Caramel Flava

by Zane

  Once a week I went to her home. I usually brought food with me, but occasionally she would cook. I loved her cooking and marveled at the seasonings in her cabinet that were foreign to me. She always made a huge pitcher of sangria. I turned on the television, and she’d bring our food and drinks into the living room. She always served my plate, and asked about my day at the office. I’d tell her few stories about my meetings with my partners, or my day in court. Sometimes we’d get into heated philosophical debates about this or that. Those conversations were foreplay for the brain. (I never realized before Eva that the best fucks start in the mind.) I would ask how the writing was going, and she’d tell me about her latest assignments, her insane editors, or her impossible deadlines. Occasionally she’d let me read something she was working on.

  Once we’d eaten and cleared up, we’d watch TV. After a while she’d turn off the television and go up to the bedroom. I would follow her. She had a wrought-iron candleholder on her dresser, and I would light the candles before I got in bed. We would lie together, marinating in each other’s personal space. Some nights we would bask in sweet, silent complicity. Some nights we’d laugh and joke and tickle each other. It was the only time I could get her to laugh out loud and smile with her mouth open. Eventually I would reach around to rub her swollen nipples, or kiss her neck. Sometimes I would wind my fingers around her hair with one hand, or I’d snuggle close enough to her so she could feel my hard dick against her backside. She’d sigh, turning to face me. We would kiss once. It was always a long kiss, a wet and passionate kiss that would go on for minutes. My tongue would enter her mouth as she sighed and let her tongue find its way into my mouth. We would kiss and breathe each other, inhaling and exhaling and giving and taking each other’s mouths and lips until we were satisfied.

  I would spend a good deal of time bringing her to an initial climax with my hands and mouth. Gently finding her clit with my thumb and forefinger, I would touch it ever so slightly, enjoying the arch of her back that was her response. I would dampen my forefinger and thumb with her juices, then bring my hand up to our faces, placing my thumb in my mouth and my forefinger in hers. We would taste her in unison. She’d lick my finger and begin to suck it, and my dick would rise up, jealously wanting to take my finger’s place. After we had both eaten her essence from my fingertips, my head would find its way between her legs. Her pubic hair smelled like summer rain and was just as humidly moist. I tongue-kissed her fleshy insides until my thirst was quenched and her orgasm had flooded her pussy. I would then kiss her nipples with the utmost reverence. They would be slick with sweat by now, and I’d lap at the saltiness, thinking of drinking margaritas by a clear blue sea. She would grab my dick like she did that first day, stroking it, begging it to come inside her with low Spanish murmurings and with sensuously gyrating hips. By then she was more than ready to fuck me, and I was more than ready to fuck her.

  She was the best I ever had. It was never the same with her, but always perfect. She had split sexual personalities. And I loved them all…had no favorites. I was always glad when each one showed up and always sorry when they left. Some nights she was porn star good. She’d put on these ridiculous five-inch heels and would stand over me on the bed, lowering herself down on me, playing with her titties, doing me like an adult movie superstar. Some nights she was standing-on-her-head-doing-a-split-

  in-midair good (yes, she could actually do that). Some nights she was freaky-scary S&M good. She took handcuffs and long silk scarves and feathers and tongue vibrators and warming gel out of her nightstand, and our imaginations would have us climaxing all night long. She was reliably and consistently satisfying, as open and honest at her ad. She knew what I liked, and always gave it to me. Her consistency was as sexy as her honesty.

  She gave me excellent head exactly how I liked it…shamelessly and skillfully. She’d clench her hand around my cock and run her hand up and down, squeezing it as her mouth bobbed up and down on it. Not a nick even in the throes of our most heated sessions. And she never forgot to give my balls attention too. She would fuck me excellently from any position, at any time. I could wake her up from a sound slumber and get the shit fucked out of me. Even if we skipped the foreplay, she would still be ready. Missionary—she fucked the shit out of me. Doggy style, both kneeling and lying down—she fucked the shit out of me. She could make her ass clap too, and I had only seen that kind of action in strip clubs. Cowgirl and reverse cowgirl—she fucked the shit out of me. In a buck with her legs over my shoulders—she fucked the shit out of me. Pinned against the wall after returning from the bathroom, early in the morning with the sun just starting to rise and the candles going out, with me standing on the floor as half her body hung off the bed and she hung on for dear life—she fucked the shit out of me. With Prince screaming from the CD player or Luther crooning love tunes—she fucked the shit out of me. In dead silence in the dead of night in the dead of winter—she fucked the shit out of me. With it pouring down rain outside, with thunder and lightning crackling the sky—she fucked the shit out of me always. I kept up my end of the deal and fucked the shit out of her.

