Can't Help the Way That I Feel

by Lori Bryant-Woolridge

  “Swan said I could find you here,” he says smoothly.

  Emissary of the Devil.

  “So, what, he sent you to butter me up?”

  “Yes. And I wanted to apologize to you, too.” He slides the flowers across the counter to me. They’re unusual. Not your typical roses, but a cluster of white orchids with frilly, bell-shaped lips that hang like little clitorises in a natural pot that looks kind of like a bird’s nest.

  “Nice,” I huff skeptically. “Did he send those, too?”

  “No, these are from me,” he says.

  “Well, I can’t be bought off by some trip to the florist.”

  “I grew them.”

  “So, you’re a gardener, too?”

  “Landscape architect.”

  “A fancy gardener.”

  He smiles a broad, white smile, and I’m disarmed. I look at the flowers. “They’re beautiful, but I don’t have much of a green thumb. I’m afraid I’ll kill them.”

  “You won’t kill them. I’ll teach you how to take care of them. You should come to my greenhouse, and I’ll give you a lesson.”

  Red flags all around! “Oh, please. The last time I accepted an invitation from a virtual stranger to go somewhere, I was nearly struck blind by debauchery. Forget it. Lesson learned. You can take your plant back if you want it to live. Otherwise, consider it delivered, and tell Swan to go get his lemonade somewhere else.”

  He leans over the counter and motions his finger for me to lean in, too. I refuse. I just step toward him a little.

  “Gracie, it’s just a plant,” he says.

  I whisper back, “A plant that looks like a thousand little coochies!”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Is that what you see?”

  My eyes stretch with embarrassment.

  “Maybe Swan knew what you needed all along if all you see is pussy in a plant.”

  I clench my jaws. I’m appalled!

  “Gracie, no one is trying to hurt you. Not Swan, not me. I have a beautiful garden, and I want you to see it. If I could bring the whole thing to you, I would, but I can’t, so I’m giving you this one rare, divine plant because it’s the very best of what I have to offer you. My invitation stands. My number is on the care instructions in the soil. When you are ready, call me.”

  I’m one word away from exploding again. My lord, he’s so damn fine! If he says another syllable, I’m scared I’ll jump him right here on the counter. But I don’t trust what I’m feeling, so I just look him dead in his eyes, looking for something wrong, some hint of insincerity, a drop of maliciousness, a glance to the left or right or wherever somebody looks when they’re lying, anything. He locks onto me as tightly as I locked onto him, but it isn’t hard or mean or anything that I had known so well from looking at W.T. He meant what he said. And now I’m in trouble.

  “Fine,” I say as if nothing had just happened, “I have to get back to work.”

  “Have a blessed day, Gracie.” He pats the top of the counter and turns to go.

  In the afternoon, I’m sitting in my apartment with my Bible open to Psalm 10:14, reminding myself of God’s power so I can put things right in my life again. My eyes drift to the orchids and then to the care instruction card with Barrett’s phone number on it. I keep replaying Saturday night in my head. I keep reliving the feel of his skin, his lips, his coming alive in my hands. I think about Bible study and the lessons about fornication, about Leviticus, and how I should have never allowed myself to be shamed into spending time with Swan…and my revelation about God’s plan for sex.

  I pick up the phone and dial.

  “Hello?” His voice soothes me.

  “Hi, it’s Grace,” I say, “I’d like to see your garden.”

  I pull up to Barrett’s ranch-style house. He’s standing outside to greet me, wearing cutoff jeans, a soiled T-shirt and flip-flops, holding gardening gloves. I dressed as if this was going to be an informal visit to a garden—jean skirt, white T-shirt, flat walking sandals…a demi-cut bra and lace panties.

  “Hi.” My voice lilts. I try to put as much apology in that one syllable as I can.

  He smiles that smile. “It’s good to see you. Come on back.”

  We walk around the outside of the house toward his backyard. When I get there, it quickly becomes clear that this is no simple backyard. It is about four acres of perfectly manicured Georgia foothill land. But trees aren’t just trees; they’re shaped into beautiful abstract topiaries. Hills and mounds are pedestals for sculptures. Dips and holes are koi ponds or birdbaths or fountains. There are plants and flowers everywhere as accents to structures, whatever the structure.

