Fantasy (Lipstick)

by Hobbs, Allison

  I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around. I was livid. I’m not sure if it was being called a bitch that set me off, or if it was the overall statement. All I know is I was about to go off. “All of you stop,” I ordered, walking up to them. “What was that I just heard?”

  A few shook their heads. Some shifted their eyes. The others looked down. “You ain’t hear nothing,” one of them stated. He was tall and lanky with twists.

  “Shut your damn mouth,” I snapped, forgetting my professsionalism. “Don’t you dare stand here and insult my intelligence. I know what I heard. And let me explain this to you: Number one, I’m not a bitch. But if you want to see a bitch, I’ll show you one; number two, none of you will ever get an opportunity to suck anything of mine. So don’t play yourself. And number three, instead of worrying about sucking my pussy you should be worrying about getting the hell out of prison, and staying out. Now all of you take the wall.” They sucked their teeth, knowing somebody—if not all of them—was about to catch a charge.

  “What the fuck,” a thick-lipped brotha snapped.

  “Excuse you? You have something you want to say?”

  He turned his head.

  “I didn’t think so.” Three CO’s and a Sergeant came rushing down to see what the problem was.

  “Everything okay, Doc?” the Sergeant asked.

  “No, it’s not,” I replied, nastily. “Somebody in this line decided to call me out my name and say some disrespectful stuff. And I’m not the one.”

  “Give me your damn ID’s,” he barked. They all huffed, pulling them out, and handing them over. “You assholes want to disrespect a lady, then I got something for your asses.”

  “Yo, this is some bullshit,” one of them said. “I’m tryna get home to my family. Ain’t nobody disrespect her.”

  “Sarge,” I said, calming myself. I really didn’t want to see them all get into trouble for one ignorant fool. “I just want the one who said it to be man enough to admit it.”

  “You pick one. And he’s out of here.”

  “He knows who he is,” I replied, catching his eyes. I folded my arms across my chest, tilting my head. “I’m waiting.” He refused to open his mouth, so I pointed him out. “That’s him, right there.”

  The CO’s snatched him up, yanking him out of the line. “It wasn’t me,” he snapped. “I swear.”

  “Don’t lie,” I said certain of his voice pattern. I looked him up and down, frowning. “It was you. And you know it.”

  “If she said it was you, then it was you. The rest of you get back to your unit. Before I lock all your asses up.” They scattered like roaches, except for one who just had to have the last word.

  “Yo, that’s fucked up,” he replied. “How she know he’s the one that said it.”

  I smiled. “Young man, come back here.” He shuffled back over to me. “‘Cause I have bionic ears and I know what I heard. And I know who said it. Now if you want to wear it, then you can. Otherwise, take your knotty-assed head back to your unit and mind your damn business.”

  And from that point on, they knew—CO’s and inmates—not to let the title and designer wears fool them. Having a Ph. D did not keep the ghetto from coming out if—and when—necessary. If you stepped out of pocket, I’d slay you with a string of expletives that would make your head spin without ever raising my voice. I stood at the next gate, patiently waiting for the CO to finish shouting a bunch of orders to a group of inmates who apparently were out of place.

  “Up against the wall, you assholes,” he snapped. One of the young men tried to speak, but he cut him off. “Did I ask you to open your fucking mouth? Say one thing, and I’ll lock your dumb ass up.”

  I cringed. I hated when they spoke to them like that. No matter what they did to get themselves here, they were still human, and didn’t deserve to be treated like animals. I made a mental note to speak to the Lieutenant about his subordinate’s mouth the next time I saw him.

