But I can’t say that his no longer touching me is the problem really, and it’s not like his touch has thrilled me that much lately anyway. I mean, a little tickle of the dick is good, but it’s no more than what I can do with this trusty little machine of mine (I am grateful every day for that little gift from you). The problem may really be that he has never touched me and will never be able to touch me like you do. You have that marvelous way of sifting your fingers through my cropped waves of hair, touching the sharp nose I have despised since puberty, and tickling my chin like I’m your adorable little baby. What makes me the biggest fool of all is that I knew all this when I told you to go.
In the days when he made the effort to at least let the hair on his chest brush my bare back under the covers at night, I would imagine his heat was your heat, and that his bristled chest was the top of your head buried in my back. Now he has taken even these small, yet vital thrills from me, as he lies in the same space with me and jacks himself to ecstasy while I wait for the bed to stop rocking so that I can settle into my own naughty dreams of you. My favorite is you and me in the shower, sliding against each other’s lathered bodies, or me and you in the closet at your mom and dad’s fiftieth anniversary party, your fingers probing deep into me, rubbing my clit into oblivion. Damn, Fran, it’s been hell. Do you forgive me yet?
I don’t know when I began hiding in the bathroom past midnight with that wicked picture of you in my palm. Sitting on the edge of the toilet with my panties on at first, and then tossed into a frustrated pile in the corner on the cold gray tile, I like to stroke the shine reflected by your smooth caramel skin and kiss your cold, red, Polaroid lips. I know you’re probably pissed that I didn’t trash this picture after all, but it really helps me through these times, and let me tell you that your full, glossed lips and long, thick hair bring rhythm to my stale-ass life. I keep wishing you could feel me rubbing your quarter-sized nipples and darting my tongue in and out of your “innie.” I keep trying to take back everything I told you that night when I forced you away from me and returned to my comfortable, married-with-children life, but I don’t know how. I know too well, though, that it’s damn hard to reach out and grab back those words I let foolishly fall from my lips and there’s no way to soothe the hurt and confusion I put in your eyes. What can I say? I’m human and I fell for the hype. I believed everyone when they said that a woman’s body was made to fit a man’s and that it was unnatural to love a woman, when the truth is, this forty-two-year-old body fits none better than yours, Fran.
But I forced the fit with me and Gary and I chose to continue our lovely little charade. Then came the cold nights and the longing. See, Fran, as a strong, sexual black woman, I long to be touched and talked to and gazed at every once in a while, even if the rest of my life is just a show. I mean, humor me; but he won’t even do that anymore. I’m sure it’s because he’s bitter and rage and jealousy has him all fucked up inside, and I try to tell him that I gave you up but he won’t see past his man pride and machismo. I get accused of sneaking over and seeing you when all I’m trying to do is go to the fucking 7-Eleven. What he doesn’t know is that an interlude between you and me would last much longer than it would take me to pick up a carton of milk.
Remember that time I saw him with the woman and the baby and I was so close to him I could smell the green beans on his breath and almost feel the flaky dryness of his skin? But he said it wasn’t him, right? Said I must be losing my mind ‘cause he’s never been with anybody else and he only has three kids and they all look just like me, his wife of thirteen fucking years. And you and me, me and you on that big, soft canopy of yours just rolling over laughing ’cause that Negro had the nerve. I don’t recall your lips ever being as soft as they were that day when my laughter turned to screams and then to uncontrollable sobs and you kissed my tears away and told me, “Patricia, you don’t need that shit.” And I don’t know if it was the hurt and betrayal running throughout my being that sent me running top speed to your arms, but at that moment, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. I wanted that kiss on my forehead and eyes and nose and then my lips. I wanted you gently sucking the chocolate sweetness from my tongue, while your long, slim fingers traced the four letters of your name across my chest. I wanted to be taken over by the orgasm you provoked from me when you invisibly wrote an F on my left nipple and ended with an N on my right and traced it with your warm, wet tongue. I am nearing the edge right now thinking of your soft, tiny fingers and tongue going in and out of my center on that hot afternoon. That was the day I knew I was bound to you.
You were right that day and you would be right now if you told me what a fool I am for hiding up in this cold-ass bathroom in my own house pleasing my damn self. I know all this already, Fran, but we’ve been through this shit before. It’s hard enough raising three hard-headed, potentially woman-hating boys without having to break it down to them that their mommy likes to eat pussy. You know it would take an act of Congress to prove that I am a fit mother, that my lifestyle ain’t got shit to do with it. And when did love and pleasure become a fucking lifestyle anyway? You’re probably laughing at my vulgarity right now, but you know I’m not bullshitting. This is what I’ve been reduced to since I can’t get to you.