  “Barrett, this is beautiful,” I say, already glad I had come to see the garden.

  “Thank you. Do you have a few hours? The garden goes back a ways.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, distracted by thoughts of what I could do with him over a few hours.

  “We should start at the greenhouse, so I can show you how to take care of all your little coochies.”

  “Funny,” I say sarcastically.

  On the walk up to the greenhouse, Barrett is a few steps ahead of me, so the view is great the whole way. An archway of willow trees lets us out to a huge glass structure. It’s just as pristine as everything else here. He’s got so many plants, it looks like the Fuqua Conservatory, right down to the orchids.

  He turns and peeks at me out of the corner of his eye, gives me a gentle smile. It takes my breath away, so I turn around, lift my eyes to the heavens and mouth, “Jesus, be my rock.” Then something out of the back window catches my eye.

  “Barrett,” I say, “is that one of the statues from the art gallery?”

  “A prototype. There are more in the labyrinth.” The bass in his voice drips sex all over me. He’s not informing me; he’s inviting me.

  “Labyrinth?”

  “Yes, the prototype is at the entrance of the labyrinth. It goes back a little ways. Do you want to walk it?”

  “I don’t know. Alone with you in a maze…”

  “You know, Gracie, you really don’t need to be afraid of me. I tell you what, walk it by yourself. If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’ll assume you’re lost, and I’ll come and get you. Deal?”

  “All right.” I’m relieved that I don’t have to worry about the temptation of being alone with him, but the smile on my face is really from thinking about the two of us alone in that maze. I remember what Barrett said about sex without rules. A labyrinth sealed off from the rest of the world? I don’t know what I would do without the rules, but I smile a little wider just imagining the liberation.

  The labyrinth is made of dense hedges about nine feet high. There is no way to see through them, let alone take any kind of shortcut. The sculptures start out classic and tasteful in cutouts, but as I move deeper inside it, they change. Deep in the labyrinth, the sculptures masturbate and connect in ways that brought Sodom and Gomorrah down. Others look like textbook reenactments of Greek orgies. Here, though, I only see them as beautiful. I’m alone, and I’m not afraid of them. They are beautiful. Nothing in this place could be vulgar. Nothing.

  After some time walking through all of this beauty, I see a glow ahead of me. It isn’t just sunlight, but colorful light. I can smell it, too. It smells like the perfect blend of every fragrant plant I can think of—jasmine, roses, honeysuckle, wisteria, freesia, peonies. When I reach the center, there they all are, arranged in beautiful patterns with even more sculptures, and citrus and peach trees placed in between to balance the sweet aroma of the flowers. And all of them are being kissed by dozens of butterflies. In the middle of it all is a large water fountain in the shape of the orchid Barrett gave me. This is the center of the labyrinth, and it is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen in all my life. I sit down, close my eyes and take it all in. I thank God for such beauty and lie down on the ground.

  “I see you did make it after all.”

  I know who it is. I don’t need to look. “Barrett,
this place is amazing.”

  “It is,” he says knowingly. “I brought you a blanket and some fruit.”

  “How did you know I’d need them?”

  “When most people come here, they do exactly what you’re doing right now, and they stay awhile.”

  I roll over, and Barrett is there with an elaborate picnic basket. He pulls out two bottles—one wine, one water—and two wineglasses. He roots around the basket and reveals a large, round peach and cuts it in half. He never once looks at me while he’s doing this. He takes the pit out and offers me half. “No, thank you,” I say, and he shrugs and bites into the peach. It is so ripe, I can hear both the crunch of the skin and the sound of juice squirting into his mouth. The juice runs from his lips down the center of the peach. He turns it in toward him and runs his tongue up the center to catch all of the excess juice. He is slow and deliberate with his tongue, and this time, he never takes his eyes off me while he does it. I instantly get wet and swallow hard.

