Burning Desire

by Relentless Aaron

  “Garage door, open. ”

  “Back door, open. ”

  “Front door, open. ”

  The system seemed to cover everything, but all the while I’m thinking, So? And if someone decides to kick in the door? “Front door, open” ain’t gonna help a damn bit. And I gathered that this was the reason for the aluminum bat I had noticed in the pantry. In the pantry?

  The rest of the house was more or less predictable: “cookie-cutter specials,” we HG Channel fans call them. You stomp on the floor and you can hear the basement door rattle. You pull the front door closed hard enough and the impact can be felt throughout the dwelling. Same old fixtures and utilities and appliances in the bathrooms, the kitchen, and the laundry room. Same old chandeliers, ceiling fans, and moldings that come standard when the house is built. And, of course, central heat and AC throughout, all of it (I’m informed) payable through one power, gas, and light company. Again, someone, somewhere, is sittin’ pretty getting all of that money.

  The overwhelming plus I noticed was the space in the house. The square footage had to be over twenty-five hundred. A far cry from the thousand square feet I had to manage up in the BX.

  Noises outside. Nine p.m.

  Lord have mercy. Sounded like a party showed up, already in progress.

  There was the car that her brother, Rory, drove, there was my Blazer, and another white truck behind them with the words IKEA FURNITURE WARE HOUSE branded across its side. A caravan had just arrived, for sure. And everyone that went for the ride was apparently full of joy. If I didn’t know better, Stacy bought everyone something with her new black and platinum MasterCard. Jesus.

  AFTER AN hour (at least) of moving all the purchased goods into the house, I got a better look at things: the his-and-hers beds for Stacy’s kids, Jason and Jackie, the sectional and dining-room set, the mattress set for her sister (the bed she wanted had to be ordered); there was also a large-screen TV, a desktop, and a laptop computer, a whole bunch of kitchen stuff, more food than a family could eat in a month, and master beds for the guest room and (of all people) Stacy’s mom. Everybody had new sneakers on and you could smell that new-sneaker freshness in the air. And as I’m towing things through the house, and helping Rory assemble the furniture in the living room (where there was the most space), I’m looking over at Stacy spending time with her kids. I can’t get her attention, but my subliminal messages are shooting over at her like a machine gun.

  How much did you spend? How are you gonna pay it back? I told you earlier you had to be careful.

  But my inaudible conversation was going nowhere. After a time, I just said, What the hell. And I stuck it in the back of my mind. I was just happy to see her happy. No sense in messing that up. She had her kids in her arms, which was the reason we had come to Atlanta in the first place. Not only that, she had apparently cleared things up with her moms, which seemed like a good thing as well. I just couldn’t help thinking that all this was a pipe dream, empty happiness that was produced thanks to the little plastic card she got. The card. Wow. How much different things felt when you could spend money. How many smiles and how much contentment and how many relationships repaired when you can spend money. I wondered if I had a million dollars, could I buy happiness in all the people around me? Clearly, she was doing it with less than $100 grand. That is, I hope it was waaaay less than $100 grand. But I also knew that no matter how much money she had, purchased happiness doesn’t last long; not even as long as the money lasts.

  AFTER A hefty, late dinner, most of us got niggeritis and fell asleep in our respective areas of the house. Stacy had her one-year-old, Jackie, sleeping between us. Jason was almost six years old, and I knew it was way past his bedtime to be playing with his new video game all night. I could hear the TV real clear through these cookie-cutter walls. And I was sure the rest of the house could as well. So, I got myself out of bed and went to the room next door, where Jason and Rory shared the space. Rory was snoring like a horse, dead tired and slumped on a blow-up mattress on the floor, while Jason was lying on his new bed, facing his new TV and flipping the controller like a pro.

  “You think it might be time to catch up on some sleep, young man?” I said this, but I also went to sit on the bed and see what he was up to on TV.

  “Play,” he offered. And he tried handing me the controller for player number two— one of the two he had been using. Jason, boy genius, was playing Red Faction, where the players and guns you choose shoot up one another during a prescribed time limit.

