Walk Like A Man
Laurinda D. Brown
Published by Positive Scribe Publications at Smashwords
Copyright 2006 Laurinda D. Brown
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FOREPLAY
The first time I lay naked with a woman I was nervous but anxious to get it on. I had no idea what we were supposed to do. All I knew was that my vagina was throbbing fiercely, and she, in her nude state, looked so good to me. But hell, she had the same thing I had, and I felt, since she was older, she would give me some direction. As I sat waiting for her to make her move, she was lying there waiting for me to make mine. So I leaned over and kissed her. It was a passionate kiss, full of tongue and juice, but there was no way that this could be what gay sex was all about. She kept whispering for me to stick my dick in her. What dick?
In my youthful innocence and desperately not wanting her to stop kissing me, I slowly slid my fingers between her legs and entered her. She started moaning. Oh, that dick. I quickly found out that I could imitate a man’s thrust with just my fingers. She wiggled on my index and forefingers like a big worm, and I, amazed with this newfound pleasure—because it did feel quite nice—moved my lips from hers and redirected my passion to her breasts. Caressing them with my lips, I did to her what I knew had felt good to me whenever a man had sucked my nipples. She moaned some more, and, before I knew it, she’d had an orgasm.
What about me? As she lay there stretched out on her mother’s bed, I watched her chest rise and fall during her sudden slumber. Her nipples were still erect. She seemed comfortable. I, believing I’d done my part, rolled over into a fetal position and covered myself with the blanket. What about me? Maybe an hour or so later, after I was no longer aroused, I felt a kiss on my neck. It was soft and gentle, wet and tender. The kisses continued down my spine, along my thighs, and ended at the tip of my toes. Flipping me over, she moved her lips up the front of my calves and spread open my legs. Her kisses, now longer and more succulent, generated this vibration in my lower abdomen that I’d never felt before. My eyes, fixated on her slender body as it slithered toward me, watered as she drew near. Anticipating her lips touching my private button, I jerked away and told her I wanted to stop. I couldn’t envision getting any pleasure from someone pulling and tugging on that thing between my legs.
Sitting in a huge wet spot created by my own moisture, I knew I wasn’t ready for that kind of sex. I wasn’t seeking my own gratification that night. I was merely satisfied with knowing I could get a woman off just like a man could—and with no dick!.
I will say that our lovemaking was one of the most intense events of my life, but during the whole thing, I found myself wanting to be a man with this huge dick planted inside her nature. I was on top of her, like my past boyfriends had been on top of me, working it and stroking it like a champ. And when I came, the muscles in my back tensed up as I released myself in her. That whole night I felt this power…this aura about myself that I’d never felt before. Resting between her legs while embracing her torso, I tickled her breasts with my tongue. She begged for me to enter her again, and I did, but not with two fingers. Try three.
The butt of dawn caught me racing through the streets across town trying to make it home to get ready for work. And then, as I pulled into my driveway, it hit me. I’d spent an entire night with a woman consumed with the idea of me being a man;, the idea of me having a dick; the idea of me fucking her with something that God didn’t give me. The irony of the whole thing is that I felt like I had one; I felt that shit like it was real. I went into the house and took a quick bubble bath, and afterward, I sprayed myself with perfume. I put on my tightest skirt and my highest heels and strutted back out to the car with my face beat. On the way to work, I thought about my new sexual freedom and quietly laughed to myself. I checked my lipstick in the rearview mirror as I reached in the backseat for my purse. Delicately picking the lint off my skirt, I admired my gentle strokes against the fabric. Every part of me was meticulous, down to the color of my lingerie that was forever on point with my outerwear. My nails were always punctiliously manicured and polished to coordinate with my toes. On the outside I walked on the tips of my toes—dainty and self-assured—bouncing my long, thick hair from side to side. I looked every bit of a lady to the world. I had it eating out of the palm of my hands. But on the inside, though, down beneath the smooth skin and soft fragrance, I walked like a man.
“A” is for Ashley
Standing in the mirror with my mascara wand gently separating each lash and shading them brownish black, I thought about the many cards she’d sent me, the flowers, the love. By the time I finished stretching each hair that protected my hazel eyes, I realized just how much flattery and compassion she had bestowed upon me. Every aspect of my eye makeup that morning reflected my thoughts of the previous evening. Without a single blemish in my makeup, I had unintentionally achieved supermodel status with my creation. Every thought of her made me strive even more toward perfection.
This mental façade I was putting on was killing me. I saw them—Ashley and her acquaintance for the evening—dancing body to body, swaying so tightly to the reggae music that I felt the movement. I leaned when they leaned; I crooned with them. My mellow demeanor melted when I saw them kiss. Tongues entangled, their passion was evident. Nervously, I adjusted the Ralph Lauren silk blouse I’d finally bought after eyeing it for months at Dillard’s. I knew it would be perfect for this late May event I’d attended for ten years in D.C. My plan was for her to see me in it and revel in my couture. But she didn’t. Instead, she merged with this woman. She intertwined our lives at that moment. Ashley had once meant the world to me, and it was like in a mysterious instant, that world had come crashing to an end.
“You wanna dance?” a leaning figure with a soft voice whispered in my ear.
“I’m not dancing right now,” I snapped. Whoever she was turned and walked away, obviously observing that I was preoccupied with my own thoughts. Ashley had never said anything to me about this woman she was dancing with, but I couldn’t deny that I’d seen the signs.