  I lick my lips as he takes a big and final bite of peach, and juice runs down his chin. He lets it run off, and a final drop hangs there. I grab a napkin in front of me and hand it to him. His hands are full with a glass and wine, so he sticks his chin out for me to wipe it. I move closer and dab his chin. I can smell his smell again, and it does its thing, wrapping itself around me the way it did the first time. My heart starts pounding again, and his breath quickens. I drop the napkin and let my thumb kiss his thick, soft, wet lips. He gently places his hand over mine and moves it to the back of his neck. But he waits and does nothing else. I take a deep breath and pull him in to me. I part my lips and press them against his. His lips sink into mine, between mine, around mine, and then I feel the warm wetness of his tongue searching mine. We taste each other, and my yani falls wide open.

  I’m beyond wet; I have a mountain of cream rising in my panties. I want him so badly, I let all the rules fall away. I unlock all of the nasty little thoughts that make me hot and revel in them. Every part of my pussy is swollen, begging for him to enter me right this second. I lie back on the ground and let the weight of his body press me deeper into the garden floor. Barrett uses his knee to spread my legs apart and gives me a prelude with a hard, dry hump. As he unfastens my bra, I look up at the sky to see flashes of light in the clouds. Everything in the garden is more vibrant. Nothing at this moment could be more divine than the two of us becoming human all over again. We’re working God’s plan. I let him undress me and see all of me. I’m here with nothing on right in front of God and butterflies and birds and this man hovering over me, just looking. I pray to God that he doesn’t say anything. (Please don’t say it. Don’t say anything W.T. would say. Don’t ruin this moment. Don’t say anything.)

  He parts the lips of my drenched pussy and gently touches everything with his fingers. I remember how he grew hard and wide in my hands. I unbutton his shorts, and Good God, it’s an encore! He bends to be face-to-face with me, kisses my lips—and my scar—and then runs his warm wet tongue over my clit. I immediately arch my back in anticipation of hatred, but it’s not there. He takes his time with me, as if tasting swirls of caramel and pink—really eating me, really drinking me in. It feels so good, I pound the ground with my fist. “Oh, fuck!” I scream. “Fuck!” I feel W.T.’s chains give way, and my wings flutter. Fuck. It’s my word now, and this is my fuck. Fuck. My liberation. “FUUUCK!”

  Barrett works his tongue until I am so wet and so swollen, I’m about to lose my mind, and before he can take one more stroke, I pull him up to kiss me again. In one quick motion, he rears back on his knees, pulls me on top of him and bursts into me. Like stars! I’m in the perfect position to ride him, and I do, like he’s a slow bull. And while I ride, he takes each of my nipples into his mouth, one after the other, and then together. The flickers of his tongue across my nipples make my pussy pulse harder. We move together, and with each pump, I take more of everything he’s giving me—longer, deeper. With each thrust, I feel something I’ve never felt before. It’s like I’m on the edge of a cliff and about to freefall. I’m at the edge of completely losing control of myself, and all I can do is either die or fly. The feeling is coming like a wave; I can’t stop it. It’s coming like it’s about to hurt, and I want to brace myself. It’s coming. I’m coming. I let myself go with all the breath in me and fly. My entire body clinches around him, and I scream, “Oh, God!”

  I hear Barrett’s voice say, “God,” too. “Oh, God,” he repeats, out of breath.

  I look down at him. For the first time, he doesn’t look like he’s in control of everything, and that makes me feel good. He grabs me and presses my body against the side of his face. He thrusts himself hard in me one last time and grunts, “Oh, God!”

