by Zane
“Don’t I always?”
“No doubt.” He peeked over her shoulder again. “Can I get a taste before dinner?”
The boy was a human garbage disposal, looking and sounding more and more like his papi every day.
Sonja reached up to ruffle his short curly fade, what her Cuban mother and Carlos’s Puerto Rican mother called “good” hair.
She wondered what they would think of Kaj and his locs, and whether his hairstyle would matter as much to them as her lover’s tender years.
Sonja shrugged as she took off her apron and moved away from the stove to give her son access to the roast.
She watched him wash his hands, get a carving knife, and slice off a succulent chunk of meat before popping it into his mouth and giving the thumbs-up.
“Homeboy’s gonna appreciate this.”
“You think?”
“He’d bettah.” Ricky came over and gave her a hug. “He treatin’ you right, Ma?”
“You know he does. I wouldn’t be with him otherwise.”
April picked that moment to sidle into the kitchen, still clad in her pajamas and bedroom slippers. “I know that’s right.”
“He’s going to be here eventually. Think you can get dressed and make a halfway decent impression so that he’ll know our mother raised us right, brat?”
“Up yours.”
“Kids, watch the language.”
April and Ricky both laughed, knowing their mother could get down with a vice cop when she wanted to.
The doorbell rang and Sonja took a deep breath and looked at the kitchen wall clock.
She knew it was him. Unlike some young men his age, Kaj was always prompt. Prompt, self-employed, mature, responsible…and a good-ass lay. What more could an almost-forty-year-old ask for?
Sonja headed through the kitchen’s swinging doors, out into the living room.
FIVE…She wanted her kids to like Kaj, or at least understand how she felt about him. But if they did neither, she was prepared to live with it, as they would eventually learn to. She was their mother; they weren’t hers.
FOUR…She liked Kaj, liked spending time with him. Liked fucking him.
THREE…It wasn’t love, and they weren’t getting married any time soon.
TWO…But for now she enjoyed having him in her life.
ONE…The doorbell rang again. “¡Ay, espera! I’m coming!”
Sonja opened the door to his wide smile, took the bottle of expensive liqueur he had in one hand, and leaned in for a deep soul kiss. “You’re right on time.” She caught him by a hand and led him into her house.
JUMP…Her kids would either accept him or they wouldn’t.
Either way, que será, será.
Butterfly
Jordan Grace
“Solo, girl, you’ve lost your mind,” I said to myself as the breathtaking beauty of Cuba came into view. I still couldn’t believe I’d left my tiny, peaceful Bahamian country, home to less than five hundred thousand souls, for Cuba, home to eleven million, and a way of life so vastly different from my own. All for a man who probably didn’t even want to see me. But I needed to see him. I needed to know if the connection we’d shared a year and a half earlier was still there.
He’d touched my soul the moment his dark chocolate eyes connected with my black, almond-shaped pair on a crowded bus in the Bahamas. He’d taken the seat next to me. His mango complexion, jet-black, shoulder-length curls, and rugged good looks made him pop amongst the sea of faces in varying shades of beautiful earth tones. He’d taken my breath away with a smile and a look that told me he was feeling the same butterflies that were wreaking havoc in my stomach. The heat from his body had taken me by surprise. I could feel it seeping into mine, making me moist in places that made me blush.
I’d never been so strongly attracted to a man before. It was unlike my body to be so brazen when I’d never allowed a man to get that close to me. At thirty, I was still very much the only person that I’d ever had sex with. I’d made a decision in my teens to save myself for marriage. The decision was based on the fear of getting hurt and my strict upbringing. I was always known as a good girl in my small community. Being good had become a part of my identity. Old women had smiled proudly at me in church and prayed that someone in their family would bring me home.
But when I became an adult, being the good girl became less of a virtue and more of a burden. I lived a double life, trying to please everyone and still stay true to myself. I wrote books for children, which I proudly showed my family while I wrote erotica under the safety of a pseudonym. Sometimes I felt as false as my pen name.
In my bedroom was a stash of toys and books to keep me company in the lonely hours. I knew how to love myself, even if I didn’t know how to be true to myself. I lived vicariously through my spicy characters but sometimes it was just not enough. I never thought I would still be single at thirty but I was determined to stick to my principles. That is, until I met him.
“I’m Andreas,” my Latin dream had introduced himself in a deep voice I knew could make a woman melt with whispered sweet nothings.
“My name is Solo. Nice meeting you.”
“Unusual name,” he commented.
“It suits me,” I said. I’d been a loner all of my life, thanks in part to an absentee father who had made it hard for me to trust people, especially men.
Over the blare of reggae music and excited natives and tourists, I got to know Andreas a little better. He was from Cuba, traveling in the Bahamas, and a communist. The latter led to a discussion that continued long after we had gotten off the bus in the center of town. I welcomed the healthy banter. His political views were just the buffer I needed against my growing attraction to him, but Andreas soon wanted to get more personal. We spent the day talking about everything under the Caribbean sun. I was surprised how much we had in common. I felt like I’d known him forever. We watched the boats pull into and out of the harbor, transporting food, supplies, and people to twenty-nine Bahamian inhabited islands. Everywhere around us were portraits of Bahamian life in action.