I tend to wonder, was it the complete and utter honesty I reluctantly gave him that turned him so cold, or was the front coming for some time before and this was just the clean break he needed? I mean, doesn’t everybody tell us that men like that shit? And ain’t he a man? (Don’t go there.) But, no, he didn’t go on about how fine you were (’cause we both know he’s been watching you for quite some time) and he didn’t tell me how happy he was that I was finally brave enough to explore my bisexual feelings. Hell, he didn’t even want to know if he could he watch us sometime. He wanted to know why the hell I was still exploiting his dick if my gay-ass girlfriend was what I really wanted. If I wanted some dyke bitch to sit on my face and finger my pussy, what was I still doing with him? Honey, I was shocked to hear that come from even him. But, I wouldn’t even give him the pleasure of an argument that would drive me to tears. I wouldn’t even try to reason with him that yes, it is possible to feel equally attracted to a man and a woman without slapping some big political label on myself. No, the asshole wasn’t grown enough to handle a conversation like that, so I just complied. “Yes, I’m gay. I’m such a nasty bitch. You’re right, Gary, I’ve never liked men. All these years you’ve just been a front for my family and my straight friends. I never enjoyed one moment in bed with you. And those three kids, huh, they were just the icing on the cake, the perfect addition to our fairy-tale life.” That one earned me a sound smack across the face. And so I wouldn’t be selfish and try to have you both. I was ready and perfectly capable of making a decision. And after calling you at work and listening to your voice break and quiver on the phone, your naked picture and my own hands are all I’m left with.
I know you said you would forget me and I know that you wish that you could, but I also know that it is still me you smell on your sheets even when you’ve changed them and sprinkled them with powder a dozen times. The truth is, I found my way inside you even when you saw my crazy life and decided you didn’t want me there. That’s what I loved about you. You opened yourself up so completely and let me all the way in. You showed me your life’s mistakes and imperfections and you were willing to accept mine. You loved every one of my 155 pounds of womanhood and you touched every gray strand of my hair as gently as if it were a baby’s. You kissed every part of me that was beaten, scarred, and bruised, and told me I was still beautiful to you. You knew me when I was barely grown, celebrated with me when I legally was. You helped me rediscover myself when I felt I no longer recognized the woman in the mirror myself. I fucked it all up, and I know it, Fran, and, now I am looking for a way back home.
If, by chance, I am not the chickenshit that I am convinced I am and this letter just happens to fall into your beautiful, brown, manicured hands, call me and let me speak t
hese exact words to you. Let us bring each other to sweet release over the phone and then come together at our spot in the Valley and really discuss this thing. What I’m trying to say is, I love you, Fran, and I don’t give a fuck anymore.
Yours truly,
Pat
There’s Always Hope for the Ride Home
Geneva Barnes
Feeling her disapproving eyes fixated on him, he just swallowed the last bit of vegetarian lasagna that he had been chewing on for at least five minutes out of anxiety and frustration. She had been quite unresponsive to all of his advances—sexual and otherwise—the entire evening, but she wouldn’t leave. It was as if she enjoyed rejecting him.
Not knowing exactly what else to do and tired of her painfully castrating him with her espresso eyes, making him feel dickless, he said, “Okay, I’m going,” as he tossed a fifty on the table to cover the price of dinner and a negligible tip.
As he rose from his seat, her eyes followed his ascent as if he were moving in slow motion. They followed him from his licorice hair, that was stiff and shiny with gel and glistening in the ambient light like ejaculate on skin in the moonlight; to his eyes, which were the color of midnight and full of rapture; to his clit-colored lips that were begging to be kissed; to his black silk shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, through which his shiny black hair peeked, his nipples emerged, and the outline of his biceps and abs rippled; to the zipper on his pewter gray wool slacks that bisected the picture frame his hips and thighs made for his grossly overgrown cucumber dick and balls that sat like peaches in his pants, all firm and round and ripe on either side of his zipper.
Mentally, she had been fucking him all night. She had climbed atop his lap and grinded her cunt against his dick through his slacks. She had sucked on his tongue until it had grown numb. She had pressed her tits against his chest until she could feel him feeling her through her nipples. She had licked his skin between his thighs, up to his balls until her lips stung from the taste of the salt on his skin and her mouth was full of his silky black hair.
She had strapped on a black plastic dildo, had him down on all fours and pumped the plastic dick in and out of his ass, fucking him like a man fucks a woman he never thought that he’d have—slow with a little hesitation at first, and then fast and furiously like only his orgasm matters—fucking him until his breathy, masculine moans and groans foretold that he was about to cum.
Throughout the evening she had felt her tits, underneath her baby blue one-size-too-small sleeveless cotton blouse whose buttons would’ve popped open with one deep exhalation, swell up longing for his touch. She had felt her nipples pushing out from the smooth lines her black bra was trying to make for her tits. Throughout the night, she tried to conceal her arousal by keeping her arms folded across her chest. She felt her juices ooze through her black lace thong, ooze down around her crotch, down her inner thighs, staining her jeans. She had become so excited by him from the moment when she first saw him that her pussy tingled with anticipation for his penis and her mouth watered for it.
All night, she had been trying to deny her attraction to him. It was so strong that she feared, if he knew the size of her lust, she would somehow become his slut. She didn’t want to give up her identity to become that. She hated that she was so affected by him. Who knew a blind date could turn out that way?