  Slowly pieces of her began to cling to me. I took over the task of making sangria and got to be good at it. I began to pick up the occasional Spanish phrases she would utter when my dick was in her. I recited them to myself on the nights I masturbated alone in my bed, my brain clogged with sticky sexy thoughts of her. I became obsessed with her long dark hair, and loved to look at it and feel it falling down over and around me when she was on top. I learned to enjoy grabbing her wide hips as she offered her mind-blowing, wonderful pussy from behind, watching her head bury itself in the pillow, trying to hide from the intensity of my rock hardness in her sweet softness. I found a supermarket not far from her house that carried Goya products and tried to score a few brownie points by picking up things like adobo seasoning for her.

  After several months of seeing each other, she started to occasionally ask me if she was fulfilling my Latina fantasy. She would jokingly apologize for not being intimately familiar with West Side Story, or for not having Jennifer Lopez’s ass, or for not liking the Latin house music I had come to enjoy since moving to New York, or for hating Taco Bell. I would laugh warily at these jokes, hoping she was not serious. Sometimes she would laughingly referring to herself as my “El Diario ho.” I always got angry and told her it wasn’t funny. I didn’t like her calling herself a ho. Since I showed our “sexship” respect, I felt she should too, and her words were hypocritical to me. In spite of those occasional bumps in the road, we hung on together for fifteen months. The sex continued to be amazing, and so did she.

  And then late one night in bed after giving me one of her mind-blowing forty-five-minute blowjobs that left me dry as the desert she said, “William, how would you feel about me seeing other people?”

  My state of post-ejaculatory bliss evaporated.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well,” she began as she sat up to lie back on the pillows propped up in the bed, “I went on a date with a guy before I met you, but it went badly, so I didn’t see him anymore. I ran into him a couple of months ago, and we talked about that horrible date we had, and we’ve talked a little more since then, and…” Her voice trailed off. For the first time in fifteen months her voice was ugly to me.

  I sat completely up.

  “What’s his name, Eva?” I asked, swallowing hard.

  She hesitated a moment. “His name is Harold.”

  I paused, trying to figure out if she was just being coy. “His whole name, Eva,” I said, biting off the words.

  She paused, finally catching my meaning. “His name is Harold Manuel Ortíz.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  She frowned. “Does it really matter, William?”

  “Is it because I’m…I’m…not…” I tried another way. “Is it because I’m white?”

  She seemed to grow angry.

  “Is what because you’re white? Sea lo que sea, William. We have
never gone out on a real date. I have never met your family though you’ve gone to visit them twice and they’ve come here once. I have never been to any of the functions at your job, nor have I met any of the friends you’ve made here. And I’m not angry, William. Sea lo que sea.”

  I was speechless.

  “You’ve kept me in a tiny corner of your life,” she continued. “And I haven’t complained. But if you had really wanted me, you would have made a bigger place for me. You’re a smart man, a successful man. Hell, a gorgeous man. Master of the universe. You know how to get what you want out of life. Half the time life hands it to you and all you have to do is reach out for it! So I know you would have tried to get more from us if you really wanted more.”

  “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, Evangeline. But I’ve just been…trying to figure out how to…and you’re always acting like nothing between us can ever be serious because of how we got together. So I—”

  She cut me off dismissively, waving her hand at me as if to shoo away a fly. She raised her voice to me for the first time since we’d met. “William, you have dated many women before me. ‘Top shelf women,’ your brother calls them, right? You mean to tell me you have no idea how to let a woman know you’re serious about her? You didn’t know how to let me know you wanted more than what we have now? Face it, because I already have. Sea lo que sea. I just want to try something a little different now. I want to be more than—than—someone’s personal J-Ho.”

  Now I was enraged. She didn’t get it. I really didn’t know how to be serious with a woman, a woman I respected and admired who had a huge impenetrable wall built around herself. Why would she automatically assume I did know?

  I raised my voice to her for the first time since we’d met. “I’m so sick of this shit! Why can’t you try ‘something different’ with me? The way we are now…you set this up! These are the terms you set! Your terms! Was I supposed to assume you wanted me to sweep you off your feet? And by the way, Evangeline, you aren’t the easiest person to get to know. Since your parents died you’ve pretty much shut everyone out, so forgive me if I couldn’t figure out how to get in, or if I was waiting for you to let me in. I’m not a lover boy with all the answers. You think because I’ve dated a lot of women that I automatically know how to handle every woman I meet. I’m not Prince Charming or a mind reader. I’m not some Mighty Whitey americano that goes around sweeping women off their feet with flowers and candy and shit. I’m not some smooth operator who knows what women want and can just make whatever he wants to happen happen. Why would you expect me to know what to do when you’re different from every woman I’ve ever known?”

  There was silence.

  “Mighty Whitey,” we both repeated. Then we cracked up laughing because we had spoken simultaneously.

  I caught my breath first. “That was a good one, huh?”

  She continued to chuckle. “It was. I think my way with words is rubbing off on you.”

  “Maybe so,” I agreed.

  There was silence.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Well, you’re the one always saying it is what it is,” I replied. “Maybe we finally need to find out exactly what this is.”

  I saw her face grow cloudy for a moment. She was still afraid, not quite ready to trust me.