When I was first introduced to Ashley, I was at Dover, Delaware’s rendition of Black Pride. Lacy, my road dawg from my earlier days at the club, and I had ridden up together from Largo, Maryland, expecting to see Dred King and to hear the funky beats of DJ Shy-Town. The first event was an outdoor bazaar and cookout in a moderately sized park. Anticipating seeing tons of Pride paraphernalia or maybe even a book or two, I was shocked to only find this sistah selling T-shirts she’d cut strips in for thirty dollars, a vendor with incense, oils, and soaps, and a brotha selling poems he’d run off on his home computer. There were about ten women—OK, maybe thirty—out in the park sitting in truck beds, on car trunks, on the ground, or in lawn chairs. Advertised as a free food event, I expected the offerings to be below standard for a cookout—no-name sodas, chicken legs and thighs, store-bought potato salad, and generic chips. Needless to say, I wasn’t disappointed. I chose not to eat.
Digging through the trunk of the car, I found a bag of chips left from when I’d gone grocery shopping. Lacy—who’d eat anything, anywhere, any time—had gotten a plate and was tossing back sodas left and right. She stopped stuffing her face long enough to say, “Girl, did you taste the chicken legs? They hooked that shit up,” as she proceeded to suck her fingers.
“You know I don’t do dark meat.” I laughed, licking the salt from my fingers.
“Yeah, I know. That’s probably why you won’t touch me.” Lacy chuckled. She was what I call a dark chocolate honey with beautiful white teeth who stood about five-ten. I loved her but couldn’t love her because her friendship actually meant more to me. She and I would often lie in bed and watch TV or talk. One night things got a little heated, but I backed away, fearing that making love to her would only complicate our friendship. It was the first time I’d allowed myself to dismiss a roll in the hay for mere companionship.
“See, see, you know you wrong for goin’ there with me. You and I are cool, and I want to keep it like that. That’s why there’ll never be any sex. We…” Then, in that same breath, two femmes approached the car. One of them was fine as hell—titties all bulging from her bra, tight shorts, and flip-flops on. The other was in a wifebeater, wearing jeans and Timbs. I knew she was femme because her nails were flawlessly manicured and her makeup was exceptional. Besides, she walked too soft to be anything else. She looked a little funny in the face, but she had an ass that wouldn’t wait. That one with all the cleavage showing was going to be mine, though. I didn’t care whom she was with. Lacy peered over the top of her sunglasses and began to smile. She got up from the edge of the fender and placed her plate inside the trunk. From the huge grin on her face, I assumed she knew them.
“Hey, Tommie. I didn’t think you were coming,” she said as she reached to hug the one with the wifebeater on. “How you doin’?”
The young lady, cheerfully hugging Lacy, was squeezing my girl so tight I thought she was going to suffocate her. “I wanted to surprise you.. You remember my friend, Ashley, right?”
Peeking over at Ashley like she was a piece of prime rib, Lacy replied, “Yes, I do. I haven’t seen you in a good while around the club.”
“No, my work schedule changed. Between work and school, I don’t have a lot of time on my hands,” Ashley responded.
I was trying not to stare, so I kept my face buried in the bag of chips. I figured Lacy would introduce us at some point. Ashley looked over at me, but I couldn’t bear to glance in her direction or I’d bust out laughing. This energy was running through me that I could only describe as sensational. All I know is that I was full of giggles like a little kid who’d found a new toy.
“Dee, this is my girl, Tomika, but I call her Tommie.” Tommie extended her hand toward me. “Tommie, this is Dee, short for Deidre.” Taking my hand from the wrinkled bag and wiping it against my jeans, we shook hands. A pretty firm grip for a femme.
“Hi. Tomika Adams. Nice to meet you. This is Ashley, my best friend.”
“OK, good to meet both of you.” That was encouraging to know—they weren’t together.
“Damn, are those chips good?” Ashley giggled.
Embarrassed, I rolled the bag closed and tossed it in the trunk. “Actually, they were. I’d offer you some, but I’ve been sticking my wet fingers in the bag, and…”
“T-M-I.” she laughed again, letting me know I had given her too much information. Ashley moved closer to me and reached for my face with both of her hands. I, being a true playa, couldn’t take my eyes off her breasts and stepped back in a jolt of excitement.
“Heyyyy, what’s going on? What you…”
Ashley gently brushed her fingertips around my dimples. “You’ve got potato chip crumbs around your mouth.” She dusted them to the ground. Blushing, I politely thanked her and wondered what was going to happen next.
Later that evening, we followed Tommie and Ashley back to the Sheraton. Tommie offered the sofa in the suite for us to sleep on that night, so we wouldn’t have to pay for an extra room. That arrangement was going to be a trip because I felt somewhat uncomfortable sleeping next to Lacy. Despite my outward feelings toward her, she did make my nature rise—most women did. But this particular night I had my mind on other things—like Ashley. If I could have just five minutes with her…OK maybe ten minutes, I’d rock her shit, hitting it hard like a jackhammer.
Once I started unpacking my bag, I realized my toiletry case was missing. It had to be in the car. “Dayum, my bag is in the car, and all my shit is in it. I’ll be right back,” I yelled to Lacy who was in the bathroom unloading that nasty-ass meal from earlier.
“Wait,” Ashley pleaded. “I’ll tag along with you. You don’t need to go down there by yourself.” Milk chocolate skin…that’s how I liked them, and, as I watched her come toward me, I knew I was about to get a cavity because I was going to eat her ass alive.
Putting on a tough exterior, I was like, “I don’t need an escort. Ain’t nobody gonna fuck with the Big D.” I had this habit of trying to be all gangsta, but the truth of the matter was that I still had quite a bit of bitch in me.
