From the Streets to the Sheets

by Noire

  After such a frustrating day at work I decided to make some solo moves. I was gonna take myself out on a date and party all night in the city—Chocolate City. I predicted there had to be at least one pretty nigga that could turn my head and give me some respect.

  I’d spent enough time fucking myself at work, so I put on some tight jeans trimmed in pink that showed my butt crack; a black Las Vegas top; pink boots; and a pink rabbit fur jacket that I’d purchased on sale from Wilson’s Suede and Leather. As for the perfume, I grabbed the first thing that I could find on my dresser. Ironically, I ended up squirting on one of Smooth’s favorites, but so what!

  I decided to bump and grind at one of the most popular nightspots in D.C. I paid the parking attendant, parked the car, and crossed the street armed with a sense of adventure. As I paraded by an assortment of onlookers, men stared at me like I was some strange color, like blue or green. I felt like a fuckin’ Martian who’d just touched down. At first, I didn’t know what to think.

  “You see dat? That’s one phat-ass motherfucker! Gooot damn! I’d like to hit that from the back!” someone remarked.

  “I’m wit you on this one—she damn sure is a dime!” another man answered, twisting up his face and making it ugly in the process.

  Other men cussed at the sight of my curves and tried to hand me business cards, and some even followed behind me like a pack of wild dogs in heat. I laughed, but inside I wasn’t sure that shit was amusing. Truthfully, the ruckus I was causing on the sidewalk embarrassed me and made me wonder why Smooth Wille kept treating me like some second-class bottom bitch. Shit, maybe I had gained a little weight, but I didn’t have to be runway model thin to turn a man’s head. I thought most hood niggas like plenty of tits and ass anyway!

  I ignored every comment until I heard one particular voice.

  “Excuse me, sweetheart. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  I stuffed my hands inside my jacket pockets, then turned around to face the guy. He was a straight thug and I was definitely attracted to that type. His Timberland boots, baggy jeans, black North Face coat, and fresh cornrows made him look sexy as hell. But when he opened his mouth, no gold flashed from his grill. He didn’t sport a Caesar haircut, or a gold bracelet or gold chain either.

  Still, I ignored his fine ass because his whole package reminded me of the nigga who had me out on a dick hunt tonight in the first place. Instead of acknowledging him, I got in line and waited to be admitted into the club. Although I liked his urban flavor, I pretended as if he did nothing for me and quickly dismissed him like a buster.

  When I got inside the club I paid the cover charge and found the coat check. I roamed around the club feeling free. Although I knew that a lot of business professionals hung out at the club, I wasn’t interested in a brotha who sat in a cubicle pushing a pen for a living. All of them seemed to want to escape from their 9-to-5 worlds and were stressed out just like me.

  But at the same time, I wasn’t in the mood to find a carbon copy of Smooth Willie. I had a taste for something and someone else. Someone speckled with spice, edge, and sexual openness. Someone with strong hands and a talented tongue who wasn’t ashamed to admit his love of gritty, hot sex. Someone who would tell me bluntly that he wanted to fuck the shit out of me, and make me scream each and every time we had hot sex, then hold me until dawn. But I also wanted more of something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. When I touched that spot, I’d know my finger was laid down right on it.

  As sensuous R&B beats and killer rap lyrics played, I roamed around the club and kept running into the anonymous thug, exchanging looks with him. I rolled my eyes at him with mega-attitude, convincing myself that he was probably a drug dealer or menace to society, just like my Smooth. Yep, Smooth was pushing weight up and down the East Coast. Dope was his mistress, although I had begged him to end that relationship. He always asked me how could a man with a ninth-grade education do that if he was making paper so long, he’d put my boss’s check to shame. Smooth was addicted to the hustle, and it would take a miracle to change his outlook.

  As I pushed my way through the thick crowd, I felt someone gently pull at the bottom of my shoulder-length curls.

  “You wanna dance?” he asked.

  I looked up at him. My Thug. He was a sexy, tall ’n thick big daddy, and was holding a fat cigar in his right hand.

