that someone was stirring back there. I slowly moved through plastic doors to see the cashier text messaging. Her thumbs were moving a mile a minute and she stood breathless, eyes fixed on her phone. Her smock lay politely on a nearby box. Midriff exposed, she stood there like a young muscular fawn. The pinnacle of her legs ended in a spectacular upside-down “V” and her low-cut cotton shirt exposed the entrance to a Black Diamond ski slope. She was not a high school kid. With that body she was in community college at least. She must have been active in sports, because her limbs screamed athletics. She was like a cardboard cut-out of those girls at every summer camp on the eastern seaboard. The ones with the gorgeous shape, flowing hair and electric eyes. The ones you stared at from across the field, until a lanky blue-eyed white boy scooped her up to head down to the cafeteria. The ones you jacked off to in the dorm bathroom with your eyes closed and mouth open. The ones who never knew you existed until you accidentally splashed them in the pool, resulting in a “sit-down” with the camp counselor.
I froze, asparagus in hand, desperately not wanting to frighten her. “Hey there!” I announced, loudly and clearly. She turned towards me with a welcoming yet inquisitive look, her eyes widening. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“You’re back again!” she said, in an upbeat tone. I expected her to dart for her cashier station to ring me up; she didn’t. “So what brought you back?” she asked, putting down her phone and boldly walking towards me. I looked at her like she was an idiot and sarcastically said, “I’m just trying to get rung up,” while waving the asparagus in my hand. I noticed two magical bullets shooting out of her t-shirt. Nipples so hard and adolescent they forced themselves known.
“How old are you?” I asked. I wondered where the hell that question came from; obviously from deep within my lower bowels.
She took another two steps towards me, paused and said, “Well how old are you?” My eyebrow rose, indicating I that I knew she was being sassy.
“Old enough” I stated bluntly, in a baritone voice.
Her eyes fell to my waist, then moved back to my face. “Your fly’s down.” I thought she was being silly but then looked down to see my zipper at full descent. I guess while upstairs getting ready for my evening with Diane I’d been a bit too hasty getting dressed. I instinctively reached down to grasp my zipper. As if in slow motion, she moved forward and grabbed my right wrist. I flinched as she leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “Allow me.”
Her cheek was centimeters from mine as her eyes stared at my flushed ears. I felt her reach down and deliberately wiggle my zipper up. My member retreated out of fear but relaxed as she showed care in her ascent. She zipped higher and finally reaching the top she tugged it hard. My heels lifted as she did. Her lips descended to my neck and her soft subtle hand rose under my shirt. She was greeted by a furry trail and an instinctive reaction to cold fingers. Her nubile fingers continued upward through the valley of my chest, grazing my nipple. I grew tense. I stood staring up at the grey stockroom ceiling, hands at my side, while my mind raced. She started to lick my neck, waiting for my hands to grip her. I stared at ceiling tiles.
She continued to explore, her palm falling down my side, past my waist, hips and back, and around to my crotch. My chin still pointed towards the sky. I rolled my eyes, thinking how silly and potentially fucking dangerous this was. She entered the front of my black chinos and groped me hard, prompting me to smile. It was like watching a youngster put on oversized rubber boots and dance for her father. She believed she was all grown up and was ready to show it. She was curious about the new black man in town and in my mind I elected to leave it at that: curiosity. My chin lowered as I faced her curious, enthralled eyes. I prepared to reach for her hands and hip her to the rules of this world. This was before my chinos were released magically below my waist.
She had pulled down everything with one strong swipe. Like an experienced magician with tablecloth in hand, she whisked my chinos and boxers down to mid-thigh. I was out of the bag. Her expression didn’t change as she stared at our semi-erect friend. My distant cologne made a sudden appearance and my head swooned. Tennis shoes screeched on warm concrete as she made herself comfortable on her knees. I was becoming engorged and surged upward. Her hands latched onto both my legs directly behind each knee as she watched nature’s show. Her salmon lips parted and with her head cocked to the side she swallowed me. A tunnel of wet warmth encased me. She was over-zealous, and her palate housed my entire self. I stood, legs bent, anchored into the floor. My head fell back as I mouthed “fuck” under hot breath. My shoulders sank as I felt her tongue dart. She had something to prove. She went deep very quickly, like a young girl holding her nose and jumping into the pool’s deep end. It was too deep, too quick. She tried to mask her gag, released, gasped and returned again. I looked down to see the top of her head and her face in concentration. She found an awkward rhythm. Her teeth brought me to instant reality as I winced. She did not recognize the hint so I stepped into her, forcibly opening her jaw. She grimaced and her eyes shut tight as I filled nearly every pink space in her throat. Cautiously, I latched onto the back of her head through tight blonde locks. I guided her with apprehension, staring down at her focus. She breathed hard out of her nose, followed by a deep gulp. She continued and I stood in joyous agony. I was too far gone. I approached the edge of the cliff. My right hand gripped her shoulder while saliva gurgled and dripped from her bottom lip. I pushed her chin back. She was heaving. Her eyes never left my wet erection as it drooped under her chin. Disappointment was spray-painted across her face, like when she got her first B minus in elementary.
My eyes widened as I came rushing back to reality. A harsh reality. I had gone too far. I reached for my boxer briefs and slid them up as she wiped her chapped lips with the back of her hand. I buckled up, which was a challenge considering my erection.