  “Excuse me,” I said, glancing down at my timepiece, then at him, trying to keep my annoyance in check. He was a tall, darkskinned man with big red lips and a huge forehead. And he had the nerve to be sporting cornrows. Ugh! Anyway, I almost got the sense he was ignoring me as he kept on yelling at the inmates, acting as if I weren’t standing there. I know this Flying Monkey sees me. I repeated myself, “Um. Excuse me, Sir. Do you mind opening the gate so I can get upstairs? I’m late for my meeting.” One of the things I hated most about working in the prison system was that some—not all, but definitely some—of these CO’s barely made it out of high school, and they were walking around acting like they were hot shit. It really didn’t take a rocket scientist to shuffle keys around and push buttons all day. But they acted like the world revolved around them. Go figure. And some of these female CO’s were no better with their weave-wearing, mannish-looking selves, trying to give me fever. Cutting their eyes at me like I stole something from them, then talking about me behind my back. How juvenile is that? But like I always say: Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m small in the waist and pretty in the face. And, yes, the shoulder-length hair is all mine.

  He finally acknowledged me, walking his pigeon-toed self in my direction. “For you,” he replied, breaking into a smirk, “anything.”

  He brushed by me. Asshole! I rolled my eyes as he stuck the key in the slot, turned it, then slid the metal door open. “Thank you,” I said, ascending the stairs. When I reached the top of the landing, I noticed the waiting area was packed with brown faces—faces of brothas, waiting to be seen by Parole, Classification, and Mental Health. Several broke their necks to get a look at me as I spoke to the Officer manning the station desk. “Good morning, Jackson. How’s my favorite CO doing today?” Jackson was one of the few officers I actually liked. He had been working in corrections for over twenty years, and was nearing retirement. And complained about everything.

  “Better, now that you’re here,” he responded, parting a kind smile.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a busy day.”

  “Tell me about it. Every week it’s the same shit. I keep telling Administration about calling all these damn inmates up here then taking all day to get to them. All you need is twenty-five, at the most, up here at a time. Then, when you’re almost done with them, I can call the housing units and have twenty-five more sent up.” He shook his head, “Here it is nine o’clock and Classification hasn’t started yet. These are some backwards sons of bitches.”

  I smiled. “Well, if it’d make your job any better, I’ll be sure to breeze through my sessions for you. Give me five minutes to get settled then you can send down my first appointment.”

  “Will do.”

  “Can I get an appointment with you?” someone yelled out.

  “Me, too,” someone else chimed. “My heart aches.”

  “I done told ya’ll ‘bout yelling out of this room,” Jackson scolded, standing in the doorway. “Don’t make me write your ass a blue sheet.”

  I shook my head, heading toward my office.

  Subconsciously, it started—I’m talking about my mental wandering—the minute he walked into my office. Handsomely chiseled from the sweetest graham-cracker crust, dipped in the finest milk chocolate, then gently rolled in a handful of nuts. He had that just-stepped-out-of-the shower-then-rubbed-down-inmy-best-oil smell going on. He smelled . . . delicious. His uniform was neatly pressed, and his shirt was tucked into his pants. His mustache and goatee were freshly trimmed around a set of juicy, full red lips. I had to catch myself from drooling as I continued my assessment of his physical attributes: Five-eleven. Maybe six foot. One-hundred-and-ninety-five pounds. Solid. What in the hell is wrong with me? He’s an inmate, for God’s sake! I cleared my throat and shifted into business mode.

  “Mr. Watkins, please have a seat.” He sat in the chair in front of me, leaning back, then resting his right ankle up on his left knee. “How old are you, sir?” I asked, picking up a pen to begin taking notes. I preferred referring to the young men who c
ame into my office as Sir and Mr. rather than calling them inmates. It was my way of respecting them.

  “Twenty-seven,” he answered in a deep, baritone voice. I smiled. “Hmm. I see here you have another eighteen months to go before your parole eligibility. Is that correct?”

  He nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is there any particular reason why you haven’t requested to be transferred to an adult facility?” I asked, flipping through his folder. He had been at the Correctional facility for the last eight years. Apparently, he had beaten some man with a bat for trying to rape his then eighteen-year-old sister. When the man died his charges were upgraded from possession of a weapon and aggravated assault to manslaughter.

  “I’m comfortable here,” he responded, staring into my eyes. His gray eyes were almost cat-like. They were . . . um, hypnotizing. It was starting to get warm in my small office so I removed my jacket then reached around to turn on the air. He aimed his gaze directly at my ample breast, shifting his eyes when he noticed he’d been caught.

