Duncan: Across the Aisle

by Turner, Xyla

  “I wish you would have stayed,” I told her. “I thought I hurt you.”

  “No, Duncan. I feel great, thanks to you,” she replied with a lighter tone that could be interpreted as happiness.

  I failed to plan for this moment, so I was not sure what to do or say next.

  “I want to do it again,” I found my mouth saying.

  “You mean intercourse, as you put it, and fucking, as I put it.” She laughed, causing the warmth to come back.

  I liked to hear that sound from her. My body responded to it, every time.

  “Yes, fucking.” I succumbed to her wording. “When?”

  “Give a girl a few days to recoup, okay?” She answered. “I want to do it again, too. It was intense, and I liked that.”

  “That is good,” I replied. “Are you averse to rope play?”

  “No,” she said in a small voice. “I just grew wet thinking about it.”

  “Good,” I replied, remembering her wet heat on my fingers. “I look forward to experiencing your wetness again.”

  “Duncan,” she said with a slight moan.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  She sighed. “I’m horny all over again. I’m going back to bed. Bye.”

  “Good,” I responded and hung up.

  She was not hurt and wanted to see me again. Mission accomplished, but now I had three days to get everything in order for our next meeting.

  The new position of Senator for Rhode Island came with more responsibility than I was used to having. Simply knowing facts was only half the job. It required me to rely on my social skills training a lot, since I could be awkward and preferred to avoid social events at all cost. I had to deal with the public frequently. I knew despite years of the classes, therapy, and other methods of integrating myself among the normal people of the world, I could still miss a cue and say something that was not socially appropriate or that came off as arrogant.

  I was always skeptical of strangers and their intentions. Specifically, in Congress when many Republicans and some Democrats came to introduce themselves. They wondered why I didn’t have an office assistant. I shared that I had trust issues. One congressman told me I was in the right field, but I’d better get one, or I would get buried in mundane shit. Trent agreed, but I still did not know where to begin since there were not many people I trusted in Washington, D.C.

  Trent came to my office on Thursday stating he was taking me out to lunch. It was already one o’clock, and my next meeting was not until a few hours later.

  We discussed some of the people that were a part of my party and in the body of Congress. Then the discussion veered to fatherhood and that his wife was pregnant again.

  “Do you fear that you won’t be around when you’re kids are older, by having them this late in life?” I asked him.

  His head jerked toward me before he answered, “This is why I like you. You say what you are thinking — such a breath of fresh fucking air. But, to answer your question. Yes, I do fear it. I’m fifty-three years old, and my wife is in her mid-thirties. My fear is that I am going to leave this earth right after I’ve found her. That my kids won’t know their father, but I’ll tell you one goddamn thing. I make it a point to keep myself healthy because I want to grow old, old. I would rather have them now, than not at all.”

  This made sense. The only thing I could relate it to was Portia. I’d rather have her sexually, than not have her at all. Any way I could get her, I would do so.

  “What’s up with you and Portia?” he asked, almost reading my mind. “How did the date go?”

  This was always a hard question to answer for someone like me. Unless the person said it was good or it was bad, I did not know.

  “Portia stated that she wanted to see me again,” I told him.

  “I feel like there is a but somewhere in that statement,” he said, before taking a bite of his sandwich.

  “We had intercourse, and when I went to sleep, she left,” I shared with him.

  “Ahhh, I see.” He nodded. “Hmm, do you know why?”

  “She stated it was because she did not want to disrupt my routine any more than she already had.”

  Trent’s head nodded, and then he said, “That’s woman speak, for something was up or wrong.”

  “It is?” I asked, with a slight panic in my voice.

  He must have picked up on it because he said, “But if Portia said she would see you again, then she will.”

  My mind went back to that night, as it often did when I was asleep or awake, and I recalled everything she said.

  “She asked where my covers were, and her hair got wet from the shower and…” I was about to finish but Trent cut me off.

  “Her hair got wet?” He blinked. “Wait, you don’t sleep with covers?”

  “What? What does that mean?” I leaned forward.

  “Portia wears what you would call a weave, and they basically can’t get wet or they will look like an electrocuted porcupine. Bernie’s hair is natural and hers is just as crazy. It’s difficult to maintain, and water is usually not a black woman’s best friend when it comes to hair, unless they have a texture with looser curls.”

  “How do you know these black women secrets?” I asked Trent.

  “Learned the hard way, man. Believe me. I’ll bring you some shower caps. They will be your best friend, plus, she’ll know you had her in mind. Oh, and if you don’t wear covers, get her some covers. If you want her over there, you’ll have to make her feel comfortable. This extends beyond sex. What products does she use, hair care, soap, deodorant, types of tea or coffee, foods, snacks, etc. These things will give you a guide on how to show her you are invested in whatever you’re trying to build.” He turned his head and eyed me for a bit. “Are you still looking for a wife?”

  “No, I’m looking for Portia Lane,” I replied.

  Trent burst out laughing and said, “That’s it, my brother. Now you’re talking.”

  I didn’t quite get it, but when I got back to the office, I created a survey, incorporating all the questions that my investigator could not find out about Portia, and emailed it to her.

  Almost immediately, I received a reply.

  Portia:

  How did you get my cell phone number and my email?

