“India”—he kissed me in the center of my head—”I know I can’t compete with Mr. Marcus, but let’s just play it by ear.”
“Be quiet,” I chuckled, my head still lying against his chest, feeling his heart beat. “I just don’t know, Devin. I feel a new type of baby-mama-drama coming from this. Not to mention some young ex-girlfriend bullshit.”
“I can take care of my mother . . . and as far as ex-girlfriends, I’m good. All of my ex-girlfriends are checked.” He started rubbing my back.
“Yeah sure. Your mother told me and half of the teachers’ room about the nineteen-year-old chick she had to check for you—”
“Let me stop you right there. I’m a man; my mother didn’t have to check anybody for me. I put the girl in her place; she didn’t catch the hint, and kept calling the house.”
“Yeah, and that’s when Joan got involved. And if I’m not mistaken, Tracy even told the girl how she would stomp a mud hole in her ass. I . . . don’t have time to be battling with a nineteen-year-old lil’ girl. At nineteen you’re still breaking out car windows and shit. Trust me, my things are expensive, and if she’s tries to get fly and break up my shit, I’ma drag her ass.”
“Damn”—he kissed me again—”I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ yo’ gangstah.” He laughed, “But naw, baby, it’s not like that. She’s in check.” I could feel his warm fingertips massaging my waist. I closed my eyes because as confident as I was with my body, a part of me still wished these love handles didn’t exist.
“You feel so good, India,” he said, acting as if my love handles were no problem. “I have to be honest with you,” he said, now feeling on my ass. “When I saw you the other day I was checking for you hard as hell.”
“Really?”
“Hell, yeah. I went as far as asking my mother were you single.”
“You did?” I said, faking my surprise. “What did she say?”
“She said . . .”—he hesitated—”that you . . . were a sweet young lady.”
“She didn’t say I was too old for you?”
“Not really, but let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about us right now.”
“Devin,” I said, looking up at him and stepping out of his embrace, “this is the second time you’ve mentioned ‘us.’ What ‘us’? Let’s be for real. I’m thirty-six years old. I’m single and I have no children. I’m tired of being alone and I don’t wanna be like this for another ten years, while I wait on you to be the right age to be settled with a baby. I’m not trying to satisfy myself for the here and now. And I don’t want my heart broken again. Hell, I did that shit already. It’s about to be a new year and I have to be true to myself, and playing around, screwing you, dealing with a nineteen-year-old ex-girlfriend, and hiding out from your mother is not exactly what I had planned for two thousand six.”
“First of all, India, how are you going to plan my life? Have you asked me what I want? Have you asked me if I want children, want to be married, or are you assuming that because I’m twenty-three with a big dick that I wanna fuck all the time. Give me some credit. I’m young, but I’m grown and I’m diggin’ the hell outta you. I can’t marry my mother and I don’t want a baby with a nineteen-year-old freak. Any brothah you meet, you’ll have to spend time with him . . . well, give me that same opportunity and get to know me. Don’t be so scared, I might turn out to be who you’ve been looking for.”
He reached for my hand and pulled me back into his embrace. He started running his fingertips up and down the small of my back, whispering in my hair, “Just take a chance . . . this once . . . I promise not to disappoint.” Oh God, I was melting. I looked up at him and what I saw was a man. A man that I could one day call my own. . . . He held his head down and started sucking on my bottom lip, pulling it in and out of his mouth. My nipples were hard and my legs were trembling. I could feel my juices soaking my panties and I swear to you, I felt like the sky in a thunderstorm. All of this thumping in my coochie cannot be healthy!
I’m not sure how my pants became unzipped, but I know that his thumb was causing me to spasm as he pressed it against my clit.
“It’s so warm and thick,” he whispered, bending his head down lower and kissing the cleavage showing through my V-neck. Don’t ask me why, but I started standing on my tippy-toes, making sure he was able to kiss all of it. My whole body was throbbing. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. “It feels so good . . . baby.” I moaned.
“You want me to stop?”
I couldn’t breathe. He was circling his fingers in and out of my slit. I thought I would die. This has to be illegal . . . I think its called jailbait . . . but in a minute I’ma be climbing the wall.