I waited for her expression. I waited for that “I’ve been abused” trailer-trash look in her face. She gripped my right knee as she rose. Then she stepped back and looked at me as if crafting an apology. An apology for the ravenous curious monster inside her she could not cage. I didn’t give her a chance to speak as I realized she was more embarrassed than I was. I wanted to calm her, but instead I picked up my now-drooping asparagus from the floor and proceeded with silly small talk.
She was on summer vacation and her name sounded like Cheri. I couldn’t catch it because my heart was racing and my head felt like a block of wood. I had a nervous sense of humor as I followed her to the cashier stand. She rang me up slower than I preferred and waited for me to promise I would come back. Promise I would stop by and validate her. I didn’t.
I left the parking lot slowly, as if to not alarm anybody. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I kept saying to myself as I pulled onto the main street. I glanced at the dash and realized that what had seemed liked hours was exactly twenty-two minutes. The asparagus danced in the passenger seat leather as I hit the gas.
I arrived home and with my hand on the doorknob, I checked my pants. I looked down and pushed my shirt down to cover a dark saliva stain. Then I walked into the bright kitchen. The air conditioning made me realize I was perspiring. My armpits and forehead were sopping. I slid the asparagus and keys onto the island while onions simmered and crab boiled, and ran upstairs. “Evelyn called!” is what I heard as I reached the top step. I didn’t reply, but instead hit the showers immediately. I was still aroused and sensitive.
I lathered up well, rinsed off and appeared downstairs in Ralph Lauren shorts and dark leather sandals. Dinner was everything I had expected.
I faked exhaustion and as we lay in bed Diane held me and laid her ear on my chest. I lay staring at the whirling wicker ceiling fan, waiting for the caller ID to light up and read the local police department. Yes she was of age, consenting and it was technically her move, but I would have been to blame. I sweated in pima cotton bottoms the entire night, listening to Diane snore. In the morning I found myself swollen in the shower thinking about it. I closed my eyes under scalding water, thinking about her college lips and volleyball thighs. I released and my mind instantly cleared. I left the shower vowing never to fucking eat organic chicken again.
Light, Bright and Almost White
You see, I never liked blackberry pie. Curled my lip at cobbler with dark crust. I couldn’t stand to see or smell burnt toast, which my mother affectionately called “Cajun” as she ladled melted butter on top. I could not take it. I liked my pancakes nearly raw. Wet in the middle. Beige, semi-runny and moist. I liked my cobbler light, sweet with a touch of flakiness. Graham-cracker crusts had to be a medium paper-bag brown. If any darker, I associated them with old nigger Oreos. Disgusting.
My waffles had to be barely dry at the edges. The batter just reaching hardness as they leapt out of European waffle irons. Forty seconds too long, and no amount of butter or syrup could save them.
I hated cheap chocolate sheet cake. The ultra-sweet ornaments on top, combined with harsh fake acidic chocolate that never left your mouth. I gravitated towards white sheet cake. Thick icing in pastel colors, supported by white cake. I stuffed my face. Mother always ordered fruit tarts or cake filled with peach or apricot filling for my birthday. She knew never to order anything else. She enjoyed it just as much as me. Reminiscent of when her parents told her she could not date her first boyfriend because he was too dark. She knew it, but just wanted validation. Just like I validated her choice in pastry as I cut a large slice of a crème tart blanketed with fresh strawberries, kiwi, apricots and pineapple. Croissants ruled over bear claws and French toast coated in beautiful white eggs didn’t even require cinnamon. Nothing sinister there—just angelic and perfect.
Norma’s Café was
a great place for the boys to end up after a long night out. We
needed something to soak up the beer and liquor from the evening and
Norma’s Café always came through. At 4 a.m. there was always
something to gawk at: a waitress with a jacked hairdo and thick nurse
shoes or a group of drunk teenagers heckling some self-conscious fat
girls scarfing down double cheeseburgers.
The three of us lounged deep in a booth and talked about some truths, but mostly told tales. After a full stomach and a healthy tip we hit the door, but it was obvious nobody was ready to go home. Marcus and I stood outside waiting for Terrence to come back from the bathroom and I leaned against a light-post, recounting the memories of last week.
“Man, that Filipina broad he brought last week was kinda thick.”
Marcus gave me a nod and drew her key features with his fingertips, saying, “Yeah, when she hit the door I saw her outline and was like, damn!”
“So, are they together now or what?”
“Naw, I think they just met and he had her swing through.”
Terrence hit the front door hard and joined our lazy lean in front of the parking lot.
For 4 a.m. there was still a decent sea of cars; however, a blue Ford Contour near the rear of the parking lot caught my attention. It was alone, and I could make out the outline of a driver in the front passenger seat. Most people in most situations at 4 a.m. park with all the other cars near the entrance, for security. But this car was near the trash bin, parked in a pronounced shadow at the rear of the parking lot. The driver was looking forward. Lights and engine off. Suddenly, I knew what it was: car head.
Car head, aka getting a blow job inside a vehicle, is a science. Where to park, when she should dip down towards your cock, what you should do if headlights light up your cabin, what to do if the elderly couple in the parking space next to you returns early from their movie, etc. There are do’s and don’t’s, and trust me the don’t’s are the most important.