I played tour guide, giving him a glimpse into the culture that I loved so much. After the sunset, Andreas took my hand in his. I could see desire in his eyes and it scared the hell out of me. I pulled away from him. There was no way that I was going to sleep with a man that I’d only known a few hours, although I now felt closer to him than some people that I’d known for years. Most of the men I’d dated saw me as cold, but Andreas had seen beyond that to the embers that just needed a caring man to ignite them into an inferno.
“I only want to kiss you,” he assured me.
“I’m not ready,” I told him.
Andreas nodded in understanding. He caressed my arms. My mind recoiled even as my body welcomed his touch.
“I only have a few more days here,” he said. “I’d like to spend them with you.”
His smile was genuinely beautiful. Everything in me longed to say yes except for that small part of me that could come up with a million reasons not to. Those reasons bothered me as I made plans to meet up with him the next day. I allowed him a soft kiss on the cheek before getting a taxi home.
He came to me in my dreams that night. I woke up with my nightdress plastered to my skin and an ache between my legs that demanded my expert touch. As I ran my hands over my heated flesh, I imagined they were Andreas’s. I could write epic fantasies about him. I created our first sex scene in my mind in explicit detail. When I finally moved my hands between my legs, my crotch was soaked. I rubbed myself through the fabric. I loved the friction of cloth against flesh. My release was loud but I still felt hungry.
I saw what I was starving for the next morning when I met up with Andreas. We spent our time snorkeling until lunch. Then we headed to a local restaurant where we enjoyed Bahamian fried fish and conch salad and drank a few too many local beers.
At first glance, Nassau’s colonial history is still evident. Once part of Britain’s vast empire, she still retains
its Old World charm and British sensibility. It wasn’t unusual to see men and women in powdered wigs in front of the courthouse and government buildings. Yet, among these traditions thrived Internet cafés, five-star hotels, and elegant boutiques. Andreas loved it all.
After three days with him, I couldn’t fight my attraction to him anymore. I practically attacked him as we watched the sun set during our evening picnic on the beach.
I lifted his hands from my waist and placed them on my breasts. I looked up into his questioning eyes. My smile reassured him that I was ready. He slipped his hands under my top. My nipples were already hard. I reached under my skirt and untied one end of my string bikini. I backed further into him, rubbing up against his hard penis. I wrapped my arms around his neck. Standing on the tips of my toes, I pushed my backside further into him.
His breath was ragged against my face. He pinched my nipples and made my arm tingle with his wet, wicked tongue. Heat spiraled down my body and centralized in my pussy. My hands left his neck in search of the heat between my legs. I ran my fingers over my clean-shaven mound.
I slipped my finger inside me. I found that ultrasensitive ribbed flesh that had the power to drive me out of my natural-born mind. Slowly, I began to massage it. One of Andreas’s hands moved down and cupped my behind. His fingers slipped between my cheeks. His fingers slid lower and joined mine in my pussy. As the waves of pleasure rose to wash over me, I pulled my hand away, not ready to let go of the sweet sensations building inside. I unzipped his pants and pulled his penis out. It felt wonderful in my hands. I wanted to memorize each vein, each color distinction and sensitive area.
Nervously, I placed him at the entrance to my prized pussy. He removed his finger and expertly slipped it inside of me. He felt amazing. I felt my body stretching to welcome him but there was far more pleasure than pain. He danced inside of me. Each sensation was new; each contact sent a shiver down my spine. Now I knew what all the fuss was about. A penis just wasn’t a penis unless it was pulsating with pure human sensations and emotions. The idea of knowing we could be caught at any moment made our loving feel exciting and taboo. Our cries competed only with the sounds of the ocean. His hands grabbed my hips as our bodies traveled to that special place of sweet release. My chants of yes filled my soul as his release filled my body. When our bodies finally stilled, we held on to each other weakly. When we came back down to earth, the sun had made its lazy descent.
As my pleasure faded, the guilt set in. I couldn’t believe I’d given myself to him. This was not the wedding-night fantasy I’d held on to for so many years. Did he even love me? My heart told me yes, but I couldn’t trust it.
When he kissed me good-bye at my door, he thought we would spend his last day together. My heart was breaking because I knew that I would never see him again. The next morning I took a flight out of town and didn’t come back until I was sure that he was back in Cuba.
That was a year and a half ago, but I’d remembered everything about him, including the name of the family-owned bed-and-breakfast he’d talked about. I found it on the Net and made reservations. I couldn’t wait to look into his eyes. He had created an ache that all of my self-loving hadn’t been able to satisfy. I was a master at masturbation but I’d become his slave. The wheels of the plane hitting the tarmac brought me back to the present.
Once outside the airport, I looked for a taxi. My steps faltered when I saw Andreas. The sight of him took my breath away. He was well over six feet tall and more muscular than I remembered him being. He was the kind of man that could make even a big-boned woman like me feel small in his strong arms. With the face of an angel and a body that still made me want to sin, he had only improved with time. There was something about the intensity of his brown eyes, accentuated by day-old stubble, that made my heart skip a few beats. He gave me a nervous but sexy smile.
