Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3

by Zane

  Men love their “cat fights.” I luv a nigguh shaking a piece of “steel” in his hands. I would say that’s about even on the physical attraction scale. Now, because of this attraction, he went out and bought me a Black Diamond Rabbit Pearl that has a swashbuckling theme to it. Not only that, the color of this vibrator is the same shade as his dick—a rusty-colored black that’s very hard to lubricate. I remember one time I sucked his dick for about twenty minutes straight, trying to spit-shine that mutha-fucka with my saliva and the gallon of cum he shot in my mouth, to no avail. It looked like I hadn’t even started. This nigguh had somehow managed to swell my upper lip and it did not look like I had done a damn thing. This shit made me mad as hell. It made me so mad that I reverse cow-girled his ass so he could see my other lips that needed swelling. There was no way I was gonna half-ass good dick. Especially when I know Ramadan was approaching and there would be no sex of any kind during the daytime.

  Adhering to the rules during the month of Ramadan is sometimes difficult. We both work the graveyard shift. I am a support technician for a major cable company. In other words, I help male customers who accidentally download viruses to their computer while stroking their dicks to porn in the wee-hours of the morning. They always call around 3:30 a.m., mad because their dumb, cheap asses let their virus protection plan run out. I mean, if you will spend money on lube to jerk your cock, why not add a few more dollars so while you are doing that there will be no interruptions? Please don’t get me wrong; Ramadan ain’t even here yet and I will be glad when it’s over. A whole thirty days of this shit will pluck a sistah’s nerve in all directions.

  Last year, during those nighttime hours of Ramadan, we spent hours redefining that little, but so precious, act called sex. There was one time that we had introduced sex toys into our screw sessions. Funny how he managed to find a dildo his exact size. He’s six inches, by the way. Humph! Six good inches. He told me I could practice deep throating it.

  I told him, “Thanks, baby, but ain’t nuthin like the real thing.”

  “So what, you giving it back?” he said.

  “Nope, just making a comment.”

  As the daylight hours approached, we said a very long good-bye. I was so intrigued by that particular night, the next day I sat down and wrote this story. Mainly to remind myself of how far I have come to being both mature and comfortable with my own spirituality and sexuality.

  THE EIGHTIES

  Well, where should I start? How about introducing myself? Yeah, I think that would be appropriate. My full name at birth was Felicia Cassandra Washington. It’s now Saleema Kataanah Washington—my legal Muslim name; at least, most of it. I wanted to change the entire name but declined, due to the fact I wanted to get married one day. I am five feet, eleven inches, dark-skinned, and a 100 percent plus-sized diva in my own right. As you can probably guess, I wasn’t always Muslim. My roots are in Christianity; particularly Baptist. In my household there was one basic rule for the seven of us concerning religion and God. You simply had to believe in Him. Anything other than that, you couldn’t stay in my momma’s house. Unless you were my father.

  Mommy begged him to go to church many Sundays. Yet, he always said no. I never fully understood why until I got older. However, when we were young, she made all of her kids attend every week. Again, as we got older, she didn’t press the issue at all. Now don’t get me wrong, church was religiously enlightening, but getting up early in the morning on a weekend to go to Sunday School, plus church later that same day, was something totally different. I guess it had something to do with Mommy being the teacher for Sunday School?

  A funny thing happened one Sunday morning. I remember the day clearly; it was me, my sister Cynthia, my brother William, Taneesha, Robert, “Nay Nay” a.k.a. Gloria Stevens, and of course, Meez. Shawn Cortez. Now that I think about it, Sundays always had their moments. Even though we were still kids back in the late seventies, early eighties, all of us still remain in contact with one another, believe it or not. Anyway, my mom was teaching us about Sodom and Gomorrah. Such subjects concerning the Bible, she was very brief and vague on the matter. Like clockwork, in her conclusions—I always wondered where she even began most of the time—she would say, “This was that and let us go on.”

  Nay Nay stopped her that day and asked a question.

  “Yes, Gloria. What is it?”