  “Do you have any family support?” I asked, knowing all too well that many incarcerated men did not have family or friends who stuck by them during their bids.

  “Yeah. My moms and sister,” he answered.

  “And what about your dad?” I probed. “Where is he?”

  “Locked up.”

  I wanted to ask what for, but I could tell that he really didn’t want to talk about it. So I didn’t press it. It was just sad to me that many of these young brothas were following the footsteps of their fathers. Generational. That’s what it was. I silently wondered when the cycle would be broken.

  “Do you have any contact with him?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Not really. He writes me every now and then. But I ain’t really beat for him.”

  “Hmm.” I wanted to say more but decided against it. “Besides your mother and sister, is there anyone else in your corner?”

  He smiled. “My girl.”

  “And how long have the two of you been together?”

  “Ten years,” he responded. “She’s been riding this out with me.”

  God bless her, I thought. I didn’t know how these girls did it. Coming to the prison every weekend, never missing a visit. Catching two and three buses. Accepting collect calls. Lugging babies. It couldn’t be me.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you have a support system.” “Yeah, me too.”

  “Okay, now that we got that all out the way, let’s get down to why you’re here. I see you requested to be seen because you’re having difficulty sleeping. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Well, either you are or you aren’t,” I responded, tilting my head and raising my arched brow. The one thing I didn’t like was my time being wasted trying to pull teeth, especially from someone who had dropped a request slip. “Which is it?”

  “Yeah, I guess you can say that.”

  “So, tell me. What seems to be troubling you?”

  “I’ve been having these dreams,” he said, running the tip of his tongue over his top lip.

  “I see,” I replied, slowly squeezing my legs shut in an attempt to pinch off the stirring between my legs. I quickly made myself another mental note to fuck Gerald’s brains out the minute I got home. I knew I should have let him dick me down real quick before I left the house this morning. “Okay. Tell me about . . . these dreams.” I leaned forward, planting my elbows on my desk and clasping my hands under my chin.

  He nervously shifted in his seat. “You sure you wanna know?” he asked, giving me a crooked grin filled with innuendo. “I don’t know if you can handle it, Doc.”

  I smiled. “And what makes you say that?”

  He shrugged, tugging at his chin. “I don’t know. Just an observation.”

  “And what might that observation be?” I probed coyly. I was flirting with temptation, dancing with desire. And I knew it.

  “If I tell you,” he replied, pulling in his bottom lip, then licking it seductively, “I might end up in lockup.”

  My smile widened. “Is that so? Well, let me explain something to you. What you say in here can and will not be held against you. I respect confidentiality. This is a place where your secrets are safe . . . ” I paused for effect. “. . . unless you intend on hurting yourself or someone else, then I have a duty to warn.”

  He shook his head, “Nah. It’s nothing like that. I’m a lover, not a fighter, not unless I’m given a reason to.” His tone was seductive. “Then . . .” I opened the palm of my hands, twirling them in the air, “ . . . what’s the problem? What are you afraid of?”

  “You,” he responded, sitting back, fanning his legs open, then shut.

  “What about me?”

  “Doctor Simms . . . I don’t know how to say this.”

  “Just say it,” I coaxed. “Trust me. You have nothing to fear.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, that’s ai’ight. I really don’t think you’re ready.”

  “Mr. Watkins,” I replied, staring him straight in his dreamy eyes, “I am a grown woman. There’s nothing you can say—or do—to me that will shock me.”

  He stared at me, fanning his legs. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. “Last night,” he started, then hesitated, shifting again in his seat.

  “Go ahead,” I said, leaning back in my chair. He bore a striking resemblance to Boris Kodjoe. “I’m listening.” As his moistened lips began to move, my mind slowly drifted to another place. A place I knew I had no business visiting. A place I knew would be dangerous. But a force greater than me was pulling me in its direction.

  “I’ve been . . . thinking about you for a very long time. I can’t get you out of my head. I lay awake at night wondering what it would be like to have you.”