  “Okay, Jason. I’ll play, only if you do two things for me.”

  “Okay—what?”

  “First of all, we gotta turn this down some. People are trying to sleep,” I said. Then, under my breath, I said, “Not that you care. Also, if I win, you have to put the game up, and get some sleep. You got day camp tomorrow, bright and early, right?”

  “But it’s mandatory swim tomorrow. I hate mandatory swim.”

  “Okay. Well, you can’t be a tough guy and shoot everybody up in Red Faction and in the morning be a scaredy-cat for mandatory swim, now can you?”

  Jason made that confused face that I’m sure child psychologists see every day. But I went on with my proposal.

  “So, you gotta promise, Jason. You promise?”

  “Yeah,” he said with that disgruntled look. And I imitated the whole Muhammed Ali look, like I was gonna kick his little ass within five minutes, and then lights out. That was around midnight. By 3:00 a.m. I still hadn’t beaten Jason. But we played until we both fell off to sleep on his bed. Stacy came in and woke me.

  “Y’all look so cute. Come on.”

  More than half asleep, I allowed myself to be pulled up from the bed. Stacy tucked her son in and we held hands leaving the room. The image of that peaceful little genius stuck in my mind as we did.

  “I put the baby to sleep. You need to shower.”

  I made a face, but she was right. I dragged myself into the shower and when I came out, Stacy was in a fuck-me negligee.

  Again, me with the curious expression. “In your mother’s house? “

  Stacy sucked her teeth. “Don’t worry about her. I own that bitch.” She said that and handed me a glass of Alizé. We toasted.

  “To the best of times,” she went on.

  “Is that a Jay-Z quote? Or Charles Dickens?”

  After twisting her lips to the side, she said, “Another one of your smart-aleck comments?”

  After my first sip, I tried to ask her about money. She put her hand to my mouth.

  “Don’t steal my joy,” she said. And I hushed up. Next thing I know, Stacy dropped to her knees and opened the towel I had around my waist until it fell to my feet. Now, in my mind, the pastor’s influence was overshadowing all this, with his usual speech about the Happy Meal standing out in bright neon lights. I know. I know, Pastor. But maybe just this one more time.

  My head back and my hands on my hips, I realized more of those amazing feelings that Stacy always pleasured me with. She did this so well, engaged herself as if she were on a mission; and she made it so I didn’t have to feel guilty for not immediately returning the favor. She made it seem as though she liked to give head. And I guess, with my guilty conscience, I was left to wonder what plea sure she got out of this. But every time I think with the whole conscious-black-man side of my brain, it’s precisely at this time when I’m being selfish and when she’s blowing my mind. And I conveniently forget. Besides, today seemed so different. To-day seemed to be some kind of redemption for Stacy. She achieved her goal, and then some. She’s back with her kids, back in her ‘hood, secured by a strong line of credit, and now she’s got a pulsating man-size muscle working across her tongue and gums. And damned if this wasn’t just turning me on, encouraging me to give love in return.

  I grabbed a chunk of Stacy’s hair, pulled her and her sloppy gums off me, and I swung her around so that she was bent over the new bed. Seconds later I was bending over and kissing her ever so lovingly. I loved i
t when she shaved down there, all prepared for me to slick my tongue along the smooth skin of her sensitive sex. And only when she began pulling away from me, at the moment her body became stiff as a board, unable to take any more, I shifted gears and went for the routine driving in and out, in and out. And her sighs grew to the point that I had to cover her mouth with my hand. Damn cookie-cutter house. At the same time, my other hand was securing her waist and I just went for it. It was fast and furious, and then it was slow and gradual and methodic and reaching for the deepest Stacy possible.

  STACY

  This was a time to celebrate. I was back home, back with my family, and my man was here. Plus, I was happy as a pig in shit after the lil’ shopping spree we came from. So I was tryin’ not to hear anything about my spending and all that conscious-consumer stuff Danté be talkin’ about. I just wanted to be supported 150 percent. And now that we were in the bedroom alone, I felt so obliged to give this man pleasures from out of this world.