  “Sure. Why not?” As we grooved to “Lean Wit It, Rock Wit It,” by Dem Franchize Boyz, the energy of the crowd became electrified. People were emptying champagne bottles, drinks were flowing at the bar, and women were scanning the room for ballers. The place seemed packed to its maximum capacity, and that didn’t even count the VIP room.

  I noticed how the scandalous chickenheads arched their backs to make their breasts poke out and their asses appear bigger, as they whispered to their girlfriends.

  “This part right here is my shit!” I yelled out when the second verse began. I swung my hips, dropped to the floor, and got low, then sprung up, passing his crotch. I became wet and longed to fondle myself—or better yet, his nice hard dick. Instead I pretended as if the sexiness of the nightlife didn’t shake my libido up too much.

  My plump breasts pressed against his chest and he grabbed my hand while I fantasized about him. When he pulled me toward the edge of the crowd like he knew me, I followed him.

  “What I gotta do to get you to take my number?” he asked.

  “Who said I want your number? I have someone at home,” I replied. “I never said I was available, thank you. Just to be clear, I’m taken,” I added as my attention-starved pussy throbbed.

  “Why you acting so rude to a brother?”

  “I’m not. Your opinion is yours, and mine is mine.”

  “Look, I don’t want to hold you up—I just wanted to holla atchu. Maybe talk with you later. Is that a crime?”

  I tried to ignore the fact that my panties were soaking wet in the crotch. I told him my cell number and he pulled out his and punched it in. I nodded when I felt my phone vibrating in my purse.

  “Now I got your number,” I said like I really hadn’t wanted it.

  He laughed. “You know you really wanna call me, so just use the number and stop fronting.”

  I thought he was going to keep on pressing me, but he walked away and disappeared into the crowd. A few minutes later I realized I could no longer curb that craving I had. I sped home and pleased myself in my typical way, thinking about him the whole time.

  • • •

  The next morning I was bored. I scrolled through my received-calls log, found the number I was looking for, then pressed SEND. He didn’t answer, and I called back two more times. Each time I hung up after a few rings. I saw no point in leaving a message when I hadn’t even gotten his name at the club. Besides, he had my number too. I’d already kissed Smooth’s ass for years. I didn’t want no new nigga to get any ideas.

  But something told me to try again anyway, and this time he answered.

  “Yo, what’s up? I knew you would call,” he said.

  “Shit, I didn’t know I called you. Maybe I hit the wrong button. Sorry, ’bout that.”

  “Girl, stop lying. You hit up the right person, all right. The number showed up on my caller ID several times. No one makes a mistake that much. You gonna tell me your name now?”

  “Like I said, calling you was an accident. I made a mistake. My name is not perfect, it’s Yani.”

  “Well, I’m Life. I see you got some sass in your blood, Yani.”

  “Maybe. And what if I do?” I answered.

  After a few awkward moments we laughed and joked for hours.

  Soon, every time Smooth let me down, I began calling Life for my nightly fix. Life stimulated my mind and body with his dreams. He worked at a record shop, but was trying to negotiate and lease his beats to major rap labels, while shopping record deals for independent artists at the same time. Life was passionate about his craft, and I definitely was feeling that.

  “So why do t
hey call you Life? I thought you were a straight thug when I met you. Is Life your real name?” I asked.

  “Nah, but life is what I’m all about. My biggest fear is becoming a statistic out here ’cause someone else is playing street games that don’t got nothing to do with me. I used to be in the drug game, but I left hustling a long time ago. I reevaluated a lot of shit after I lost my little brother to a senseless act of violence. That’s when I changed my name to Life. Through me, he lives—he still has life. Yo, my biggest wish is to put my bid in in the music game and have a queen standing right beside me when I make those millions. Shit is pointless if I ain’t got a wife and some kids to love. My dreams and goals are what keep my nose to the grind and help me stay on point. Ya feel me, Yani?”

  My heart fluttered. Life was so down-to-earth that I felt like I’d known him for ten years. He was about much more than Smooth. It finally hit me that Smooth had no dreams, except chasing dollars and poisoning our people. Smooth had a selfish, shallow streak that didn’t bother me when I was younger. But as I grew older, that shit grew stale.

