by Roxane Gay
I think of my mother and father and I think that being here on this boat may well be the closest I will ever come to knowing my father, knowing what he wanted for his family. All I want is peace. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, ignoring the strong taste of bile lingering in the back of my throat, I return belowdecks where I find Yves, sitting on the end of the bed, rubbing his forehead.
I place the palm of my hand against the back of his neck. It is warm and slick with sweat. “What’s wrong?”
He looks up but not at me. “I’m worried about you.”
I push him farther onto the bed and straddle his lap. He closes his eyes and I caress his eyelids with my fingers, enjoying the curl of his eyelashes and the way it tickles my skin. He is such a beautiful man, but I do not tell him this. He would take it the wrong way. It is a strange thing in some men, this fear of their own beauty. I lift his chin with one finger and trace his lips with my tongue. They are cracked but soft. His hands tremble but he grips my shoulders firmly. I am amazed at how little is spoken between us yet how much is said. We quickly slip out of our clothes and his thighs flex between mine. The sensation of his muscle against my flesh is a powerful one that makes my entire body tremble.
I slip my tongue between his lips and the taste of him is so familiar and necessary that I am suddenly weak. I fall into Yves, kissing him so hard I know my lips will be bruised in the morning. I want them to be. Yves pulls away first, drawing his lips roughly across my chin down to my neck, the hollow of my throat, practically gnawing at my skin with his teeth. I moan hoarsely, tossing my head backward. My neck throbs and I know that here too, there will be bruises. He sinks his teeth deeper into me and I can no longer see the fine line between pain and pleasure. But just as soon as I consider asking him to stop, he does, instead lathering the fresh wounds with the softness of his tongue, murmuring sweet and tender words. Such gentleness in the wake of such roughness leaves me shivering.
The weight of my breasts rests in Yves’s hands and he lowers his lips to my nipples, suckling them. He looks up at me and it is unclear whether this is a moment of passion or a moment of comfort for him, for me. And then I cannot look at him so I rest my chin against the top of his head, my arms wrapped around him, my hips slowly rocking back and forth. I want him inside me, but I wait. This moment, whatever it is, demands patience.
Yves takes hold of my knees, spreading my legs wide and pushing them upward until they are practically touching my face. I rest my ankles against his shoulders and shudder as he buries inside me. I feel his pulsing length, his sweat falling onto my body, into my eyes, mingling with mine, the tension in his body as I claw at the wide stretch of black skin across his back. Tomorrow, he too will have bruises.
“Let go,” I urge him.
Then, he is fucking me faster, harder. We are greedy. I cannot recognize him. I am thankful. I scream. The sound of it is a horrible thing. I can feel wetness trailing down the inside of my arm—Yves’s tears. I am tender inside but I don’t want Yves to ever stop.
With each stroke he takes me further away from the sorrows of home and closer to a cool, dry place.
Acknowledgments
Stories in this collection previously appeared in the following publications: decomP, Quick Fiction, Pinch, Guernica, Necessary Fiction, Weave, Caribbean Review of Books, trnsfr, Best Lesbian Erotica 2003, and Best American Erotica 2004. Ayiti was originally published by Artistically Declined Press in 2011.
I am especially grateful to the editors of the fine magazines and anthologies where these pieces originally appeared. This book would not exist were it not for my parents, Michael and Nicole Gay, who raised my brothers and me to know and love where we come from. I write about Haiti and the Haitian American experience from a place of great privilege but also a place of great pride. Thanks also to Maria Massie, my indomitable agent. As always, I am grateful to my lovely friends who are so supportive of my work, so consistently. And thank you to my best friend, Tracy Gonzalez, who is probably bored with being thanked but will always be thanked, anyway. She knows why. (Also, she was right.)