Ashley chuckled. “I don’t care what kind of hardcore front you put on for me. Your ass is still a woman, and it’s late. I’m going with you.”
Quietly pleased, I obliged. “Suit yourself.” Opening the door, I adjusted myself—all of me—and said, “Ladies first.”
That had to be the longest walk to an elevator I’d ever experienced. Ashley was in front of me, swaying in a little-ass skirt that bonded to her like glue. It moved when she moved. Her skin glistened with body oil spread across her shoulders, arms, and legs like butter. If she’d been a piece of chicken, it would’ve been all over but the shoutin’. I could tell from the lack of panty lines that maybe Ashley didn’t have on any panties or perhaps she had on a G-string. I wondered what color it was. Did it smell as she did? I’d give up the cash to hold that muthafucker in my hand right then. I even thought about asking her for it, so I could put that bitch under my pillow at night.
Approaching the elevator, we both reached for the “down” button. Pulling away, I gave her this one opportunity to be in control. The doors opened, and there was this White couple standing in the corner.
“Hello,” Ashley offered.
“Good evening,” they responded, smiling comfortably at Ashley and me.
Wow, she’s magnetic, I thought. The energy in that elevator was amazing. Ashley moved closer to me as the elevator stopped three floors below the lobby. Her fragrance…so sweet, so enticing…so…damn. The jolt of the elevator touching the ground floor caused her to slightly bump into me and that sent my “thing” into a frenzy. The doors opened, and I stepped aside to let her off first. I was on fire. Was her shit hot like mine? Had it melted like mine moments before when she bumped into me?
The car was parked in the very back of the garage because all of the good spots were taken. I didn’t mind, though, since it appeared that it had been written in the cards for me to park that far away from potential passersby. “So, how does a girl like you afford a Lex like this?”
What? A girl like me? “What kind of question is that?” I was a bit offended.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad. I didn’t mean it like that. You strike me as the SUV type, not the luxury-car type.”
“Oh. I’ve always liked them. After I saved half of the money for it, my pops came through with a matching donation.”
“Oh, so you’re a daddy’s girl,” she said, grinning. I unlocked the doors, and she made herself comfortable by getting in the backseat on the passenger’s side.
Sliding in next to her, I responded, “Not really. I believe if there’s something you truly want and you work hard for it, then people will appreciate and respect you more. Pops was willing to meet me halfway.”
“I see.” As she settled in her spot, now all the way over behind the driver’s seat, her legs gapped open. She looked at me and winked. “I figured I’d meet you halfway.” First, there were kisses…a lot of them—wet and succulent. I was startled a little bit by her pierced tongue because I didn’t notice it before. But the more that damn tongue touched my skin and that little fuzz just above my lips, the more I liked it, seemingly adding a whole new level to the tryst. I kissed every part of her exposed skin, consuming myself in a milk chocolate fantasy. Slowly, I massaged her left thigh, caressing it with the palm of my right hand, which had the nerve to be tingling. I didn’t care, though. I reached her crotch, and I could feel the heat off her pussy. The seat of her G-string was moist with steam…with lust. I maneuvered my way beneath the fabric and touched her. Moaning and shivering all at the same time, I felt her cum without me even entering her. Little beads of sweat popped from her forehead, and gallons of it were poured from me. As I realized that she had released herself, I began to pull away. Then, in between her moans, which had evolved into soft squeals, she whispered, “Don’t stop.”
It didn’t matter to me that my windows weren’t tinted and that the back passenger side door was slightly ajar. I took off my shirt and tossed it to the front seat. I lifted hers from her softened body, revealing her pierced breasts and navel. Damn, she’s got holes everywhere, I thought. But, in my mind, there was only one hole I was concerned about, and I was going to fill it with a little sumthin’ special.
Unzipping my pants with my left hand and massaging her titties with my right, I whipped Tonya out. I’d put her on while in the bathroom back in the room. I don’t know. Wearing it made me feel like I was running things, and, just by looking at Ashley, I knew I could have her. Ashley’s eyes had been closed most of our encounter, but, as Tonya dangled against her thigh, she opened them, smiled, and sucked her teeth. “Give it to me, baby,” she muttered. I grabbed her panties—a G-string with an “A” made of rhinestones in the middle of it—and rubbed them against my nose.
“You know I’m keeping this, right?” Ashley laughed and pulled me to her. Tonya slid right in without a struggle, and I went to work. I tapped that ass like she was a hooker from the red light district, and I was her pimp taking her on a test run before she hit the streets. As my hips gyrated against her closely shaven bikini area that night, I can’t explain what I felt. All I knew was that my cavities—my decay, my pain from this sensuous, milk chocolate delight, would someday cause my entire feminine existence to decompose and wither away. I felt like I had this man thing going on.
Afterward, with her phone number and address in my pocket, Ashley and I walked through downtown Dover and noticed a tattoo parlor across the street from our hotel.
“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” Ashley smiled at me. Her smile was irresistible.
“Really? Me, too!” I exclaimed. “I’ve always been too scared, though. My mom would kill me.”
“We should get one,” Ashley said, giggling. “You should get an A, and I could get a D.”
“Girl, I don’t know about that. I’m not down with putting some chick’s name or initials on me. Hell, I don’t even know you all that well.”
“That could change,” Ashley whispered in my ear as she grabbed its lobe and bit it gently. I couldn’t resist her.
“OK, I’ll do it. Where should it go?”
Ashley winked at me, gazing into my eyes. She replied, “Maybe on your arm. You have nice arms. Got a few muscles goin’ on.”
“OK. That sounds good. Where are you going to get yours?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always wanted one on the small of my back. I think that’s sexy. We’ll see how yours looks first.”