  Somethin’ about my mouth and Danté’s dick works so perfectly. It fits so snug, I’m comfortable workin’ with it. And when I look up to see his eyes roll back, I feel as if there’s no greater ecstasy for a man. Plus, somebody spoiled this man before I got to him. Because he never said no to my lips and tongue lovin’ him like they do. And I’ve had straight-up prudes stop me from goin’ down on them— which was a trip ‘cuz I thought all men liked head. So, in my mind I’m like, What ever, man. Your loss. But Danté’s lovin’ it. And I love this man to death, so he can get it whenever. The thing that’s so different about Danté from most every other man I been with is that he will give me pleasure in return. He won’t make me feel used and left unsatisfied. He will hold and caress me, and I always feel comforted within his embrace. And, as my ladies out there know, ain’t nothing like that feeling and bein’ hooked up with the right one. For me, Danté is that right one. He will give it to me in a smooth, romantic rhythm, and he can be rough with it, too. The thing is balance, and not overdoing it so that it gets ordinary or boring. One thing I don’t think will ever get boring is Danté givin’ me head. The attention he devotes, the pace that he brings with his tongue game, is crazy. How can I explain how it feels except that it’s electrifying! He sends chills through me and my body just goes into the jolts and spasms and I wanna pull out my weave. And all of that comes before the oceanic orgasm that pushes through me. My toes are curlin’. My eyes are all over the place. I’m pullin’ the bed sheets off and we’re eventually sliding off the bed and onto the floor. I cannot control myself when Danté really puts his work in. There are the quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am encounters we have. But then there are those thorough, passionate times that he forever surprises me, and sensations shoot up inside of me like some kinda lightning bolt. Wow. And just when I think I’ve had it all, I find myself beggin’ him to give me more. I need his dick inside of me and I don’t mind placing my direct order. Give it to me, Danté. Fuck me. From there on in, I know not what I’m saying. My mouth, my hands, and the rest of my body— everything has a mind of its own.

  DANTÉ

  I had to pull out quick and step away from her limp, frustrated body. I wanted this to last, and if that was gonna be the case I needed to cool it. I went to gulp down the rest of the Alizé, then I walked around the room like some naked Adonis, taking deep breaths so that I could simmer down. This was something I had to teach myself so that (no matter how excited I was) I wouldn’t cum too quick. Most times it worked. And when it didn’t, the worst case was that things got messy. But thank God I never had a mishap where I got a woman pregnant. Stacy says she can’t get pregnant because of some IUD she has in. I don’t know about all that. I just know to wear a rubber or withdraw. And still, after all those revelations and all that we’d been through, Stacy and I were still not using the rubber.

  “COME HERE,” I directed. And Stacy made her way across the room and assumed a doggy-style position on the floor. Right there I became a beast for a few minutes, grabbing at her hair, snatching her head back, and feeding her dick from behind, over and over again. That was the whole object of pulling out, so I could start all over again from scratch.

  More noise from Stacy. Then again, with my hand covering her mouth. Again I pulled out; but now I directed her to the corner of the room where I stood with my back against the wall. Since she was so obedient, and since the activity was driving my ego through the roof, I just followed my carnal urges.

  “Kneel down. Suck it. ” I could feel myself becoming that raunchy, careless monster— that man in the nightmare, that bloody dream I had on the trip down to Atlanta. But, by all indications, Stacy was going with the flow. She was loving this and willing to oblige. So who was I to poop a party?

  Sloppy and wet and ready, I leveraged our bodies so that she could continue to blow me, but now we were moving to the floor, with Stacy on her back and me hovering over her, working in and out of her mouth— her second pussy. In my mind, I guess, this was a new missionary position.