  I squeeze my walls around him one more time, and try to compare the real thing with the phantom I felt during my accident at the art gallery. I was right to come then. Barrett and I peel ourselves apart. It’s getting dark. After a few minutes of catching our breath and relaxing, he goes off somewhere to light our path out of the labyrinth. But I’m in no rush. I lie here alone, half-wondering what God thinks about what I just did with Barrett. Maybe God planned for me to come here all along, and maybe, just maybe, I had it all wrong. Maybe God, not the Devil, sent Swan to me. It was the Devil who sent W.T. to mess up God’s plan for me, and God sent Swan to set it right again. The Lord works in mysterious ways, but Swan as some kind of angel is just plain baffling. The bubble music makes more sense. Then, I sit bolt upright. I didn’t play the bubble music! I hold my hand over my mouth to stop the scream. I NEVER had any kind of sex without the bubble music, and it didn’t even cross my mind until just now. I’m struck with panic and sadness. It’s like involuntarily giving up a crutch. Or worse, like losing a friend who never said good-bye. And then I think, it’s a good thing; I didn’t need it because there were no demons for it to shield me from. I smile under my hands and settle into myself again. Lying back on the ground, I put my hands behind my head, spread my legs up to the setting sun, and take my rightful place among all the beautiful things in the garden.

  TANDEM

  The Big Bamboo

  Some would say, it’s not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean. I say, who wants to ride on a dingy when they can sail on a yacht?

  —The Big Bamboo

  Go Sheila, it’s your birthday. Go Sheila, it’s your birthday,” I serenaded myself in my bathroom mirror as I put the finishing touches on my makeup. My actual birthday had been eight months before, but in a “wash that man right out of my hair” cleaning frenzy, I found a gift certificate for Bliss Works, some new day spa in town. Tonya and Carmen had given it to me for my forty-second birthday and I had thanked them and promptly filed it in my junk drawer.

  See, I don’t do massages. The idea of a strange person rubbing all up on me gives me the heebies. The only hands I want touching me up close and personal like should belong to my man. But therein lies the problem.

  He’s not mine anymore. His current owner is one skanky slore (that would be slutty whore) named Debi, some five-foot-tall munchkin with huge tits that belong on an Amazon, and a weave that should have remained on the Korean woman’s head who grew it. Everything about the bitch was too big and way too fake but apparently the slore was also in possession of the golden pussy. Mine was the fourth husband Debi had claimed. I’m sure he’ll end up like the rest—chewed up, spit out and left for broke with his dick wagging limp between his legs. Trust, I am not brokenhearted. She can have him. Any man that would leave me for a piece of pass-around pussy needs to get the fuck out of my house and stay out. I am definitely not crushed. Just horny as fucking hell. Eight months without getting my horns trimmed is way too long for a sister who not only likes sex but needs it on the regular. That being said, recognize that I am not a ho. I’ll fuck my own man till his dick falls off, but I’m not giving up nothin’ outside a genuine relationship.

  So while I was cleaning out my drawers (in an effort to keep my hands from
going down my pants yet another time this week), I ran across my discarded gift card entitling me to a ninety-minute tandem massage, whatever the hell that was. Jeezus. Why was shit so complicated? Whatever happened to just a regular old rubdown? How many specialty massages could they come up with to hide the fact that whether you’re throwing hot rocks on somebody’s back or spreading algae or some other organic shit on their skin, it’s still a fucking back rub. But I needed to be touched by hands other than my own. Plus, Tonya kept harping on me that a good massage would help get rid of some of this damn stress that was eating away at my goodwill and making me cranky as hell. So those two facts had led me to the phone to set up today’s appointment for my own specialty back rub.

  “Ms. Brewson?” I looked up from my cucumber-and-strawberry water and saw a Carlton look-alike from “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” smiling down at me. I gave him the once-over, as this was the dude that would soon have his mitts all over my backside. He was an all-around average Joe: average height, average weight, average appearance. His chest and arms looked strong but their muscularity didn’t offset his okeydokey looks. He was the kind of guy you might notice when he walked into the room but would forget about as soon as he turned around. I was safe. Judging by his looks and mannerisms, I was about 85 percent sure that this boy was gay. Yeah, I was totally safe—from Carlton and myself.

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome to Bliss Works. I’m Carlton and I’ll be your masseur today.”

  No, he did not just say his name was Carlton. I smiled broadly in an attempt to swallow my laughter. I was waiting for Will and Uncle Phil to pop out at any moment. “Great.”

  He handed me a warm, white terry robe. “You can disrobe in the ladies’ room,” he said, all proper like. Again I wanted to giggle. I mean what black man, other than the president, used the word disrobe? Definitely gay.