by Zane
“Roxie, I’m so sorry about that but—”
“Shh…” She held her pussy-scented finger up to my lips and I drew it in, licking her essence off of it. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone makes mistakes and after growing up, I can understand how a boy your age would go for it.”
I felt horrible as the memory of the expression on her face flooded back into my mind. If not for the fact that she went back to stroking my dick, I might’ve lost my erection and that would’ve been a shame because I could’ve knocked a ball out the park with the one I was sporting at that moment.
“You’re right,” I whispered. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”
“Let’s not,” she agreed. “It’s time for some serious fucking.”
Six hours later, after we were both spent, and I was in awe of myself for hanging that long, we drifted off to sleep. I was happy, Dick was exhilarated, Roxie appeared sated, and Rayne Waters was a distant memory. I had finally snagged my Mrs. Right.
Eleven
Rayne
Three Months Later
The praise service was off the hook. People were stomping their feet, falling down on their knees, and doing the jig in the aisles between the pews. I thought Southern churches were off the hook, but Great Mount Bethel Holiness Church was the ultimate religious experience.
They didn’t simply have the traditional organist. They had an entire band: two electric guitarists, a horn section, a keyboardist, and a drummer. What a drummer he was, too.
The first Sunday Chance and I attended service, I was so busy looking at him that I couldn’t even remember what the sermon was about. He was tall, about six-two, with blue-black skin and black eyes that looked like opals. He had on a neatly pressed white dress shirt that complemented the darkness of his skin and a pair of navy dress slacks. I’d heard that church was a good place to meet men. The sisters never lie.
After church, Chance and I introduced ourselves to the pastor, Reverend Tom Russell. He looked ancient, about eighty, but had more energy than the two of us put together when he shook our hands in the line of churchgoers exiting through the front door.
Chance and I spent the rest of the afternoon at my apartment, watching football of course. I was the main one watching it. Chance fell asleep on the floor after she’d stuffed herself with the leftover chicken fajitas I’d cooked the night before. I had no business fixing them. Onions, peppers, and mushrooms don’t agree with me. In fact, you could say they hate my guts. They definitely put a hurting on them. However, like most people, the things I shouldn’t succumb to are the ones I can’t live without.
When we returned to church the next week, I had this tremendous sexual fantasy about the drummer. I know it was wrong, but I could envision him ripping my clothes off right there on the altar and wearing my coochie out. Sitting there in the pew, listening to the choir praise the Lord, I had an intense orgasm. My toes curled up in my suede pumps. My eyes started fluttering around in my head. I balled my hands up into fists. It was so much of a shock that I started weeping.
Chance leaned over to whisper in my ear. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you crying?”
I grabbed onto her forearm and struggled for words.
“Rayne, you need me to get one of the ushers? You want a fan or something?”
“No, I’m okay,” I finally managed to reply. “I’m just so moved.”
I let go of Chance’s arm, leaving my finger imprints on her honey-almond skin. I took a few moments to regain some composure, struggling to get my breathing pattern back into a steady rhythm. Then I panicked. What if I’d cum hard enough to wet the bottom of my dress?
My dress survived that day; probably because it was heavy suede. My dignity didn’t survive. I set out on a campaign to get that man. I found out his name was Basil. Basil Richardson. That was easy enough to find out. I asked one of the older women sitting beside me the following Sunday. She seemed so comfortable in the pew that I figured she’d been sitting in the same spot for the past five thousand Sundays.
I complimented the choir and band, putting special emphasis on the musical talent of the drummer. That was when she spilled all of his business. His name. The fact that he’d grown up in the church, received his eagle badge from participating in the Boy Scouts, sang a ton of solos in the junior choir, went away to North Carolina State for college, and returned home to D.C. to take over the family landscaping business from his ailing father, one of the people on the sick and shut-in list on the back of the church bulletin.
“Does his wife also attend Great Mount Bethel?” I asked on the sly.
“No, Basil’s not married. A lot of the women in the church would love to settle him down, but no luck so far.”
“That’s good.”
She eyed me strangely.
“No, I meant that’s bad. As far as the women not being able to get him to settle down.”
She smirked at me and opened her Bible to the scripture selection.
Against her wishes, I convinced Chance to start attending singles night every Tuesday at the church. Basil never showed up, but a bunch of desperate other men did. Men I wouldn’t date in a million years.
So, we tried Bible Study on Wednesday. No Basil.
I debated about joining the adult choir, which practiced on Thursday. For sure, he’d be there. He had to be. However, being that I sounded like a sick hyena on crack when I belted out a tune, I’d decided that wasn’t the best course of action. I was planning to seduce him; not make him go invest in earplugs. Sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself. It didn’t turn out quite as I’d planned.
When they made the announcement about the Annual Senior Citizens’ Appreciation Dinner, I knew Basil would be there. The entire congregation would fall all over themselves to show gratitude to their elders; myself included. Anyone who could deal with life’s bullshit for more than sixty-five years was A-OK in my book.