  Although I was on the edge of orgasm, my intention was not to end up this way. And, with the little senses I had left, I pulled my baby up from the floor and carried her to the bed. Now was the time for the real missionary work. A shame how I was manipulating her like this, but (I promise) there was a heavy connection between us. In her eyes, her breathing, and the convictions she voiced over and over, Stacy was lovin’ every minute of this. And so it was no problem to throw her onto the bed and to then dive easily on top of her. It was no problem to grab her legs and order her to hold them so that her knees were rubbing at her ears and so that she’d allow absolute access to every inch of her. And that’s what I took. I took it over and again, my face flush against hers and hugging her so that our bodies molded as one. And now it didn’t matter who heard. It didn’t matter that the walls were paper thin. If the whole world heard that we were making love, then maybe they should know. Maybe they should part the sea and allow us to come through just like we were both cumming now. Her flexible body going through spasms, and my stiff body shivering with the absolute release.

  IN THE morning, I had enough energy to wake the kids and make breakfast for nine people (three of them little people), then we ushered the kids off to day camp. On the way back to the Singletary house, Stacy wanted to stop and get some knickknacks that she said she forgot the night before.

  Her idea of knickknacks was a DVD player for her brother, a new playpen for Jackie, and a whole line of Victoria’s Secret thongs and pan ties and bras for herself. Didn’t she already go to Victoria’s Secret?

  As if she needed an excuse for me, she said, “Well? You do want me to be beautiful and look good, right?” She said this in front of the cashier, as she whipped out that credit card, and then hugged up on me and kissed me with those lips that had worked long and hard the night before. How could I argue?

  She didn’t stop there. Proactiv System’s skin care for the two of us— she got that from one of those impulse kiosks you always see along the walkway in the mall. Never mind that this spending wasn’t part of the knickknacks Stacy wanted. Then there were a number of designer suits for me. Our favorite video collection of Boondocks (because she left hers at home—my home, that is). And then there were the sneakers— three pairs of them— and the jackets, the new his and hers Mogul cell phones from Sprint (her favorite ser vice provider), and finally a few cases of wine from the local Publix supermarket. In my head I counted all of seven thousand dollars that she had spent before we finally made it home. But add that to the furniture, electronics, and other house hold items from the day before, and I’d say she had to be close to $40 or $50 grand, easy. Without a doubt, this woman’s spending was untouchable. And she did it like such a pro. But for me to say anything to her, I’d get that same old sad-eyed response: don’t steal my joy.

  ——

  I KNOW a friend, who knows a friend, who knows a friend. As usual, it’s a client-related connection. So Stacy and I went to a Sunday-night dinner engagement, featuring su
perstar Kool DJ Red Alert. As the coincidence goes, he had just moved down to Atlanta and set up shop where he performed live each week at a restaurant and nightclub called Flambeaux in Stone Mountain, Georgia. Of course, Stacy might not be all that familiar, but me, Bronx boy that I is, was entirely familiar with Red Alert’s importance in New York City radio. He had continued to be a staple in radio and in hip-hop culture for as long as I could remember. So, I thought we’d take the trip to the Sunday-night event and chill with Red.

  “RED IS cool,” said Stacy.

  “That he is. The Kooooool DJ Red Alert, ” I said, imitating how I always remembered him saying it on New York radio. “Did you dig that old-school jam he played?”

  “Old school? Everything he played was old-school.” “Okay. I know that. But that disco-lady song was smoking. I ain’t heard that in a looooong time.”

  Stacy flatly replied, “I ain’t heard that ever. ” I wasn’t gonna let Stacy’s little sarcasm spoil the night. I just wanted to always remember that look in her eyes when we were inside the club; how she was all dreamy-eyed and in love. And now that we were outside for some air, and holding on to my arm like she did just continued the romance. I couldn’t remember ever taking a walk with her, I mean one of those romantic walks under the moon and stars. And with every step we took through the restaurant parking lot, that became more and more a good idea. The moon was full. There was a clearing across the street— basically more parking area and uneven land. So I suggested we go for a stroll. Maybe walk off some of the alcohol we’d drunk, however casual our indulgence. Stacy was pointing at stores in the Mall at Stonecrest, explaining that this was one of Georgia’s largest shopping experiences. But, without being too abrupt, I changed the subject from shopping. I’m sure that to her, talking about shopping was a complete thrill. For me, it was a complete waste of time.