I straddled the stool and never thought about what I was about to do. All I knew was that Ashley was the best pussy I’d ever had, and I wanted the world to know it. Just thinking about her made my panties wet. As she stood there stroking the palms of my hands while the needle pricked that A on my right shoulder, my future, for the first time in long while, had meaning. Getting the tattoo wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be. I smiled at her and realized that my life was now complete. This was going to be my wife. Once the artist was finished, I found the A, beautifully done in calligraphy, to be well worth the small amount of pain.
“So where are you going to put yours?”
Ashley looked intently at the designs on the display wall. I knew she wanted something funky if she didn’t decide to get the D, so I waited patiently while the artist outlined the home instructions to care for my tattoo. “Don’t take a bath or let the shower run on it for two weeks, and make sure you keep it moist with some type of heavy lotion.” He then turned to Ashley and wondered why it was taking her so long to pick her design. “Got any questions, little lady?”
“Not about the tattoos,” she said, “but do you have water in here?”
“Sure. I’ll get you some.” He looked puzzled as Ashley appeared to be about to throw up. The kind man brought her a bottle of water and asked her if she was OK.
“I don’t know. I feel a little sick to my stomach.”
I walked over to her and held her hand. Was she nervous? “Ashley, we don’t have to do this tonight. We can come back tomorrow.”
Massaging her stomach, she insisted, “No, I want to get this done now. Just give me a minute.”
A minute turned into an hour. It took Ashley that long to get herself together. But by then, it was closing time. “Ladies, we open at 10:00 a.m.” I understood the man being ready to go home, so I told Ashley we’d come back. Maybe a half hour after that, I was still trying to give Ashley Tums, Rolaids…anything I could find to make her feel better. It was funny, though. She was acting as if nothing was ever wrong. As a matter of fact, she downed three Heinekens when we got back to the hotel.
The next morning Lacy and I woke up to find Tommie and Ashley gone. They didn’t even leave a note, and I assumed that Ashley didn’t get her tattoo either.
I saw Ashley a few times after that weekend and soon realized I was unsure what I wanted from her. The one thing we never discussed was her not getting the tattoo. I was strung out over her fragrance and her sensuality. At points, when we talked, our conversation seemed endless. She would giggle at my silly jokes, and I beamed with pride that someone thought my stale sense of humor was even worth the effort. So full of excitement was I about this woman who had mesmerized me, I completely missed the signs when things began falling apart. Ashley sent me cards and roses almost every day. They were cute, loving cards, and many of them appeared to mirror what I, too, was feeling in my heart. I arranged them by the postmarks and discovered that her feelings for me intensified with each passing day. Every card depicted a chapter in our love story. Then one day, without warning, the cards stopped and so did the roses. Soon I realized that I was the only one keeping the lines of communication open, and I felt that every call from me was annoying her. Believing I was coming on way too strong, I backed off and gave Ashley space. But that space felt cavernous and lonely.
One thing I’d always promised myself was that I would never chase a woman. I didn’t care how good the pussy was. I was never going to do it. What I failed to realize was that I was chasing Ashley. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, so I called Lacy and spilled the beans on my little love affair.
“Dee, I can’t believe you got involved with that girl.”
Stunned, I asked, “What do you mean?” I was holding back the tears fueled by my anger.
“You know she a ho, right?”
“What?”
“Girl, she’s been playing you like a baby grand. Whenever she ordered roses for you, she was ordering them for some other trick across town. Tommie will tell you.”
“How in the hell does Tommie know?”
“Because Ashley used to do the same thing for her, and Tommie got a tattoo to prove it. She told me to warn you that night, but shit, you’d got them panties before I had a chance to. Yo’ ass was lightnin’ quick with that shit, too.” Lacy laughed.
“A tattoo? Tommie has a tattoo?”
“Girl, yeah…of a damn A.” I would never get a tattoo for some bitch, especially one like that. The funny part is that she’d promised Tommie she’d get one for her but never did. Kept coming up with all kinds of shit as to why she couldn’t get one. I’m telling you that Ashley is a—”
“Lace, I was really feeling her. I changed—”
“You don’t even have to say it. I saw you wearing your hair pulled back under those damn hats. You changed your look for her, and your ass is prolly walking around with a damn A branded on you. Trying to look all hard and shit. You know you can’t shake that diva style you got. I don’t care how good the pussy looks. I don’t know what you got going on down between your legs, but you had that ass singin’ like Tweety. Girl, she told Tommie everything that happened that night at the hotel…all the way down to the thing with Tonya. Besides, she’s got a woman…this old biddy who’s doing time for credit card fraud. Let the story be told, it’s her money that’s been paying for your flowers.”
There was nothing I could say after that. I desperately needed to talk to Ashley, but when I dialed her number, I found my calls blocked. What?
I drove over to her house and knocked on her door until my fists bled, but she wouldn’t answer. My gentle knocks turned to pounds that were so hard that I missed the thunderstorm rolling in. The sky crackled with light as I called her name. “Ashley. Ashley,” I cried. “Baby, please let me in.” Despite my efforts, my pleas went ignored, and the rain began to pour. I knew she was home, but aside from kicking the door in or busting out a window, I was beginning to realize that I’d never get inside to talk to her. My hands were in the same knots as my stomach. In the distance, I heard a car coming, splashing through the puddles in the street. As the car approached, I turned around to see what other idiot was out in this storm. It was a police car. Damn.
With its spotlight beaming on Ashley’s porch, the car stopped in front of the driveway. The officer got out, reached for his flashlight, did a quick inspection of my car as he passed by it, and turned his attention to me. “Ma’am?”