Chance and I volunteered for the YAMs, the Young Adult Missionaries, who were sponsoring the dinner. I signed up to bring deviled eggs and a sweet-potato pie; store-bought of course because I couldn’t bake canned biscuits without burning them. Chance was supposed to be making enchiladas. I’d warned her that the people at the church wouldn’t even know what they were, being that Chance was one of the three Puerto Ricans attending the church. She’d insisted on making them anyway. I’d decided it was better for her to show up with enchiladas than for her not to show up at all.
The night before the dinner, which was to take place on a Saturday, I heard the weatherman on the ten o’clock news predicting an ice storm. Bull, I thought. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky when I’d come in from the grocery store.
The next morning, the city was blanketed with snow and ice. I called Chance to see if she was ready.
“Chance, you got those enchiladas all wrapped up? I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“Rayne, the roads are covered with ice!” Chance yelled into my ear.
“I can see that. It’s no big deal. I drive extremely well in bad weather.”
“Snow, maybe, but no one drives extremely well on a sheet of ice. I’m staying home.”
“Oh no, you’re not,” I said sarcastically. “You better get your ass dressed and meet me in front of your building in thirty minutes.”
Chance set the phone down. I could hear her cursing in Spanish. Ricky asked her what was wrong. Like me, he didn’t know what the hell she was saying when she starting speaking Spanish a hundred words per minute.
“Rayne?” Ricky inquired, picking up the phone. “What’s going on?”
“Chance is supposed to be going to church with me today for the Senior Citizens’ Dinner and now she’s trying to back out.”
“Rayne, damn right she’s backing out! I’m sure they’ll reschedule the dinner anyway. No one in their right mind is going out in this weather.”
Maybe he had a point. What if the dinner was canceled and we were the only fools that showed up?
�
�Tell Chance I’ll call her later.”
“Rayne, you’re not going out, are you?” Ricky demanded to know. “Don’t be silly.”
I placed the handset down on the cradle and started searching for my keys.
When I finally pulled into the church parking lot, some two hours later when it should’ve taken less than thirty minutes, it was practically deserted. There were a few cars scattered here and there; at different angles since you couldn’t see the white lines dividing the spaces.
“No! No! No!” I screamed to myself, cutting the engine of my car. I was lucky I even still had a car. On the way over there, I’d slid no less than ten times and had almost done a three-sixty trying to stop for a red light. There was no way I was about to turn right around and go through the same hell again.
“Get a hold of yourself, Rayne,” I said, trying to seek comfort in my own words. “There are some cars here. Simply go inside, relax, and see what’s going on.”
Someone had to be there. As long as I could get in, I could warm up and maybe even scrounge up a pot of coffee. After all, when all else fails, you’re supposed to seek sanctuary in a church anyway.
I retrieved the Tupperware containers with my eggs and pie from the back seat. Yes, I was frontin’. I’d taken the pie out of the Giant box and had placed it in something else.
I opened my door and stepped out with my purse hung over one shoulder and the containers in my opposite arm. I took two baby steps and then fell flat on my ass, hitting my head against the car door. My deviled eggs and pie tumbled to the ground and slid about ten feet away on the ice. I was too through.
“Miss, do you need some help?”
I heard the baritone voice, but I couldn’t see anyone.
My stockings had ripped and I had a nasty cut on my left knee. There I was sprawled on the ground in my Sunday best, when Basil Richardson walked right up to me and extended his hand.
“Can I help you up?”
You can help yourself to any damn thing you want!
“That would be great! Thanks!”
His strong arms lifted me effortlessly off the ground. I was relieved for two reasons. My ass was no longer in danger of turning into an ice cube and I was able to stare him directly in the eyes.
“Oh, my!” I heard myself saying.
He blushed, exposing the cutest dimples.
“Do you want to get back into your car or go inside?” he asked.
“No way am I getting back in my car. I barely made it here.”
“Then grab onto me.”
I held onto his sleeve and fearfully took a couple of steps before I started slipping again. This time I was saved by the brotha in the gray suit. He caught me by my armpits from behind. How foolish we must’ve looked.
“I’ll tell you what,” Basil said. “Even though you don’t know me, would it be all right if I carried you into the church?”
“I do know you. You’re the drummer from the band. Basil Richardson.”
He blushed again. “And you are?”
“Rayne Waters,” I answered, looking up at him over my shoulder. “I’d shake your hand, but it would be kind of difficult from this angle.”
We both laughed. He swept me into his arms and carried me into the church apse. He sat me down gently and returned to the parking lot to recover my purse and food, the spikes on the bottom of his boots cracking through the ice like it was butter.
There were less than two dozen people at the Senior Citizens’ Dinner, including Basil and me. We had a great time, listening to the elders—who had dared to brave the elements to get there—reminisce about the early 1900’s. That was worth the trauma I’d gone through to get there. Their wisdom and Basil’s looks, that is.
The food selections were minimal, but everyone enjoyed my deviled eggs; even though they’d lost their visual appeal. As for my pie, I had two different women ask me for the recipe. One of them said it reminded her of her deceased aunt’s sweet-potato pie. I told them I’d make sure to get it to them before I left. Thankfully, they both left before I did and forgot they asked.