“You want me to stop?” he asked, softly, while pulling my sweater over my head.
My mind kept saying, You need to stop . . . , but my body said, Fuck that, we’ve been horny for months.
He pulled my pants down and I stepped out of them. He picked me up and placed me on the center island. Gently, opening my legs, he said, “I’ve asked you twice if you wanted me to stop.” He was standing between my legs and looking me in the eyes.
“Don’t stop,” I moaned, my legs shaking and my head feeling as if it would explode. “Please don’t stop.”
“What do you want me to do . . . to you?” He was bending down, taking his tongue and teasing my clit with it. “Tell me.”
“I want you . . . ,” I said nervously, “to make love to me. . . .”
“You sure?”
“Yes . . . only if you want to . . .”
He took his tongue and pushed it inside of me. Taking his tongue out and sucking on my inner thigh, he asked, “Do you want me to make love to you?”
“I think so . . . Just don’t stop . . . Don’t ever stop. . . .” I can’t believe that I’m being this easy. . . .
“I won’t stop, baby, I promise I won’t.” He started kissing me and I pulled his hoody and wife-beater off in one sweep. His pecks were hard, chiseled, and buffed, resembling fudge mountains, and his nipples, their beautiful peaks. He pulled down his pants and his dick was a chocolate log. Long and thick, with a slight crook at the tip. Immediately chills trampled through me. I could only imagine the callaloo of pain and pleasure that was to follow. I lay back on the counter, threw both of my legs over Devin’s shoulders . . . and I swear ‘fore God, I was dick-delivered to the moon. . . .
* * *
By the time the night ended, my ass had been stretched all over the center island, the kitchen table, the couch, the floor, the bathroom sink, blindfolded and tied to the bedpost. All of this don’t make no damn sense. And not once did I use a condom. What was I thinking? I am too old to be this stupid! Now, I’m fucked both literally and figuratively. Devin has me wanting to do more than buy him sneakers, I’ma cook for his ass. Fry him some chicken, some fish, and some collard greens. I’ma ask him does he like grits and eggs, and believe me, I’ma cook that too. I must be under a spell. I have never been with a man that makes me want to buy him groceries. I should’ve never listened to Jill Scott’s new song, because now I feel like I’ll do whatever he ask me to. I’ma treat him like he’s a sleeveless shirt during a heat wave.
I swear I’m addicted to what his dick did. I need counseling . . . Joan is going to cuss . . . my ass . . . the fuck out! I have to call Tracy.
Devin and I were lying in the bed. I turned over, kissed him on the forehead, and unwrapped the arm that he had thrown over me. Just to make sure this was real, I peeked under the covers. Goddamn, even with it being soft, all ten inches were still intact. This don’t make no sense.
When I got in the bathroom, I called Tracy. The ‘rent-free live-in’ answered the phone. I wanted to hang up because I absolutely could not stand his ass. “Hi,” I said dryly, “sorry for calling so early, but is Tracy up?”
“You can’t ask me how I’m doin’? Huh, Ms. India? Is it too much for you to say, ‘Ju-Ju, how you feelin’?’ After all, you callin’ my house at seven o’clock in the goddamn morni
ng!”
Is he drunk? “How are you? Fine,” I said, answering my own question. “That’s wonderful, now put Tracy on the phone.”
“Smart ass! . . . Tracy! High saddity on the phone.”
“Hey, girl,” Tracy said, taking the phone from Ju-Ju. “You know this niggah here. If you ain’t from South Twelfth Street, then you gotta be high saddity. I swear, I can’t stand his ass. As soon as I get off the phone with you, I’ma slide him! And that’s on my word.”
“Tracy,” I whispered, cutting her off. “I fucked him.”
“Oh hell no you didn’t!” She laughed. “You got some of that young dick? Oh, you gon’ be turned out! I’ma have to find me a mini-ma’fucker to turn me the hell out. A bitch’s pussy is achin’ fa sho’. Don’t leave out no details. I gotta live vicariously through this piece of dick. Was it long and skinny, or short and fat? Did it have a crook in it? Or was it a souljah, stood straight up, and hit you off with a salute? Hell, is he circumcised?”