“Yes, officer,” I responded. Ashley had called the police on me. I couldn’t believe it. All I wanted was to talk.
“How are you this evening?”
My heart hurts. “I’m fine.”
He peeped around the corner and flashed his light in the front window of the house. “We got a call from the woman inside that you were causing a commotion out here.”
“Me?” I said shockingly.
“Yes, ma’am. Is there a problem?”
Staring out in the street, silvery from the raindrops splattering against the pavement, I replied, “No, sir. I just wanted to talk to my friend.”
The policeman was nice. He was even kind enough to offer me a towel because the wind, combined with the rain, had kicked my ass. “I think you should call it a night. She doesn’t want to see you, and I don’t want to have to take you in for disturbing the peace.”
There were a lot of ways I could have reacted to the situation, but the best way for everybody was for me to take my dumb pussy-whipped ass home. “I understand. Thank you.”
***
I watched Ashley and her date maneuver their way from the dance floor to the bar. All the while my stomach burned in agitation. I stood with my hands in my pockets, rolling the lint and other items through my fingers. I also watched Ashley kiss the girl on the cheek and head for the bathroom. Taking advantage of the opportunity, with single-minded determination, I followed her. I had something to give Miss Thang, and I didn’t want to wait any longer.
I hesitated at the bathroom entrance and pondered for a moment if I had the nerve to go through with my plan. Besides Ashley, two other women were inside, so I went to the sink to wash my hands. That would give me a moment to monitor everybody’s position. That’s when her date came in. Damn! I quickly dried my hands and darted back to my stool at the bar. As luck would have it, Ashley and her friend sat in the empty spot right next to me. After all we’d been through, she didn’t even recognize a sistah.
Checking them out through the corner of my eye, I ordered a Cosmo and eavesdropped on their conversation. The girl asked Ashley if she had any panties on, and, Ashley, being the ho I’d come to know she was, giggled so much that it was making me sick. That’s it. I’d had enough.
Taking the last swig from my glass, I cleared my throat and reached in my pocket. “Hello, Ashley,” I said calmly.
She froze and nodded at me. She can’t even dignify me with a real response. Then she rolled her eyes and turned away. But her girl kept looking at me like, “Who the hell are you, and why are you talking to my woman?”
Not wanting to disappoint my counterpart, I introduced myself. “Hi, my name is Deidre. Ashley and I go way back even though she’s acting like she don’t know me.”
“Oh, really?” the girl replied.
“Yeah, we knew each other once, and I’m actually glad I bumped into her tonight because I have something I need to give her.” Glancing at her arm I continued, “By the way, I like your tattoo.” It was an A.
“Thank you,” she said with pride.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out that G-string with a rhinestone A on the front—the one I’d taken from her that night in the car. Rubbing it across my nose, I took a deep breath, inhaling her aroma. It still smelled of her essence. Looking Ashley in her eyes while addressing her date, I stretched the G-string from one hand to the other in front of them both.
“This belongs to your girl, and if you’ve had your face as far up her ass as I have, then smell it, you’ll know it’s hers.” I let go of it hard enough for the underwear to snap Ashley in her face. “A is for Ashley.”
***
So here I am the morning after, on my way out the door, the diva extraordinaire Lacy reminded me about. I rubbed the faint scar to remind me of the stupidity that caused it in the first place. The laser surgery to remove the A was all behind me, and my shoulder had healed very well. I’d allowed a woman, who got her thrills manipulating people, to brand my mind, body, and spirit. Surprisingly, I’m not as mad with her as I am with myself. My skin is tough, and my heart is like a block of ice. I’m ready to start dating again now that I’m finally done going through something that made me unsure of myself. Flawless. That’s what I am today because every thought of that girl made me strive even more toward a complete me. I began as “Dee,” Lacy’s friend; then I switched into D, Ashley’s trick in the parking garage; but, for the sake of my heart, I’m Deidre again, and I’m going to stay that way.
MO
It happened at a time when there was no such thing as a sex offender. There were simply dirty old men who could have their way with little girls and dared them to tell anybody. Nobody did time, nor did anyone get counseling. Bribed with money, candy, toys, and whatever else didn’t come easy, almost every girl in the neighborhood had touched Mr. Luther’s dick. I, myself, had seen it, kissed it, smelled it, and touched it more times than I cared to think about.
My reflection in the floor-length mirror was disturbing at first sight. Blood was running down my legs, soaking through my white stockings. My pretty pink sundress, stained with dirt, blood, and his secretions, was torn at the shoulder straps, and the buckles on my Mary Janes were broken. I’d run from the railroad tracks as fast as I could, never looking back to see if he were catching up to me. When I got to the house, I bolted the front door and dashed down the hallway to the bathroom. There, I found some sense of security. On this blistering, hot summer’s day, I’d had it. Oh, by the way, to my family and friends, my name is Monique.
***
At ten, I was a small girl, a little chunky in places, but for the most part, I was like the other girls my age. My areas of thickness were my breasts, my cheeks, and my rear end. My moms made me wear dresses every day with some type of matching bow in my hair. She refused to let me grow up and wear things more appropriate for my age. I had the Bobbie socks with the lace around the ankles, and my moms made sure my legs were shining from the clumps of Vaseline she slapped on my calves and thighs. To coordinate with all of my dresses, I had a pair of Mary Janes I wore with tights, necklaces, earrings—the whole nine yards. When Mary Janes came in style for pre-teens, she bought me some of those, too.
