Burning Desire

by Relentless Aaron

  “Alright, hold on, Dancer. Lemme at least park the van out of sight or somethin’.”

  The girl didn’t even answer. She was already back there doing a strip tease, pulling her blouse over her shoulders and making it clear that life was about to get interesting for us.

  Now there was an urgency. She may not have realized it, but I did. At least the windshield offered a clear, head- on view of the inside of my living environment. So, whenever I wanted privacy, I’d park somewhere off- road, even a Wal-mart or Lowe’s parking lot, and I’d pull down a dark green Hefty bag like a curtain. Even at night, my battery- powered light could be hidden from anyone passing by. But this was broad daylight, and if this was gonna be the usual bang- out between Dancer and me, then I’d need to more or less bury our existence so that the rocking and loud noises wouldn’t be heard.

  Just off I-20, in Lithonia, there’s a big industrial area with a lot of auto- repair shops and other one- story factory-type buildings. I’ve parked within this environment on a few occasions already, as I have in areas across town, or in the middle of busy shopping areas, or even in a church parking lot. This was just my way of staying hidden in a world where everything costs money, including parking. Thank God parking is very liberal here, except not when you’re knockin’ boots.

  I COULDN’T wait to work this out there in the back of van. I know I was trying to be a gentleman and all, and I know Dancer is not that type of chick. But, quiet as I kept it, this girl was one spoiled so-’n’-so. At home, she had every luxury a young girl could imagine. Her life had been paid for and cushioned through adolescence and puberty and then as a young adult. So, my giving it to her rough and rugged (but affectionately so) in the back of my van was just what her bourgie doctor ordered. Maybe it wouldn’t make up for the crying she must’ve done through the years to get what she wanted, but it had to be a start!

  Hefty bag secured, I climbed in the back and dived on top of her pretty, silly ass. I bit her neck unremorsefully, tickling her all over her half- naked body. I provoked giggles and convulsions and screams, and it didn’t matter how loud she was. It didn’t matter how much the van rocked. We were in a section of vacant commercial properties that hadn’t seen commerce for months, maybe years. Not only that, I parked way back from the road and closer to the railroad tracks. Some sort of trash compactor blocked any possible street view of the van. So nobody was gonna hear or see us. And that was a good thing, because I was about to murder that pussy.

  It didn’t take me long to find Dancer’s belly button. That was the spot on her body I knew was so sensitive that she’d squirm. But today, at seven o’clock in the evening, on the side of the railroad, I made a meal out of her navel. There was still enough room to kneel on the floor of the van, even with the bag of folded clothes I just cleaned at the laundry. Most everything else, like food and sneakers, were neatly packed in the crawl space under the futon. Leaning over my prey, I kept Dancer stretched out and I overpowered her with my left hand so that my strong grip kept her wrists constrained. At the same time, my right elbow and forearm pressed against her thighs. No question I had her trapped inside my intention to torment and tease and pleasure her. Her haunting cries only encouraged me to nibble more, and I eventually found myself between her legs, lapping and kissing and still teasing. Dancer knew that it was special for me to give her plea sure like this. And I could tell that she wanted it since she was freshly shaved; part of a past conversation we had about grooming and what it would take for me to over indulge. So that’s what I did: I over indulged.

  It was okay to release my grip now, since I was so sure that this was more of what she wanted, as opposed to the slight bondage and torment I had been executing. I have to say I got great joy out of seeing Dancer pulling her hair, biting her wrist, and basically going through the give- and- take of this excruciating plea sure. She managed to reach up enough to scratch at the side wall of the van, ripping a front-page newspaper article I’d taped there. I grunted, knowing that it was a collector’s item she ripped— Barack on the cover of the Atlanta Journal- Constitution. Instead of getting angry and screwing up this perfectly sizzling moment, I got even. I pulled away and kissed her thighs with light pecks. I took my time, too, grazing my tongue close to her hot spot, then backing away again. And again. I could see that this was killing her, and I guess she didn’t wanna be too bold and beg me to go back to the tongue kissing I was performing on her clit. And that was just the point: to have her spoiled ass do things she wasn’t accustomed to. To bring her nose from “up there” to down here with us regular folk.