  I looked down at his thick hands and imagined him in his cell, lying on his bunk with his hands in his boxers, stroking his dick until pre cum dripped from its tip. I tried to blink the image out of my mind. But lust had taken over.

  “I’m crazy about you.”

  “What about your girl? How do you think she’d feel knowing this?”

  He shrugged. “She probably wouldn’t like it. But what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I got needs.”

  Before I could stop myself, the question had left my mouth.

  “When’s the last time you had sex?”

  “Just before I got locked up,” he stated, licking his sexy-ass lips. “Eight years is a long time without sex. I’ve been hardballin’ it.”

  I nodded knowingly.

  “I need some pussy, bad, Doc.” His eyes bore deep into my soul. I was treading unsafe waters. I could feel myself being pulled in by its current. It was either sink or swim. Slowly, I was drowning in his gaze.

  “Do you masturbate thinking about me?”

  He shook his head. “All the time.”

  Good. I smiled, deciding I would give him just what he longed for. “Close the door,” I ordered in a lascivious whisper. He twisted his body, reached over with one arm and did what he was told. I stood up, walked around my desk, then sat atop of it, slowly hiking up my skirt then spreading open my legs. I pulled my black-laced panties to the side. “Is this what you want?” I asked, revealing a soft, hairy pussy with a set of slick pink lips. I parted them with my left hand, then leaned back on my forearm.

  He smiled, looking around to make sure no one would walk in. When he was certain the coast was clear, he returned his attention to the treat in front of him. “Damn, you got a pretty pussy.”

  “You want to taste it?”

  He nodded like a kid who had just been offered a bag of candy.

  “Go ‘head. Stick your tongue in it.”

  He leaned in and obliged. I thrust my hips upward, eagerly waiting. He blew on my clit. Flicked it. Then moved his thick tongue up and down, lapping the center of my pussy. Teasing me, he flicked it again. Again. Taunting me. I arched my back, threw my head back and gasped. When his lips finally touched my soft folds of f
lesh, an electrical current sizzled through my body, causing my clit to swell. His lips were soft and warm as they kissed my pussy. Slowly. Tenderly. He took my breath away as his tongue found its way to my center, savoring the taste of my excitement.

  “Hmmm,” I moaned, licking my lips then sticking my fingers in my mouth. “That’s right, lick that clit, baby. Hmmm.” I was getting wetter. Hotter. I needed to feel his tongue and lips all over my pussy. “Tear my panties off,” I said in a husky, lustfilled whisper. He ripped them open then slurped, and devoured my dripping essence. His tongue traveled down to the crack of my ass then back to my pussy hole. “Uhh. Oooh. Eat that pussy. Hmmmm.” I grabbed him by his bald head, pumping and grinding my pussy on his mouth. I was in full throttle, and my pussy was overheating. I wanted . . . um, scratch that, needed the dick. “Get up and put your dick in me.” Please, let him be circumcised, and not have a little-assed dick, my mind whined. There was nothing more discouraging than a fine man with body for days and no damn dick. I knew I’d have a fit if he pulled out a turkey-link with a bunch of extra skin. I crossed my fingers and held my breath. Waiting. Anticipating. Hoping.

  He stood up, pulled down his beige khakis, then reached down in his boxers and pulled out his dick.

  Yes! I smiled, as he rubbed the length of his surprisingly long, thick circumcised dick across my blazing pussy, against my clit and then, finally, teasingly slapping my slick entrance. “Slide that big dick in me,” I begged, panting and shuddering. The sight of his engorged, veined dick had me . . . had me craving, aching. Yearning for his thrust. I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed him inside me—now!

  He pushed his juicy head in my wet, willing pussy.

  “Like this?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Inch by inch, he pushed farther.

  “Hmmmm.”

  Deeper.

  “Uhhhh.”

  Slowly, rhythmically, he drove his dick deep in my pulsating pussy. His hand found its way to my left breast. Squeezing. Kneading. Pinching my erected nipple. A loud gasp escaped my throat as I felt myself about cum. My mind swirled into a burst of bright colors as he slid his tongue in my mouth. The scent and taste of my pussy juice on his lips and tongue had my head spinning.