Moms and I lived alone in a two-bedroom house that we rented from some folks who went to church down on the corner. We weren’t rich, but Moms made sure that I was neatly dressed whenever I stepped out of the house. She says it came from years of her playing with doll babies, imitation Barbie dolls, and those spooky-ass doll heads. From as early as I could remember, Moms never asked anyone for anything when it came to taking care of me. I met my dad once, one Friday after school, and was terribly disappointed because he wasn’t this fine, debonair Black man that Moms had made him into whenever she sat on the porch cackling and gossiping with her girlfriends. Personally, I thought he was some ex-con looking for a handout. His beard was knotted up against his face, his teeth were yellow with white shit all between them, his corn-rowed hair had pieces of lint sticking out, and the stench from the stale liquor lingered in the house for days after he had left.
“Monique, this is Eric, your father. Come give him a hug,” she ordered. There was no way in hell that I was going to let that man touch me. I took two steps back instead of any ones forward. “Get over here, Monique! Now. I know you ain’t gonna disrespect your father. Don’t let me have to beat your ass!”
All I have to say is that was the worst beating I ever got because, after having never seen me, tucked me in bed, or kissed me on the forehead, she let him spank me, and none of his licks hurt more than the pain and hurt I felt toward Moms. When he was done, I saw his hands trembling as he lit a cigarette and walked down the hall to her bedroom. I went to my room, closed the door, and fell down on my bed, sobbing for hours. Throughout the whole weekend, I made my way to the kitchen and bathroom without ever being seen. Devastated, I realized that Moms could care less about me right then because her man was at home. Closed up in my room with my music and my dolls, I was content if I never saw him again—and I didn’t.
Most of my life I knew Moms hadn’t really wanted to have babies. She used to tell my Aunt Penny that she’d have an abortion in a minute if she had the money, but she wasn’t going to stop fucking and wasn’t going to use no rubber either. Apparently, she didn’t have the money when she got pregnant with me. Most of my early years were spent at Aunt Penny’s house on the weekends. Moms would drop me off on Friday evening and wouldn’t pick me up until Monday after she got off work. At least, I was told she’d been to work. When we returned home, there was always this stale liquor smell in the house, and the sheets on her bed were a mess and smelled like ba-dussy—a dreadful combination of ass and pussy. I never questioned her about any of it because that was grown folks’ business. Moms made sure I had what she felt I needed, but, for herself, the only thing she did was to make herself available to whatever man came along. My granny believed that a woman’s place was to cook, take care of the children, and be a freak in the sheets, and that’s exactly how she acted. So did Moms.
Up the street from us lived this man named Mr. Luther who was like the candy man for our street. He sold twenty-five-cent sodas, freeze cups, pickles, candy, cookies, Popsicles, potato chips, and ice cream cones. Every day before school, for as long as I can remember, my cousins and I stopped by his house to buy cookies to go in our lunch. “Here, Li’l Miss Monique, take this here to your mother. She likes my sour pickles,” he’d say, and I’d put it in my lunch box and give it to her when I got home from school. I liked Mr. Luther because he was always so nice, especially to us girls. Sometimes he was like the father many of us never had. Every day he asked how we were doing in school and if we were learning anything. Back then, if needed, Mr. Luther had this unspoken permission to knock us on our asses if we got out of line. I only heard about him doing that to a couple of the boys on our street but never to any of the girls.
By the time I was thirteen I was still wearing the Mary Janes, but Moms had stopped making me wear dresses all the time. It was embarrassing for me to look like Little Orphan Annie even though I was a teenager. Now I had some say in my wardrobe and wore mostly jeans and nice frou-frou blouses. I had some corduroys and a couple of pair of khaki pants that I dressed in from time to time, too. Sometimes I’d wear a dress just to change up for a bit. On one of those occasions, I bumped into Mr. Luther at our school’s playground. We shared the play area with the adjacent park, so it wasn’t unusual for folks to be sitting on the benches near where we played. At this point in my life, I’d starting noticing the boys, and they’d started noticing me, too. I made sure I was cute every day, and I smelled sensational. Mr. Luther would always tell me how good I smelled when he saw me, and he told me in such a fatherly way that I never thought about anything being wrong with his comments.
That afternoon, however, he’d been sitting there watching me and some of my friends gossip about the boys in our class. We’d had a special program that morning, and most of the girls had on dresses. I ignored the glazed look in his eyes and the demented smile on his face. Hell, this was Mr. Luther, the candy man, and he could do no wrong.
“Mr. Luther, what are you doing here? Were you invited to our program today?”
Looking around to see who saw him, he replied, “No, I wasn’t at your program. I came up here to drop some sodas off to your principal.”
“Oh, OK.” I smiled. “I’ll see you later.”
Winking at me, Mr Luther asked, “Why don’t you come by after school and get a pickle for your mother?”
“Yes, sir, I will.” Since I was in middle school and class started much earlier, I didn’t have time to stop by in the mornings like I used to. As I laughed and played that afternoon with my friends, enjoying my youth, it didn’t dawn on me that sodas weren’t allowed in our school. Later, after school, my friend Tangie and I headed toward Mr. Luther’s place, but when we got there, she refused to go inside.
“Girl, what’s wrong with you? You acting like you seen a boogeyman or something. It’s just Mr. Luther.”
Tangie’s face had this look I’d never seen. Suddenly, she burst into tears. I reached for her arm, but she yanked it back. “Noooo. My momma told me to not go in there.” She took off running down the street.