  Now I stopped altogether. In the van, there’s no music system yet, so I use the iPod that was with my personal property, and there’s a dope set of headphones I got from that thrifty store, same place I got my clothes. On the iPod was a superdope remix of the Tony! Toni! Toné! hit “Anniversary.” So, while that jam rocked, I caressed Dancer’s leg while she lay there with that exhausted look on her face. It was part frustration, part satisfaction, and part I want more.

  Dancer had done her little strip tease to set it off, so it was my turn now. Wiggling like I knew what I was doing; like I was the new Chippendales trainee, I made my little ugly faces as I showed Dancer the six- pack I’d been working on at LA Fitness. She smiled and soon had her nose against my abs like she was trying to smell all of me. But in Dancer fashion, she began eating at my abs, licking row by row until she was pulling my underwear down. I made it that much easier for her; I grabbed a bunch of her hair and manipulated her body around so that she was now kneeling on the floor with me sitting on the futon. I wasn’t rough about it, but just rough enough for her to enjoy my bit of puppeteering. Next thing I know, Dancer had a mouthful of Geppetto. And although she didn’t know it, I was the one being controlled by her. All I could do was sit back and enjoy this, hands either managing her head or stretched back. I got into my own husky moans and groans and couldn’t have cared less about how loud I was.

  “Turn over for me, baby.”

  The look on my face was twisted! Dancer had toyed with me on other occasions, flicking her tongue against my ass, and teasing me there while giving head. But never had she gone about it with any such determination as she implied at the moment. In fact, she went so much further. While I’m on my hands and knees up on the futon, naked from the waist down, Dancer reaches up under me, pulls my swollen penis back, and begins sucking me from behind. She shifts her attention back and forth, licking, sucking, and eating at my three most- sensitive areas. No lie, this woman had me cryin’ like a wolf. I wanted to turn around, toss the girl on her back and pound her into submission, but true story—I was the one submitting! And between the work she did with her mouth, and the way her hand was grabbin’ at me like I was a cow being milked, I lost all control. I guess it was reflex, but a spasm shot through me and at the same time I clutched Dancer’s head so that she caught all of me in her mouth. I became so weak that the satisfaction left me a little dizzy. I reached for a bottle of water there on the floor. But before I could be rude and drink some for myself, Dancer grabbed the bottle and gulped down a third of the water. I was frozen by the seamlessness of it all: how she swallowed me, then washed it down right after. Damn. I couldn’t say the words, but her actions had me so in love! And not that nasty defines what love is for me, just that Dancer so embraced spontaneity. She had such a raw rebellion about her, and I loved every raunchy second of it.

  Still speechless, our quiet, undefined moment was rudely interrupted by three loud bangs on the side of the van. No question, I c ould’ve shit myself. And I’d later learn that the way my head jerked in response to the banging was the cause of three days of neck pains.

  I pulled the Hefty bag aside to see a blitz of flashing red and blue cruiser lights. I was also blinded by bright halogen spotlights pointed directly at the windshield, not to mention the smaller flashlight rays that were swinging to and fro.

  Squinting, I was sure that something was wrong here. But I was also sure that
these were police officers; a lot of them.

  “Put your hands where we can see them!” shouted an authority.

  I carefully slid the plastic farther out of the way so as not to confuse these guys with what they could or could not see. I didn’t have a single weapon in the van, unless you were counting Dancer, the most lethal of them all.

  “How many are in the van?” a voice shouted. I still could not see the faces, merely ghosts amidst all the bright rays of light focused on me. I could see at least two cruisers, one of them unevenly parked on the embankment that leads to the train tracks. Another facing the driver’s-side door, offi-cers perched with guns drawn. Fuck! The critical importance of this was all so suddenly real.