  “We’ll take as long as you need,” I added. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She smiled one of her rare, openmouth smiles, and planted her lips around my dick. “Don’t want to attach bad memories to the blow job experience,” she explained as she began to suck my dick back to life.

  Muchas gracias, I thought to myself, and rolled my eyes to the back of my head as the sensations shut them tight.

  Saints and Sinners

  Santos y pecadores

  Geneva King

  Hello. You’ve reached Sister Adele at The Center. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message. God bless.” Beep. A familiar voice rang out.

  “Morning, Adele. I was hoping to catch you before you left your room. I need a favor. Call me back.”

  Adele groaned. Frank’s favors usually involved her mentoring some juvenile delinquent. Normally she wouldn’t mind, but she had too much on her plate already. Her eyes fell on the Jesus portrait in the corner. From His perch, He looked more disapproving of her than usual.

  “Fine, I’ll call him,” she muttered. “Maybe I can help him find another place.”

  She plopped on her bed and dialed Frank’s number.

  His secretary answered on the second ring. “Frank Meyer’s office. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, Carrie. It’s Adele. Is the boss in?”

  “Sure thing, Sis—I mean, Adele. I’ll transfer you over.”

  Adele grinned into the phone. It had taken the perky receptionist a while to figure out how to address her. Adele still wasn’t sure whether nuns inspired a sense of reverence or discomfort in the woman.

  “Adele! How are ya?”

  “Fine, Frank. I trust all is well with you?”

  Her friend sighed dramatically on the other end of the line. “It is now that you called. I need a big favor from you. You see, I have—”

  She cut him off before he could get too far. “About that. You know I’m always willing to help, but I don’t have the time. Why don’t you call Jennifer across town? I’m sure she’d be happy to work with the child.”

  “It’s not a kid.”

  Adele was momentarily nonplussed. “But I thought you only dealt with juveniles.”

  “We’ve had some staff cuts, so I get more to do. Which is why I need your help.” He sounded so tired, she felt herself melting.

  “What did he do?” When there was no answer, she spoke again more sharply. “Frank?”

  “Assault.” He scrambled to explain before she could refuse. “The guy he assaulted hurt his sister. Beat her bad enough to put her in the hospital. That’s why he’s not in jail right now. The judge went really easy on him. Probation and community service.”

  Adele squeezed her eyes shut. “Dear Lord. Okay, okay, you win. What’s he like?”

  “His name is Miguel, he’s twenty-two, from the old neighborhood. No father, lives with the mother and sister.” Frank hesitated. “He’s got a rough exterior. I really think he can be helped…if he’ll let anyone in.”

  “That’s always the catch.” She pursed her lips. “All right, when can I expect him? And how long will he be here?”

  “The judge gave him a hundred hours. I’ll bring him over first thing this morning.”

  “Sounds good. Take care of yourself, Frank.”

  “I’ll try. ’Bye.”

  After hanging up, Adele locked her apartment door and headed down to The Center. Sure enough, things were swinging into high gear. The staff bustled in, ready to get to work. Various women dropped their children off at the daycare center.

  “Morning, Sister,” several called as she descended the steps.

  Adele waved back, smiling at the children. She made a mental note to stop in after lunch. By then, the attendants usually needed a break from the little angels.

  Adele got settled into her tiny office. She flicked on her computer, a gift from the local electronics shop. A few people had responded to her request for donations. She found an e-mail from her sister; she’d deal with that later. Right now, she had more important things to arrange.

  Adele had been engrossed in her work for about an hour when a knock interrupted her. She looked up to find Frank standing in the door. A strange man stood behind him. Adele assumed he was Miguel. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, he was still wearing his sunglasses inside the building.

  “Frank, come in.” Adele stood up, extending her hand to the stranger. “You must be Miguel.”

  Miguel nodded curtly, shaking her hand quickly. “What’s up?”

  Adele studied his face, searching for signs of his character. He didn’t give her much to go on. She supposed he would be handsome, if he relaxed his mouth int
o a smile. Or at least less of a scowl. His brown skin contrasted sharply with the white tee and the diamond studs in his ears.

  “There’s no sun in here.”

  He shot a quick look at Frank. “What’s she talking about?”

  Frank pointed to the glasses. “Take ’em off. Adele likes to look into your soul.” He chuckled as Adele swatted him playfully.

  Miguel sighed, and then pulled the shades from his face. Adele was struck by the intensity in his gaze. So many emotions swam around, vying for attention: anger, fear, distrust, could that be lust? He did have gorgeous brown eyes. Adele wasn’t one to wax poetic, but they looked like deep brown pools, pulling her deeper into their abyss.

  “Adele?”

  She realized that Frank was talking to her. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” She resisted the urge to look back at Miguel; those eyes were hypnotic.

  “He’s all yours. I’ll be in touch.” He walked out of the office and clasped Miguel by the shoulder. “She’s a good woman. She’ll take good care of you.”