  Life had goals and ambition. He never cut me off like Smooth often did when he had to leave to handle his business on the block. Hell, Life even helped me admit that I dabbled in poetry. When I did admit it, he asked me to read him some of my work. I dug in my closet and pulled out an overstuffed binder that Smooth Willie knew existed, but had never cared to inquire about.

  “Read somethin’ to me, Ma. Got anything wit hotness for me?” Life asked.

  “I do but I changed my mind about reading it. You’ll laugh at what I’ve got to say.”

  “Ain’t nothing funny to me about you having an artistic side. As you know, I’m an artist myself. Stop acting shy and let me check you out. Now go ahead and do what you do.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I do have something new.” I inhaled, then began my poem.

  I cry for love—

  My tears of blue pouring all over you.

  What to do? What to do?

  I call your name in pain, but don’t you hear me fighting to be heard above this beating rain? You don’t see me. You no longer complete me.

  You don’t feel me licking, touching, tasting, rubbing, thrusting, craving your fucking while feeling your hands, my hands—us feeding each other in a frenzy in these foreign lands?

  Our bodies pressed together, wet with sweat, clinging and singing praises of ecstasy as we drift from the motherland to the beaches of Brazil, then from one continent to the next?

  Are you still there? Are you aware, that it was divine when we were intertwined once upon a time?

  Then along came that sun; that thug who opened my book of thoughts and read every line, one by one. He took his time—in winter and spring.

  Divine sunshine. Diviiiiiine sunshine. All because he took his time.

  Now I pry him from the shadows of my mind. At night, in the morning, when dark shadows fall. Now it’s his name I call when my heart is still moving in unison with the way he is freeing me.

  Because he sees the real me, I crave his touch too much like my last breath has come.

  If we are one, why do I open my thighs and dream his touch makes an orgasm rise?

  Why do I fantasize about this urban ghetto poet spitting lyrics on his microphone, long after you’ve come home?

  Why do I now pretend he is the one licking, touching, tasting, rubbing, thrusting, craving his fucking while feeling his hands on my skin—my hands on his skin.

  Fill me in. Please somebody, just fill me iiiin.

  Life. Life. Life. I cry for you—straight from the heart.

  I . . . crave . . . life, life, life.

  “That was the truth! You really should consider doing somethin’ with that. Ever thought of putting out a book of poetry? You got my shit standing up and everything!”

  After a while, I began caring less if Smooth called or showed up at the crib. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t. Fuck him. I yearned to pick up the phone and hear the new voice that made me remember who I was and what made me tick. Life made me feel alive . . .

  One Saturday, Life asked me if he could bring some music over to my place for me to hear. I agreed although Smooth warned me never to bring a nigga out the street and into my crib. He said it was for my safety. Maybe so, maybe not. Before I knew it, I’d rattled off my home address, and it didn’t take Life long to show up with a small bunch of roses. When he handed them to me, I felt weak from his sweetness.

  After I put the flowers in a vase, I listened to at least four cuts on Life’s CD. I was amazed that his beats were banging—he had mad skills that convinced me he could rise to the top. A slow beat came on and Life broke the ice and asked me to dance.

  “Yo, we never got a slow dance in the club that night. How about it right now?” Life said, walking up to me. As we swayed from side to side, I couldn’t believe that Life was so tender and romantic.

  “Yani, your curly afro smells so good. It’s nice to see a natural sista’s beauty.” He rubbed his full lips against my right cheek, but didn’t kiss it. He made my body sway from side to side. I felt his hot breath on my neck, then his lips press against my smooth skin. That was what I was talking about. Life was like that!

  I breathed deeply and said, “You smell good too, Life—really delicious. I like it.” His cologne clung to my nostrils and made me wet. I exhaled, then suddenly felt a gigantic bulge in his pants. Thankfully, a fast tempo hook began to play again.

  “I’ve got an idea. Let’s play a game,” Life suggested.

  “What kind of game?”

  “Let’s just say I have a heck of an imagination. Go put on something sexy for me, Ma.”