  “Just the two of us,” I shouted back so they could all hear me beyond the confines of the truck. Then, to Dancer I said in a soft but hasty tone, “Girl, put some clothes on!” From the side glance I shot at her I could see her expression and how she was questioning my hostile attitude.

  I could only think to myself what a spoiled brat she was. But that was so irrelevant right now.

  “Okay. We’re gonna need you to step out of the vehicle, slowly, one at a time.”

  That was a little confusing since we were a mess and that I had a choice to go through the side or the front. For the sake of stalling— time for Dancer to get herself together— I climbed through to the front driver’s side and eased out so that I was standing with my hands reaching over my head. Yes, it was a little chilly out, and I didn’t think to grab a coat or sweatshirt, but even that wasn’t relevant right now. In my mind, while officers were frisking me, pressing me up against the truck and waiting for “the star of the show” to step out, I’m still wondering, How did they find us?

  I could already hear the apprehension and upset in Dancer’s voice as she made her way out of the van.

  “I’m comin’. And could you get that light out my eye, please!?”

  As I’m hearing this and while I’m being manhandled by these strangers in uniform, I’m also wagging my head, wishing I could disappear. The rest is a blur: You’re being charged with indecent exposure. The holding cell? Why are you putting handcuffs on me?! Or central booking? Do you know who my mother is? Young lady, you need to calm down before we restrain you. You’re already restraining me! Again, Dancer is crying out, Do you know who my mother is!? And while all this is going on, the activities in the immediate vicinity swirling around me like a small storm, I’m realizing some next- level energy in my life. Not a positive energy, but a force that was sweeping me into it.

  I sat with my hands cuffed, in the back of a police cruiser, while one officer asked me a bunch of questions. Who was the girl to me? Why were we out here and not in a hotel room somewhere? Who was I? I wanted to say to him: That’s a damn good question, Officer. Still, while I’m going through that, I watched officers as they investigated the back of my van, picking through my personal items, laughing and chatting among themselves. In my mind I’m thinking of everything in there, knowing there could be nothing incriminating, nothing that could take all this to another level. I noticed one officer who seemed to be in charge of everything got on a radio and I imagined him calling in the ingredients of this nasty soup being cooked before my eyes. In another police cruiser, Dancer sat in the back. I could see the distress on account of the fogged-up window where she was being held, as well as the vehicle rocked some as if an angry captive was confined within. Who could that be?

  Maybe it was the sixth sense working, but something told me to turn around and look in another direction. Down the way, alongside the abandoned commercial building, a sharp, shiny white car sat idling with the headlights on. Whoever sat in it was on a phone call. Just as I assessed that, a sparkling black full- size vehicle rolled past where the white one was. There was a dust- raising sudden stop in the immediate vicinity of the police cruisers.

  What happened next was something out of a movie. Ophelia King, all suited up in a red skirt suit, got out of her parked Mercedes and stepped up to one of the officers. Part of me was so happy right now; if there was anyone who was capable of straightening this out, it was a power attorney. The other part of me was saying, God— no! Not her mother!?

  Ophelia was directed to see the officer in charge, and the two of them spoke there in the open, staged right there in the middle of the headlights and police strobe lights. Maybe the cops didn’t realize this, but this was open court and this was Ophelia’s justice.

  Ophelia with her arms folded, listening to the officer in charge.

  Ophelia’s attention shifting to the left, where Dancer was detained.

  Ophelia looking in my direction, the culprit. Jesus.

  Ophelia with her brilliant smile and charismatic gestures.

  Ophelia’s manicured nails, piercingly beautiful eyes, and jet- black hair pulled back in a bun.

  The commanding officer escorted Ophelia to where her daughter was seated. The window was lowered so they could speak. The conversation lasted all of one minute before Ophelia nodded at the officer. Next thing I saw was Ophelia’s eyes swinging in my direction. The air was sucked out of my body as I braced myself for the consequences.

  I’m not sure she could see my eyes, but I could surely see hers. It was Ophelia’s wrath that (to me) was worse than any handcuffs, any judge, or any jury. Call me a coward, and a coward I will be, because I was suddenly more afraid of this woman than I was a lightning strike.