  “Well, Mrs. Washington, I wanted to know what is Sodom and Gomorrah?”

  Before she had a chance to respond, everybody’s hand went up except mine. Mommy gave me one of her looks to say you better not raise it. She always treated me different than William and Cynthia. You see, she didn’t give birth to them. They were my father’s “chirn,” as she would put it. She didn’t really treat them any less favorably, but let’s just say she really couldn’t keep tabs on them like she did me. In some aspects, I hated her for it.

  So, hands were up and the words “Ooh-ooh-ooh, I know.”

  “Calm down, one at a time. Okay, Shawn, do you know?”

  Shawn stood up and said in her New York Puerto Rican accent, “Yah, Meez Washington; that’s when two people get together and fuck, for real, for real.”

  The moment she said that everybody said, “Ooo oohhh.”

  My mom said, “Girl, watch your mouth. Don’t you know this is the Lord’s house?”

  “I’m sorry, Meez Washington.”

  Mom was one of those old-fashioned, churchgoing, deep Southern women; from Georgia, to be exact. Shit, if she only knew what goes on in the South nowadays; especially in Atlanta. Dah durty, durty. Sexually, I miss that place.

  Anyway, before I get off track. As Shawn sat down, ghetto-ass Robert stood up. “But look, Mrs. Washington, it’s tru doe. My cuzin be knockin off honeys left and right. Err Saturday night. When I’m over his house, I peep in the room, he got honey in there bent over saying fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

  “Young man, you need to sit your hind pots down before you make me come over there!” Mommy just hated Robert. He was just too ghetto for her. True as that was, Robert was a trip. He had that class falling out that day. Yet, Mommy meant what she said. If you didn’t do as she said, you were liable to get slapped across the head. I knew and they knew. Needless to say, Robert sat his ass down quick.

  You see, it was things like that that just got to me about Mommy. Now, granted, she was in church all day long on Sundays and was a Bible-toting sister and yes, she knew how to keep a man (my father) home. Still, how many Saturday nights went by and I heard her in there getting her “boots knocked off,” as we used to say. You know I did my lil’ Peepin Tom thing, too. I’m sure we all did. I mean, late at night, when they were supposedly watching Saturday Night Live. All I saw was my father pumping her from behind, moaning and groaning, while Mommy was saying, “Oh, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!!!!!” It must have been a good thing she was calling on the Lord.

  Besides, Daddy never got upset when she called another man’s name. Daddy’s name is Kevin.

  That was my rationale anyway, when I was younger. Mommy was so frustrating. She refused to keep it real. From that Sunday School on, she stayed clear away from anything that could be considered “sexually oriented.” Thus, fast forwarding me to more modern times.

  THE NINETIES

  It was the summer of 1991 and I had just completed one year of college at Virginia Union University. Mommy sent me there to study Theology. I put “Undecided” down as my major on my application. A lot of things went on at Union, but I prefer to let my man tell that story at a later time. I came back home to Hampton Roads having that one year of official adulthood under my belt. I wondered to myself, Where is everybody? A year ago, right after graduation, everyone promised that they would keep in contact with one another. Yeah right! Come to think of it, Taneesha was the only one who did keep her word.

  Taneesha is so honest and trustworthy. Just why in the hell she chose to become a lawyer, I have noooo clue. She always sends me emails inviting me to come party with
her and her sorors up at U.VA. Maybe one of these days, I’ll take her up on that invitation.

  I missed last Easter Sunday with Mommy. Thank God, I did. I know you are probably thinking, What an awful thing to say. Humph, you just don’t know. It wasn’t a month that had passed and Mommy was like, “You ain’t too grown to go to church with me this Sunday, are you?”

  Now that I was older, she always tried to get me with the guilt trip. I wasn’t having it. I didn’t feel like hearing any of Mommy’s bullshit. I carried my black ass out in the street. I was bound to find something to do.

  While I was driving toward the oceanfront to have some quiet time to myself, it dawned on me that Cynthia and William, my older brother and sister, were both stationed overseas somewhere in the Middle East. Now that I think about it, with all of those suicide bombings going on, Mommy probably wanted at least one of her kids to be with her during the holiday. Sometimes, I unintentionally think only of myself.