Nothing was going to stop me from getting my moms’s pickle. She loved those things even though they gave her high blood pressure. I opened the screen door and walked into the kitchen where Mr. Luther kept the goodies. “Mr. Luther?” I called out. There was no answer. As I walked around the table that held the pickles, peppermint sticks, and penny candy, I noticed a stick of incense burning in a nearby plant. Just as I peeped around the corner into the living room, Mr. Luther came out of nowhere.
“Hey there, Li’l Miss Monique. I thought you wasn’t going to make it. I was just about to get a fresh jar of pickles for your mother. Those are dill pickles in there. The sour ones are back here in the other room.”
That was strange. I swore the jar read “sour” on the front. “OK,” I answered and followed him to the back room. Once in there, the door unexpectedly closed. But I wasn’t worried because this was Mr. Luther, the candy man. I stood in the corner behind the door while he fumbled with some boxes. Nervous, I stood gawking at the tons of shit in that room. There was enough stuff to start a small convenience store. When Mr. Luther turned around, he had his penis in his hand, and it stood out like a flagpole.
“Li’l Miss Monique, would you help Mr. Luther and touch his little friend for him?”
I was repulsed. “No, Mr. Luther, I can’t do that. I just came for my momma’s pickle.” He asked again, and I rejected him again. “I think I better leave.”
“Oh, Li’l Miss Monique, just do it this one time for me. I won’t tell nobody. It’ll be our little secret. I’ll give you a brand-new twenty-dollar bill and all the pickles you want for your momma.”
I couldn’t resist that. My moms loved those pickles, and I could use the twenty dollars to go to the mall with Tangie later.
***
At fifteen, I was a brickhouse. I still had a small frame, but I had curvaceous hips and voluptuous breasts. I’d gotten enough money from Mr. Luther to buy a new bike, a pair of skates, a Seventeen magazine subscription, and a few pretty gifts for my moms. One night when Tangie and I were having a sleepover, she sat up on my bed and looked at all the nice things I had around my room. “How much of this stuff did Mr. Luther buy?” she asked playfully.
Shocked, I swiftly got up from the floor and closed my door. “What are you talking about, Tangie?”
“Don’t play dumb. Everybody on this street knows you been getting money from him, and you’re not the only one.”
“That’s not true.”
“Monique, your momma works at the same plant as my momma, and they don’t make that much money. There’s no way your momma can afford all this stuff you got.”
“Why you all up in my business?” I couldn’t believe I was getting mad about this. I knew Mr. Luther was wrong, but he was giving me money, and I was able to afford a lifestyle my other friends didn’t have.
“This is me, Monique. Quit trippin’.”
I started crying. “Do you realize how much money he has given me since this started? Like hundreds and hundreds of dollars.”
“All for you to do what for him?”
Ashamed, I began rattling off each act, none of which included him sticking it in. “Tangie, all I’ve done is touch it mostly.”
“Monique, you need to tell your momma.”
The tears began to pour. “I tried to…last year, and she didn’t believe me. She thinks the man walks on water. Just the other night she was talking about us going to North Carolina with him, so what’s the point?”
“Monique, it’s only a matter of time before he asks for something else, and are you going to take money for that, too?”
I knew what she was talking about. I’d tried to stop the whole thing, but Mr. Luther threatened to tell my friends about the dirty things I did with him. I couldn’t risk that and become the laughingstock of the neighborhood. “I’m going to stop it before it gets that far. I promise.”
Soon after that weekend, things changed. My moms was assigned new hours at work, putting her on back-to-back shifts, which left me at home in the evenings and overnight. She got in just before it was time for me to go to school. One morning, as I prepared my lunch, she surprised me with some horrible news. “Monique, I asked Mr. Luther to look in on you before he goes to bed.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. I started trembling and felt light-headed. I was going to faint. “What? Momma, I don’t need—”
“Hush your mouth. It’s already done. He’s going to start coming by tonight.”
“But, Momma…” I was taking this chance to try and tell her again about the unspeakable things he’d been doing to me. “Mr. Luther, he—”
“Monique, it’s done.”
Maybe I should have been more forceful about trying to get her to listen. Maybe life would’ve been different had I done that.
That night, just as I had nestled into my bed, there was a knock at the door. I figured he’d go away if I didn’t answer it. Had he been watching the house to see my bedroom light go out? He rapped at the door again, but this time I heard the lock turn. Moms had given him a key. I lay there in bed, heart pounding and unmoving, as if I’d been asleep for hours. The next thing I knew Mr. Luther was sliding into bed next to me. His dick was hard as steel when he rubbed it against my back. He stroked it up and down the middle of my spine to the tip of my underwear, and then he stopped. His breathing became heavier and his movements more swift. When he shot off, it hit my skin like hot acid. I didn’t budge. “Thank you, Li’l Miss Monique,” he sighed and walked back out the way he had come.
This went on for weeks, on the days when Moms worked. I’d told Tangie that I wanted to run away, and she told me they’d only find me and make me come home. She offered to let me stay with her and her momma provided that I tell her momma what had been happening. There was no way I was going to do that, so I sucked it up and dealt with it, day in and day out.
On our last day of school, the teachers and staff gave us a dance where we were asked to wear our best. Since it was sweltering outside, the boys didn’t have to wear suits, but they did have to wear ties. All of the girls were expected to be in dresses. My grandmother Viola Mae had made me this pink chiffon-and-taffeta sundress with spaghetti straps. It was supposed to be for church, but I convinced her to let me wear it to school first. I had on my first pair of sheer white stockings, and some brand-new Mary Janes that had a silver butterfly on the top of each shoe. Moms knew she wouldn’t be home when I got in from school, so she told me to make sure I kept the dress clean for church that coming Sunday.
“Make sure you put it back on the hanger, too, when you take it off,” she yelled down the hall as I dressed that morning.