  “Like what? Tricks are for kids,” I joked.

  “Keep your day job, ’cause you ain’t no comedian!” Life joked in return. “Now just go put on something sexy. Hurry yo fine ass up,” he demanded.

  “Oh, now I’m supposed to tip over with happiness just to clap my ass for you?”

  “Girl, you are crazy. Pretend we’re in a strip club so I can worship that fine ass. Don’t make it seem like you ain’t down! I peeped you dancing wild at the club.”

  I headed toward the basement and grabbed a thong off of the top of the dryer. To my surprise, Life was breaking through my resolve. By the time I returned to the living room wearing my thong, a hypnotic beat was pumping. Life’s eyes were glued to me as he studied me from head to toe. I walked across the room, then moved toward the center of it. I faced him and began to dance, moving with steady, light gestures. I flashed Life a warm, radiant smile as I worked my hips and moved my arms in fluid motions. I got lost in the hip-hop beat and savored each note as the thong’s fabric rubbed between my phat ass cheeks.

  My sensuality warmed me up, I was hyped. I let go and really shook my ass and didn’t care how crazy I looked doing it! Out of spite to get back at Smooth Willie, I popped my coochie like I was an experienced stripper. I felt like a sensuous woman again. Life confirmed that I still was desirable, even if Smooth had stopped treating me that way.

  “You’re a good dancer, Yani. A real damned good dancer!” Life commented.

  I moved closer to him, stopping a few inches away.

  “I know,” I answered, while slowly gyrating my hips in his face. Life leaned forward and pressed his soft lips just above my pussy.

  “Work it for Daddy!” he yelled. Then he removed a dollar from his wad of money and stuck it on the side of my thong. I placed my hands on my knees, turned around, arched my back, and rubbed my ass on top of him.

  “Got-damn, girl! You got some big, fat ’n juicy pussy lips. I bet you taste sweeter than honey. You one of a kind, fo’ sure!” Life mumbled as I continued to shake my ass.

  He reached out and pulled my thong to the side and gently played with my anus until my pussy was wet and slick. Feeling Life’s thumb moving around my erogenous zone made chills run up my spine. As I listened to his music I closed my eyes and imagined him spitting between my ass cheeks, relaxi
ng my sphincter muscles, then letting his tool experience my deep asshole. When Life stopped playing with my ass, my thong string snapped back into place. I shook myself from my fantasy when he began to stuff more dollars in my little thong string.

  “Hey! I got enough bills around my waist to make me a money belt! I like this game!” I said, flashing a big smile.

  Life’s eyes were glossy, as if he had been hypnotized into a trance-like state. I slowly stroked my fingers under his chin, then fondled my bare breasts in front of him. As Life stuffed more dollars in my thong, I stood upright again, then used both hands to open my pussy to show him what I was working with.

  “Do something for me, baby,” Life asked. “Reach down, stick two fingers inside of that pussy, and suck them juices from your pretty fingertips. Lemme see you do that.”

  I did what Life asked of me. I felt like a movie star. Before I knew it he pulled his tool out and began stroking it openly.

  “Look at what I got for you,” he said, working his dick up into a nice thick, long pole.

  “Put that thing ’way. That’s not a good idea,” I told him. The sight of Life’s sexy dick made me feel like Jell-O inside.

  “You can’t even look at my dick. You’re nervous as hell. You think there’s something wrong with a man stroking his shit?”

  “No—I never said that. There’s nothing wrong with . . . well. Never mind, Life.”

  “Before you say no to something, you should at least see what you’re turning down,” he said, stroking it gently.

  I finally took a really good look at Life’s dick and my mouth began to water like I smelled good food burnin’ at a soul-food spot!

  “I’m in a committed relationship. I told you that from day one,” I said weakly.

  “Yani, the man you got ain’t living up to the meaning of a man. He has you hanging your head down and holding back on what you wanna do. If you were satisfied in every way, you wouldn’t be writing poetry about me, wondering how I work my dick, or shaking yo ass in my face. So you tryna tell me you half-naked but I’m feeling sparks up in this motherfucker alone?”