Basil and I sat beside each other. I kept grabbing his kneecap whenever he told a funny joke. I was really trying to feel his muscles up. He got up to get another cup of coffee and that finally afforded me the opportunity to scope out his behind. Sold to the lady in the torn stockings and blue dress!
“So, Basil, are you seeing someone right now?” I inquired as he carried me back to my car.
“No, not right now.” He was quite the blusher; almost shy. “I’m working most of the time. That is, when I’m not in church.”
We’d been over all the vitals already. Employment, general vicinity of residences (apartment in Georgetown, rowhouse near Walter Reed), ages, education, etc. Now it was time for the kill.
“Would you like to come over for dinner sometime? Next Friday, maybe?”
“I’d love to!” he exclaimed, placing me into the driver’s seat. I had my purse and containers on my lap and I put them on the passenger’s seat. “Want to trade numbers?”
“Certainly.” I reached into my glove compartment, where I always keep a pen and pad, and scribbled down my number. He recited his number to me and I wrote it on the next page.
Returning home from Great Mount Bethel was much easier. Shockingly, the D.C. Department of Public Works had actually done something for a change. The sand trucks had done an incredible job of powdering the streets. I did have to watch out for the infamous potholes, more like sinkholes, the city was renowned for.
I called Chance to tell her my wonderful news. She said I was out of my damn mind to risk going out in an ice storm for some dick. Then she congratulated me for finally making some progress.
“Now if you could only get up enough nerve to talk to the brotha that comes into the bank,” she hissed into the phone.
“Chance, puleeze!” I snapped back at her. “Basil’s fine and it’s only by pure luck that’s he’s single. But, that man from the bank is taken. Mark my words. He’s probably married.”
“Well, you need to find out. You’re not a fucking psychic.”
“Find out for what? Are you loco? Basil’s coming over here for dinner on Friday. I’m going to rock his world, too.”
“You’re going to give it up on the first date?” Chance asked, like she’d never freaked a man she’d met less than five hours earlier at a club; two hours even.
“You know how long I’ve been trying to hook up with Basil. If something happens, it happens. That’s all I’m saying.”
When Chance and I got off the phone, I rifled through my stack of mail-order catalogs for the Black Sex Goddess one and started looking at their skimpy lingerie. After all, there was nothing wrong with pushing things along a little.
Twelve
Yardley
“Roxie, hold up! I need to get a glass of water.”
Roxie was pulling another rough rider act on me, about to amputate my dick with her pelvic muscles.
“Yardley, who needs water?” she asked incredulously.
“I do. I’ve never sweated this much in my entire life. Not even when I shoot hoops with the fellas.”
“Well, this isn’t shooting hoops. This is fucking.”
“I’m quite aware of that, thanks,” I said, pushing her off me and getting up from the moisture-ridden sheets. “I’ll be back.”
I headed out to my kitchen, my dick bouncing up and down, condom and all.
Roxie started yelling at me from the bedroom. “Yardley, get your ass back in here and finish me off.”
I ripped the condom off and tossed it in the wastebasket, washed my hands in the sink, and fixed myself an ice-cold glass of H2O. Roxie was a freak. I was beginning to wonder if a freak was really what I needed.
We’d been seeing each other for about four months. Things were great at first. After years of “what-ifs,” I had the sister in my life that had kicked me to the curb way back in high school.
Besides, Roxie was a decent catch. She
was educated, witty, and had a great job as an event coordinator for one of the largest marketing firms in the nation. Unfortunately, that meant attending event after event, benefit after benefit, week after week. All the late nights were beginning to take their toll on me. Roxie accompanying me home nine times out of ten to slay my dick was not benefiting my sleep either.
Don’t get me wrong. Roxie and I had a lot of fun; tons of it. I was at the point where I was even considering settling down permanently. Yet I couldn’t be sure. I kept telling myself that it was all about Roxie and me, but subconsciously I knew better. Part of me was still wondering about Rayne Waters.
While I’d cut back on my visits to First Community Bank considerably, I still insisted on making the deposits from time to time so I could catch a glimpse of her. After finally putting one set of what-ifs out of their misery, I was faced with another set to take their place. What if Rayne Waters wasn’t taken? What if she was open to having lunch or dinner with me? What if we got to know each other better? What if we had a lot in common? What if she was better for me than Roxie? What if? What if? What if?
Gina was Roxie’s best friend. What covenant of witches she was raised in, I’m still unsure. Maybe the Witches of the I-Know-I’m-the-Shit-So-Back-Up-
Off-Me Covenant based out of Minneapolis. That’s where she was from. Roxie had met her when she was out there in college. Gina still lived there, but had stacked up a shitload of frequent flyer miles traveling back and forth to see Roxie.
Naturally—since she was borderline fine—I’d tried to hook her up with one of the fellas. She wasn’t having it. She refused to even give Felix some play; a first for him.
Gina wanted to sit up underneath Roxie all the time; literally. I’d show up at Roxie’s place and Gina would be walking around in a skimpy tank top with no bra and a pair of French-cut briefs in the dead of winter. Roxie didn’t seem to mind her girl showing off her goods in front of me. That made me nervous.