“Solo. It’s good to see you again.”
My smile was so big it almost cracked my face. I couldn’t believe that he was standing in front of me.
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“I wanted to be the first to welcome you to Cuba,” he explained in beautifully accented English. We stood there staring at each other while people milled around us. I could see the questions in his eyes but I wasn’t quite ready to answer them. Finally, someone bumped against him and shattered the trance we seemed to be under.
I was still tingling long after I was sitting in the passenger seat of his old pickup truck. I lapsed into another trance as the spectacular slide show that was daily life in Havana played in living color. Vintage American cars sped by us as I stared in wonder at the grand buildings in desperate need of paint but full of a regal beauty. The city had a frozen-in-time essence that any modernization would only erase.
“It’s intoxicating, isn’t it?”
My eyes shifted from the window to Andreas. “Yes,” I answered, although I could’ve been saying it about Cuban life or about the Cuban beside me. Havana was alluring. Children played in the streets and sidewalks, mindless of traffic and the world outside their little oasis. Despite all of the seeming hardships, Cuba was proud and resilient. I could feel it in her tropical breeze, whispering across my face. She had a sensual joy of life; it was evident in the sway of hips and the tossing of every texture of hair over a rainbow of brown-toned shoulders. Andreas made a stop at an outdoor market to pick up a dessert pie for his mother, María. As we navigated our way among the throes of natives and tourists from almost every corner of the globe, he took my hand in his so as not to lose me.
His touch felt safe. It made me want to snuggle up to him and tell him more of the secrets he’d seen in my eyes. I hadn’t touched many men in my adult life. I still had limited contact with the opposite sex. But I’d never realized how much I truly missed it until I felt Andreas’s touch. I grabbed his forearm with my other hand.
He pointed out exotic produce to me. As a Caribbean girl myself, some things were familiar, like plantains, guavas, and okras, which were a favorite of mine. Every word and gesture spoke of Andreas’s love for his country and their way of life. He had me laughing and still near tears as he showed such reverence for a lifestyle a lot of people would see as backward because of the U.S. embargo. Suddenly, I felt a deeper connection with him, an intangible human link stronger than anything I’d ever felt with anyone outside of my close friends and family. I held on to him tightly. I felt a tingle in my stomach that turned into a sense of regret when he released me to shop.
While he flirted with the elderly lady at the bakery, I took in the colorful array of items being sold in the marketplace. I was happy that a lot of the vendors spoke enough English to make shopping pleasant but I knew Andreas was only a few feet away if I needed help. When I rejoined him, he took my hand again and we made our way back to his truck.
“Can I buy you an espresso?” he asked.
I accepted with a smile. The coffee shop was crowded but we managed to find a table in a corner. I watched his full lips as his tongue glided across them in search of the strong, sweet brew. The simple sensuality of the act made my body tingle. I wondered how he would react if I told him how much power he had over me. Would he embrace it or had I made him wary of me after my disappearing act? I instead focused my attention on his words. Andreas told me about his writing, his paintings and sculptures.
“It is not easy to be creative in a country where so much is censored, but it forces you to be even more creative with how you express yourself,” he said.
“I don’t think twice about what I want to write,” I admitted. “If I feel something, I write it. There’s no one looking over my shoulder, except the critic in my head.”
“Then why are you so afraid?” he asked softly.
I turned to look at him with troubled eyes. “I’ve been asking myself that very same question.”
The rest of the journey passed in silence. I occupied myself by capturing the scenes playing out before me and locking them in my mind. Despite the turmoil And
reas was causing, I already knew this trip to Cuba would stick with me for a long time.
It was comforting to see so many brown faces in a foreign land. From my research, I’d learned that Cuba was one of the first countries in the Caribbean to import African slaves.
María was waiting for me in front of her three-story home and business. She greeted me as if we were kindred spirits. She threw her arms around me. “Welcome, my child,” she said in almost perfect English.
She exuded confidence, from her shoulder-length, curly black hair and laughing eyes, to her summer dress and bare feet. How could someone have so much presence in a place where so much was censored? I wondered. I gravitated to her like a butterfly to a rare flower.
Andreas gave her an affectionate peck on her rosy cheek.
“Thank you, baby,” she said. “Can you take the pie into the kitchen? You are staying for dinner, right?”
He smiled and nodded.
María took my hand and led me inside. Her home was spectacular. The courtyard was filled with misbehaving vines going wherever the hell they pleased while more cautious plant life was contained in pots and flower beds. The riotous colors attracted a host of insects and drew me to the plants’ unique beauty. As an avid gardener, I immediately felt at peace among some of nature’s most beautiful creations.
“This is so peaceful,” I commented.
María sat down on a wooden bench and patted the space beside her. I dropped my bag and sat next to her.
“Is that what you came here to find, peace?” she asked softly.
I looked over at her in surprise. There was no way I could tell a lie under her intense scrutiny. “Yes,” I admitted.
She gave me a kind smile. “I suspect this has something to do with Andreas. He was different after his trip to your country. Whatever you two didn’t do, then I hope that you have the courage to do it now.”