“Tracy!”
“Okay, I know that’s a bit much,” she said apologetically. “Well, just tell me this, did he find the G-spot?”
“Girl,” I said, getting hot all over again, “he found three G-spots.”
“Hot damn! Oh, it’s on, it’s on, it’s on. Did you give the lil’ mofo some head?”
“No . . . not yet.”
“Good, don’t. This is what you do: fuck the shit out of him this morning. Front, back, and sideways. Then go in the bathroom, get a warm cloth, come back and wash the dick off, this way homes ain’t gotta move. And then you suck all the cum out of it. I’m telling you that shit works better than puttin’ roots on his ass. I promise you, he’ll lose his mind. Ain’t no young bitch gon’ ever be able to come behind that.”
“Tracy, this man got me going so bad that I want to take the oranges in my kitchen and squeeze him some fresh juice.”
“Dang, India, it’s like that? Oh, you fucked all the way up. Girl, I miss them days. Ju-Ju use to lay it down. Now he stays broke and as far as I’m concerned a broke niggah got a flat-ass dick. Humph, my pussy stays dry when a broke ass is lying in my bed and late notices are on my kitchen table. Something about that just don’t turn me on. India, see if homes got a lil’ friend. Hell, I’ll go to the prom. Ain’t no shame in my game. . . .”
I looked in the mirror while Tracy went on and on. AHHHH!!!! Oh no, this cannot be real. I have three hickeys on my neck. Three big ones. Tears filled my eyes. This is some real live teenager shit. I’m thirty-six, with hickeys on my neck. “Tracy, please!” I yelled so that she would shut up.
“What’s wrong with you? You can’t be pregnant that fast.”
“No! I have three hickeys on my neck! I can’t believe this. Hickeys!”
“Chile, please. You acting like your period is late. I say, work it out girl! Do that shit. Hey, India—”
“What?!” I snapped, disgusted that she didn’t seem to understand.
“Don’t stop get it-get it!”
“Bye, Tracy . . . I’ll talk to you on Monday.” And I hung up.
“What’s up?” Devin said, as I walked back into my bedroom, my robe wrapped around me like a cyclone. “You want me to leave?”
“Leave?” I asked, surprised. “Why would you say that? Why would I want you to leave?”
“Because . . . I know we got caught up last night . . . and I thought since I woke up this morning, greeted by a cold sheet, that maybe you wanted me to bounce.”
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, with his boxers and wife-beater on. I sat next to him and crossed my legs. I really wanted to throw them across his lap, but being a horny old freak is what put me in this predicament in the first place.
“I . . . don’t know what the hell that was last night,” I said, caressing the side of his face, “but I like you. I mean I really like you . . . but I’m also real insecure about this.”
“Well, India, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m feeling you. I like you. I want to spend time with you. But all I can be is me. I don’t have time to prove myself to you. Now,” he said, looking me dead in the eyes, “either you wit’ it or you ain’t. Either you can roll or not. Because just like last night, I was twenty-three then and I’m twenty-three now.”
“I know, sweetie. I know.”
“Well then,” he said with a serious look. “Wassup? You wanna chill with me or not?”
“Tell me,” I said, lying back on the bed and pulling him on top of me, “if this says yes . . .”
* * *
Joan has called Devin all day long and in between those times, she’s been ringing my phone. Tomorrow is Sunday and I hope she skips her miserable ass to church.
“India,” Devin said while taking fresh clothes out of his gym bag, “what do you have planned for the new year? Are you cooking anything?”
I almost swallowed the damn cigarette I was smoking. I wanted to say Hell no, won’t be no black-eyed peas or collard greens, but then again, I would cook them for him. “Why, you want some collards, honey?”
“No,” he laughed, “I want to take you out. Maybe a nice bed-and-breakfast. Sit out on the balcony and watch the new year come in. How does that sound?”
“Like I’ma come back pregnant. That’s how it sounds. Now look, let’s talk about that later. But for now, tell me something about you that I don’t know.”