Walking home from school, I decided I wanted a Popsicle from Mr. Chu’s, the Korean store on the other side of the railroad tracks. He sold the red, white, and blue firecracker bomb pops that I loved. Tangie had gone straight home because she was leaving to spend the weekend with her father and needed to pack.
Crossing the railroad tracks, I saw there were puddles of mud and oil along my path, so I took a detour through the field. I’d walked through it before and never had a fear of running into a rat or an old dog. Just as I opened my Popsicle, someone grabbed me from behind, covered my mouth, and dragged me through the weeds over rocks and broken glass. Kicking and wrestling with my captor, I realized that my screams were muffled, and no one could hear me. I was pushed face first into the ground and didn’t have to try very hard to figure out who was attacking me. I could smell the incense in his clothes and the liquor on his breath. It was Mr. Luther trying to snatch the last bit of innocence I had. I tussled with every ounce of strength a fifteen-year-old could muster, but he overpowered me, ripping at my underwear and stockings. At one point, Mr. Luther snarled and growled at me, but I didn’t have time to be scared. I’ve got to get away was the only thought going through my head. His upper body was lying on my legs while his arms had my upper torso pinned to the ground. He grabbed my crotch and rubbed it so hard and rough that it felt as if it were on fire. Then he thrust his fingers into my vagina and stuck his thumb in my butthole. Mmmmph. Mmmmph. I struggled to scream but my mouth filled with dirt. He flipped my frail body over and covered my mouth with one of his hands before I had a chance to call out. With his other hand, Mr. Luther released his dick and rammed it between my legs. Noooooo!! My eyes bulged from their sockets as excruciating pain tore through my body. He wiggled his way deeper into my private part with no compassion or mercy. I managed to free one of my hands as he moaned and grunted, and I reached for a piece of broken glass that was strewn about the ground. When he lifted himself from me, still erect, I, in one fierce swing, sliced him across his dick. As he fell to the ground and rolled to his back, I jabbed him in his balls with the shard of glass one final time.
***
Standing in the mirror, I was faced with something I’d come to know all too well: fear. I was afraid Mr. Luther was going to come bursting through the door to finish his business, I was afraid I was going to jail, I was afraid my moms wouldn’t love me anymore because I’d done this horrible thing, and I was afraid someone would know that I’d hurt Mr. Luther.
I removed my pink dress and placed it back on the hanger. I hung it in the bathroom with me as a reminder of what hell had been like for me. I turned on the hot water and contemplated whether I should take a bath or a shower. Taking a bath would force me to sit in my filth and allow it to soak further into my soul. I didn’t want that.
As the water beat against my back, I watched the blood run down the drain with the dirt and the pain I’d experienced for years. I leaned against the tiled wall and thought about what I had allowed myself to get into. The hairbows, the dresses, the Mary Janes—all of those things made Mr. Luther like me and made him want me. I shed tears for every girl in the neighborhood at that moment. As I observed the suds swirl down the drain, I watched a part of me disappear, too.
I went to the bedroom and packed a bag with jeans, T-shirts, a jacket, and some tennis shoes, then I returned to the bathroom and pulled out a pair of scissors and cut my hair off down to the scalp. I took some wave pomade from the cabinet, spread it in my palms, and rubbed it into what was left of my straight black hair. In the sink was the femininity I was prepared to leave behind. Next to the pomade were two Ace bandages. I took them and wrapped them around my bosom until I was flat. I put a T-shirt on with a pair of jeans and borrowed a pair of Mom’s work boots. I returned to the bathroom and revisited myself in the mirror.
In that moment, I’d made up in my mind that I wasn’t going to stay around any longer to deal with anything that reminded me of Li’l Miss Monique. I didn’t care if that bastard bled to death out there in the field. No more dresses, no more hair bows, and no more Mary Janes—ever.
I snatched up my shit and headed for the back door. Oh by the way, I’m now that niggah they call Mo.
CAUGHT UP
(Part 1)
I fell in love with a woman who didn’t belong to me, and I’m ashamed to admit that I wasn’t even totally free. I never thought my heart had room for the love of two, but somehow it managed. Nights were tricky because I never knew whose name I’d call in my sleep, and sex? I refrained from it, never knowing whose face I’d want to see when I was in ecstasy. She knew the strengths and weaknesses of my relationship, and she also knew what had hurt me the most in all of my and my lover’s years together—something my lover didn’t even know.
I wasn’t looking for her. It was like one day I looked up, and she was just there. And I must admit it was a beautiful surprise. Soon thereafter, I realized I couldn’t live my days without her. My lover became more of a routine, an obligation to me, and I, trying to maintain a decent level of respect for her, heard her when she talked to me, but I wasn’t listening. I seemed to always be in a constant daydream and never wanted to be awakened from it. My stomach turned flips when she called my name, and I didn’t care who knew it. I found myself often comparing them, weighing my options. Why be with her when I could be with her? But then one day, while I watched my lover carefully iron my clothes after she’d run my bath, I knew that, despite this other woman I was sure I loved, I was never leaving home.
***
1:00 p.m., EST
“May I speak to Tammy, please?”
Morgan and I had been grocery shopping with the kids, and we all were just walking in the house when the phone rang. Saturdays were reserved for quiet family time, and everyone in our circle of friends knew that.
“This is she.”
“Hey, this is Liya. How you doing?”
Taken by surprise, I said, “I’m fine. What’s up?” She and I had made rules, and the first was to never call in the middle of the day during family time. Although just the sound of her voice was soothing, a rule had been broken, and I wasn’t happy.