  Well, there I was down on Atlantic Avenue on a Friday night alone, with nothing to do. Even though it was tourist season, I did manage to find a place to park. Surprisingly, the oceanfront wasn’t that crowded, so finding a parking space was easy. It was about 10:30 at night. So, off to the beach I went. The beach was always the place where I went when I wanted some “me time.” A few minutes later, I was interrupted by a very peculiar sound. I know I wasn’t hearing things because a white couple had just walked past me, giggling about the same noise I heard. Something told me to investigate and walk a little bit farther to my right. I didn’t have anything else to do.

  The noise was off and on and becoming more defined. No doubt someone in the distance was fuckin’. To be exact, as I looked further, someone was giving some good head and, for damn sure, someone was receiving it. I said to myself, “I’ll be damned. At least somebody’s having fun.”

  My curiosity plagued me; I just had to know. So, I waited a while and listened to the sounds of oral sex that filled that little space on the beach. Don’t ask me how but I knew these things about the couple that was getting it on.

  As I approached the steps that led onto the sand, I took my sandals off and sat down on the first step. The railing to the right of me obscured my view somewhat, but that was cool. I didn’t want them to notice I was watching. So there I sat, so bored, I was listening to strangers having the type of fun that I wanted to have. That and my lil’ freaky curiosity would not let me leave. On the count of five—one, two, three, four, five—I looked directly in their direction. From what I saw, she was giving brother man some serious head problems. The brother was a fairly large man with a big gut. Every time she would go down on him, it seemed like she was trying to nail her forehead into his pelvis. She must have been doing a good job; all I saw was his head moving left to right like he was having a nightmare. You know how they show someone in a movie lying down and they’re having a bad dream? They start saying, “No, no, no,” and then they wake up from the dream? Well, that’s how she had brother man. Almost screaming, if you ask me.

  Whoever they were, they did not give a fuck about who was in their vicinity. Didn’t they see me sit down not twenty yards away from them? I guess not! I could have been the police. In Virginia Beach, the cops will lock your ass up for doing some shit like that out in public in a heartbeat, as is. Now here was this bitch twice my size, wearing a hot pink short skirt, with no bra on, and titties damn near touching the sand, sucking dick. Then she had the nerve to have a tattoo on the right side of her ass of Fat Albert’s face with his tongue pointed toward her asshole. I don’t know what tripped me out the most, the tattoo or the fact she wasn’t wearing any drawers. As for him, imagine a sumo wrestler with a bald head and black, instead of Asian, but butt naked. Yeah, it was going down in Virginia Beach on that night. No-shame-in-the-game.

  Still, with that said, while I watched her go down on him, I became somewhat stimulated and taken by their brazen sexuality. Then I stopped and thought about how long she was sucking him. It seemed like it was about an hour. Whatever it was, she had beaten my record by a mile. By now my pussy was so wet, I could smell the aroma coming out of my jeans, hypnotizing me into sending my middle finger on a mission. The mission was to lead the other fingers into bringing me to an orgasm. I placed the tip of my middle finger beneath the orange, floral lace micro-bikini I was wearing on a direct route to my clitoris. Tonight was about direct stimulation. No long, drawn-out masturbation sessions that I normally preferred. Ah yeah, that’s it. That’s my spot. Nothing would stop me until I was in orgasmic bliss.

  I looked over at the couple and saw that bitch still sucking that nigguh’s dick. She was about her business. No licking balls, talking dirty, fuckin’ or nothing. Just straight up and down “Omma bust this nigguh’s drum” kind of an attitude. Shit, I didn’t know a man could last that long, considering the speed and ferociousness that she was inflicting on him. I just knew her lips were swollen. They had to be. Her ass needed to be doing porn. The average woman would have gotten tired by then.