“My middle name”—he smiled—”is Leroy. Devin Leroy Johnson.”
“That’s some serious Mac Daddy shit.”
“Oh, you cracking on me?” He laughed. “And what’s your middle name—Johnnie-Mae or Johnnie-Faye. You know how y’all do.”
“Y’all?”
“Country mugs.” He fell out laughing.
“Country?” I chuckled. “Oh funny, for your information, my middle name is Talani.” He sat down in my Queen Anne recliner; I nicely walked over and mushed him in the forehead. As I went to walk away, he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me into his lap. “Don’t be a punk.” He started tickling me.
“Okay, okay,” I laughed, “I give up. I give up.”
He stopped tickling me. “India, let’s go to the movies.”
I placed my head on his shoulder. “And see what?”
“Claudine.”
“Claudine?” I lifted my head off his shoulder, and looked at him surprised. “With James Earl Jones and Diahann Carroll?”
“Yeah.” He was twirling his fingers through my hair. “James Earl Jones, or better yet Mr. Roop was the man.”
“The man? Let’s not forget how, in the movie, he owed child support, not to mention he didn’t even see his kids.”
“He took care of Claudine’s army.”
“He sure did, which made his shit even worse. Does it make sense that he would take care of Claudine’s six kids and not his own?”
“India, you don’t know what the man was going through.”
I threw my head back, like I was going to faint. “Spare me, please. . . . Anyway, where the hell are we going to see Claudine on Thanksgiving weekend in two thousand five?”
“In the Village. It’s a small cinema that shows black classics. I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Are you trying to be funny?” I twisted my lips. “Taking me to see some old-ass movie?”
“India, be quiet.” He chuckled. “Now get up and let’s get dressed.”
Before we left for the movies, I seduced him into taking a steamy shower with me.
* * *
We took the train to the Village and walked from the subway to the movies. I hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. We talked, held hands, and kissed in public. We shared secrets, desires, and even some fears.
After we left the movies and were standing on the corner waiting for a cab, there was guy who tried to slide me his number. Had I been ten years younger, I would’ve taken the shit, just to get my playgirl on. But this time I didn’t. I waved my hand and pointed to Devin. Now, on the real, that shit made a diva feel good. At first, I w
as feeling a little funny, as if people thought I was Devin’s older sister, or worse, his mother. But ole boy, the one that tried to hit on me, squashed all of that.
“I saw ole boy try to slide you his number,” Devin said, as he hailed us a cab.
I snapped my fingers. “Ole boy—ole boy—” I wanted to giggle, I was so happy that he actually peeped the shit. Kept him on his toes.
We got in the cab and Devin told the cabby the Uptown address of Amy Ruth’s, the restaurant where we were going. Then he looked at me. “India, don’t play me. I peeped the whole thing.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?” I asked.
“I wanted to see what you were going to do.”
“And?”
“And you respected your man, that’s ‘and.’ That’s what you were supposed to do. You did well.”
“I did well? Ha! You are so funny.”
“Be quiet,” he said, pressing his lips against mine. “And give me a kiss.”
* * *
Okay, it’s Monday and he’s gone. Thank God. I haven’t fucked this much in a weekend since I was seventeen, my parents went on vacation, and left me home alone. How am I going to face Joan, knowing that I’ve been dropping hot coochie moves on her baby? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t like him . . . so much. But I’m feeling the hell out of him. I keep thinking about him and the smell of his cologne is buried in my nose. When his name rings in my head, I get butterflies. Do you know the last time I had butterflies? I am so screwed. . . .
When I got to work and went in the office to sign in, the first person I saw was Joan. Thank God, I wore my orange mock turtleneck and matching leather blazer. At least the turtleneck would hide the hickeys. “Look at you, Ms. India”—Joan smiled—“you’re glowing.”
“Oh, girl,” I said, feeling guilty as hell, “this ole thing. I’ve had this turtleneck forever, and this denim skirt . . . well, I’ll admit the slanted, fringe-bottom hemline does set it all off.”
“And those three-inch, square-toed boots you have on are bangin’,” Tracy chimed in, winking her eye.
Whatever It Takes Page 3