  I squeezed my eyes and through closed lids I begged: give me the guillotine.

  When I opened my eyes, and as if my prayers were answered, I watched as the officers released Dancer. Dancer and her mom walked to the Mercedes, and just as Ophelia was opening the driver’s-side door, she stopped and looked in my direction. There was no anger or hate there. There was no emotion at all. In those eyes, it was all too clear: justice is served.

  [FIFTEEN]

  FRIDAY NIGHT.RICE Street. Pro cessing. Fingerprints. Police radios. Keys. Appraising eyes looked at me with every passing moment as both uniformed and plainclothes officers passed me. I was so far out of my element, seated on a sturdy wooden chair and cuffed to the chair’s arm. Police lockers were standing to my far right and they were opened periodically as I awaited my fate. This was a world apart from the environment at the King mansion, and even the isolation of the van that I now called home. Is that still home?

  “So, how serious are these charges?” I asked.

  The officer winced, as if this was but a nuisance charge.

  He shrugged as he explained, “It’s nothing, if you ask me. I mean, if you look around here, this is a busy place with real crimes to solve.” Shaking his head: “Yours is not a real crime, Mr. Garrett. If you’d just be patient with the pro cess, I’ll see if I can getcha out of here.”

  The relief I felt from his words gave me the second wind I needed.

  To help things along, I said, “Listen, what ever the fine is, just let me know, I can get it, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “I gotcha, Mr. Garrett. Just let me work things out.”

  “One more thing, sir. My van—”

  The officer put his hand up. “Mr. Garrett, everything in your van is safe. It’s been secured. I have your keys. I’m tellin’ ya,it’s all gonna be alright if you just let me do this.”

  I gestured that he wouldn’t have any trouble out of me, and while 9:00 p.m. turned to 10:00, I recorded this place with my eyes and ears; not necessarily the law breakers that were escorted in, but the men and women who peopled the Fulton County police force. They were the characters in an unscripted play. Comedy. Drama. All of it entertaining me as I dozed off and thought hard about how I got here.

  My daydream was cut short when a woman, bottle-shaped and black, in her forties, came into the squad room. She seemed to have the attention and respect of everyone present.

  “Is this him?”

  “Yes, Major.”

  The woman stood tall-like over me, her uniform dressed with insignia
s, credentials, and the requisite badge. It was obvious that she was the HNIC when she signaled the processing officer to give her a rundown. This was done right there, within feet of me.

  When she heard it all, simple as it was to explain, she said, “That’s it?”

  “Afraid so, Major.”

  “Willis, let me have a word with you.” The major spoke into a mic that was attached there on her shoulder. I soon learned that the Willis she spoke to was the commanding officer; the one who officiated at the proceedings where we were found and where only I was arrested. Yes, I thought about why just I was arrested when it was the two of us, Dancer and I, who were in the van bumpin’ uglies. But I just as soon shook that from my mind every time it surfaced because I really didn’t want her caught up in this. If I had to take the fall, pay the fine, or what ever, then let it be.

  Major Chambers was apparently more in charge than I had gathered. I was escorted to a bench just outside her of-fice and the vent overhead lent me some insight as to the truth about my circumstances.

  “Willis, please tell me you not bringin’ charges against this man and fillin’ up my jail with nonsense when we got more important criminals out there to find?”

  “Major, I followed protocol and called it in. Spoke to Lieutenant Chavez and we were about to issue summonses. But—”

  “But what, Willis? I know Lieutenant Chavez told you to set ‘im loose. I know he had to. No priors on this guy. The girl was of age, I understand?”

  “Yep.”

  “So, where’s the beef here? Git this joker out the judicial system. It’s Friday; no need for no on- call judge. No need to tie up my jail any more than it is. You know we already overcrowded. Ain’t no way this man gonna stand ‘fore a judge within seventy- two hours. Even a mini- DA and attorneys is gon’ tie up my complaint room. Come on, Willis?”