As he turned away to leave her, she was so excited by his tight, round ass that it caused her to rethink the negative stigma attached to kissing ass. She wanted to do more than kiss it. She wanted to pull on his pants until they came off. She wanted to pull on his underwear until his cock and balls spilled out, until his juicy ass was out, and stare at the bounty, at least initially. Her vagina began screaming at her, demanding that she get him inside of her any way that she could. Unable to deny its demands any longer, she had to follow him. Halfway uncertain as to what she should do to solicit him, and as she got close enough to him to speak to him in a conversational voice and be easily understood, she said, “Would you mind taking me home?”
Yes, I fucking would mind, he thought, but being the decent guy that he was, he said, “Where do you live?” as he opened the passenger’s door, motioning for her to get inside his SUV.
“803 East Dickerson Avenue,” she answered.
“Okay,” he replied, as he walked behind his SUV and got in on the driver’s side. He thought about trying to engage her in conversation, thinking maybe she wouldn’t continue acting cold toward him, but he resolved that she’d probably turn bitchy so he didn’t say anything else to her.
She watched him slide the key into the ignition, start the engine, and turn the steering wheel as they exited the parking lot of the restaurant. She stared at his hands clenched around the steering wheel. They were large and seemed soft, smooth, and delicate enough to fit into any orifice. They seemed honest enough to make his touch sincere, to make it seem like he could touch her and it would feel like she was really touching herself. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and placed it on his upper right thigh, drawing her eyes to his crotch, causing her to fantasize about the bulge in his pants, the promises his penis could make and keep.
She extended her left hand and rested it on his upper right thigh. She squeezed his thigh and ran her hands up to his crotch, over his groin, up from his balls, to his shaft, to his hips, and up to his navel. She could feel him flinch in surprise upon feeling her touch, and he jerked the steering wheel slightly.
Why is she doing this now? he wondered, instantly excusing the coldness that she had exhibited toward him the entire night, noticing that they were approaching the bridge. Suspecting where this was going, he berated himself for not taking another route to her house, so that he could pull over and enjoy her. Upon realizing that the most important thing is to get laid and that it doesn’t matter where, he encouraged her to continue by releasing a barely audible “Thank you.”
Consumed by the possibilities of the moment, she unbuttoned her blouse. He took his eyes off the road and looked down at her, absolutely titillated by her reversal in character. She pulled her blouse down over her right shoulder. Her right bra strap fell off her shoulder as if it were commanded to do so. She arched her back and took her blouse off and dropped it on the seat behind her ass, then reached behind her back to unfasten her black lace demi-cup bra. She pulled it from her chest and slid it over her arms. He looked at her tits, these perfectly round melons four or five times the size of his balls, that could easily be made to squeeze his dick so tight that he’d feel like his dick was breaking through a virgin’s hole. They were firm, but bounced and dangled a bit with the vibrations of the SUV, like they would when a woman straddles a man, cradling his dick between her legs, as she rises and falls on him, taking his dick in and taking it out, slowly, right before she knows he’s going to cum.
He took one hand off the steering wheel and cupped her left tit, squeezing it up from the base, up to her purple nipple, squirting the nipple out through his hands until it became erect with the same animalistic fervor as if he had used his mouth, to suck her tit like he really wanted to do. He was beginning to feel his dick respond through his pants. She was beginning to get wet.
She leaned over into his lap, beneath the steering wheel, as he released her tit. She smelled his fluid beneath his cologne, like he must’ve jerked off before their date that night. Becoming more turned on by his smell, becoming more turned on by his lust, she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. She slid her fingers into the dick slot to his plain white cotton briefs, pulling out his grossly overgrown cucumber dick that instantly became all stiff once out of his pants and pointed in her direction.
As they were now approaching the top of the bridge, traffic began to build. He had to stop the SUV. She hadn’t noticed. He started wondering if anyone would notice what she was doing to him. That thought was rapidly chased away as she rubbed her face against his dick, sliding her face up and down, over and around, holding on to it as if she had just gotten what she needed, feeling it
heat up. She drew herself into his lap even more. He was now no longer certain that he could keep his foot on the brake as he waited for the traffic jam to ease.
She held his dick with her fingers and kissed its mushroom head. She licked the tip. He slid his hand down her back, between her skin and her thong, down the crack, to her hole, while rubbing his dick with his left hand. Realizing that her jeans were too tight for him to work his hand into her ass anymore, he said, “You’ve got to help me.”
She let go of him, unbuttoned, and wiggled out of her jeans.
He continued to slide his hand down her naked back, moved aside her thong, and tickled her around her hole. He took his hand away from her ass and licked his fingers to ease their entry into her ass. He considerately and slowly placed finger number one, finger number two, and finger number three into her hole, fucking her ass with his fingers. New at this, his fingers felt like a dick in her ass, fucking her with the same force and sensitivity.
Chocolate Flava Page 10