  As soon as I made that comment to myself, at that exact moment, they both got up and removed the rest of their clothing. She wasted no time climbing on top of him. By this time he was lying horizontal and, like clockwork, she started thrusting her hips back and forth. This sister put a nice rhythm on this nigguh. Who in the fuck said a big girl did not have the stamina or aggressiveness to fuck like anyone else? I would like to meet their men, team up with home girl, and show them all that a big girl will fuck a nigguh right into a coma. This is no bullshit. Just keeping the shit real. Anyway, after I had pondered that thought, I noticed her lean forward a bit and place her hands on his chest.

  As she looked him in the eye, she stated, “Yeah, this some good dick … yeah … good dick.”

  That threw me for a loop. By now the juices were dripping from my bikini through the jeans and onto the sandy concrete. I never knew public masturbation could be so good! I positioned not one, but three of my fingers directly on my clitoris. I rubbed it ferociously. Oh, I wanted so much to be in her shoes at that very moment. It had been a while since I’d had some decent sex. Tonight, I would have to settle for this escapade.

  Her nigguh must have been on Viagra, ’cause he had not come as of yet. The next position I saw them get into was doggy-style. The brother wasted no time hitting it from the back. He tightened his hands around her waist and commenced to drilling. These mutha-fuckas were doing some serious fucking and didn’t give a damn who saw it. I’d never seen a man with his weight move with such fluidity and passion. Then I thought to myself, Damn, how long can they continue this? Especially without getting caught?

  As soon as I thought that, I heard him say, “Here it comes, girl! Here it comes! Ahhhhh!!!! Shit!! Shit!! Shitt!!”

  When he came for the first and last time, I was on my fourth and final orgasm. It looked like I had pissed on myself. Exhausted, I rested my head on the railing, feeling dizzy but well satisfied. Fuck, my ass was out of it, feeling good as shit. I was so out of it, I didn’t see the couple walk in my direction. They had dressed and were headed up the steps.

  She glanced back at me and said, in a very deep Southern accent, “Gurl, you should’ve jown us.”

  He was like, “Yeah, fow-reel.” Then they left the beach.

  As they walked away, I noticed she still had some of his cum leaking from her ass down to her ankles. She didn’t even bother to clean it up. Damn, that is what you call doing the damn thing and not giving a fuck who knows it!

  After that, I headed toward my car, not giving a fuck if somebody thought I had peed on myself or not. People should know the difference between piss and cum!

  So there you have it, diary. A moment in time from years ago that I can reflect upon that was instrumental in my quest for total sexual maturity; a maturity that would combine both my spiritual and sexual worlds into one. I figured to title this section of you with this heading during the month of Ramadan when I desire sex the most, but can’t have complete access to
it like I would like. I suppose if I write about it and the experiences that I have witnessed and have partaken in, it will help me not to stray away from my discipline. Well, until next year, diary. I will stop here. I hear my husband, Taariq, calling me. Salaam (Peace).

  Selective Memory

  Tigress Healy

  Lorenzo claimed he would’ve broken my fall if he could have, but now I’m not so sure. He said he didn’t know I had fallen until he came out of the room and found me slumped at the bottom of the stairs. This was all a bit crazy because memory loss was to be expected since I’d hit my head, but three days later, I still couldn’t remember some of the things that happened prior to the fall. My doctor said I had a type of temporary amnesia and that I would be fine, but in the meantime, I had to rely on Lorenzo to remind me of things. When I told him I didn’t completely remember him, much less being married to him, he showed me our marriage certificate and wedding album. Then he reminded me of something else: That I am a highly sexual being that likes men and women. I definitely didn’t remember that.

  Nine days after the injury, most of my memory was back and I could go to work, but I still didn’t remember being bisexual. I remembered feeling jealous of beautiful women when Lorenzo complimented them, but I never wanted them for myself. To that, my husband explained that I was repressed, succumbing to society’s disapproval of same-gender attraction. He said I was hiding myself from their rejection. He said my amnesia enabled me to try being “normal,” but that I had always hated normal things, and that normal just wasn’t fun. Moreover, he said he had married me because of my liberal sexual views and would feel differently about me if I changed them now.