  Sent from my iPhone

  I emailed her back:

  Your best friend is the wife of my friend.

  This was my reply, since I would not lie to her.

  A notification that I had received a text from Portia Lane slid down my screen. I clicked on it:

  Portia: What is this survey?

  Duncan: I want to know what you like.

  Portia: What does my desired type of body products have to do with getting to know what I like?

  Duncan: If you say, Head and Shoulders, I will know you have dandruff. If you say, Dove, I will know you probably have sensitive skin.

  Portia: I do NOT have dandruff.

  Duncan: I would still like you if you did.

  Portia: Fine, I’ll fill out your stupid survey.

  Portia: I hope you don’t do this with all your fuck buddies. It seems a bit involved.

  Duncan: I do not have fuck buddies. I have you.

  There were no more responses to my latest text, which was good. I could focus on my new job that required meeting after meeting. This would continue until day three when I could see her again. My internal countdown was at sixty hours, fifty-nine minutes, and twenty seconds before our dinner reservation.

  That seemed like a lifetime away.

  Chapter Eight

  Portia

  I was at the Greenbelt Boutique helping Sara get acclimated to her new management role. It was quite different from simply being an employee, and it was even harder to manage people you were once co-workers with. There is already that familiarity, and as the new manager, you don’t want them to think you’ve changed. No one wants to hear the dreaded, “This job has changed you,” or the snarky way people say, “You’ve changed.”
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  The reality is that you will change because the expectation has changed. It’s like going from being single to having a partner. Even going from being childless to having a baby. You will indeed change, and most of the time, you will be the better person for this transformation.

  Granted, some people don’t always make a good transition. They don’t know how to handle power or fame. Therefore, they let it go to their heads. Many times, it reveals the type of person they are when pressure and responsibility are heaped upon them.

  The new manager, Sara, was from northeast D.C. She graduated from Howard University and had been an Assistant Manager for four years. What I appreciated about the woman is that she did not use my coaching her as a bashing session of her former supervisor. She learned, shared her misconceptions, and asked thoughtful questions. The homework I gave her, she was able to complete, showing she was dedicated to the cause.

  Since I was at the store and Duncan knew of my work there, I had anticipated him coming by at some point, but he didn’t. I’m not sure why I cared anything about this, but I guess I wanted to see him. I’m sure it was just my body craving something it had tasted.

  There was no doubt in my mind that I was anticipating seeing the man. After I didn’t respond back to his text that almost blew my mind, there was radio silence. That was three days ago, and today was Friday. His survey was almost comical. I actually thought he was just being funny.

  He was not.

  When I told Bernie, she erupted in laughter, but explained that she was not in the least bit surprised. We both agreed the man was different, but not in a bad way. It had turned out to be different in a better way. If I were to be honest, it was oddly thoughtful.

  Saturday was the fourth day since I had seen him, and I know I told him a few days, but it was about to be a week. My job consisted of a lot of traveling, so I rarely worked on the weekend. I usually went out to have a drink or two and meet up with Bernie and my godson. Junior could now say my full name, Godmommy Portia, and not Porsa. The little boy was extremely cute, but oh, did I see his daddy in him. Also his stubborn mama.

  This weekend though, I found myself lying in bed contemplating life. Well, hovering over the last text Duncan sent me. In a silly moment of girldom, I replied to the four-day old text.

  Portia: I completed the survey. What did you learn?

  Duncan: We’re having dinner at 6:00 PM at Luluc. What is your address? I will pick you up at 5:30.

  Portia: I have prior plans, I won’t be able to make that.

  …

  …

  …

  The dots went on for what felt like five whole minutes. I almost expected a dissertation, but when he finally replied, I laughed.

  Duncan: Afterwards?

  This brought a smile to my face because he was determined for us to meet up. I liked that.

  Portia: I only said that because you assumed, I was free. I don’t have plans.

  Duncan: You were joking?

  Portia: Yes.

  Duncan: Are you available?

  Portia: Yes, Duncan. It was a joke. I’m available and will be at my apartment waiting. Do you need my address?

  Duncan: See you.

  The man was going to blow a damn gasket, messing around with me. I sent him my address and apartment number. I decided to go pamper myself a bit. A trim downstairs would be appropriate since Duncan seems to like that. Also, since another human will actually see my toes, I decided to get a pedicure a week earlier than my normal.

  It turned out I bought a new dress and shoes from the Greenbelt Mall. I also purchased a scarf because some of the marks from Duncan were faintly visible on my neck and shoulders. Oddly enough, I did not mind at all. In the past, I would have had a fit, but not with Duncan. Shit, I could wear a scarf.

  Five o’clock began to roll around, and I was in a towel, bumping my hair, and dancing around the bathroom. If he wanted to take a shower afterward every time, which is what I expected, then I would need to be prepared. The jury was still out on if I was staying the night, or if he would even want me to.

  At five-twenty seven, my doorbell buzzed, but I was already looking out the window like a little kid waiting for a special friend or loved one to show up.

  Duncan had actually arrived at five-fifteen but didn’t emerge from the back seat of the black sedan until twelve minutes later.

  “Good evening, Portia,” he greeted me.

  “Hey, Senator Morgan,” I replied back with a nervous smile.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  He looked at me for a beat, nodded his head, and turned to descend down the steps. I followed and climbed into the car as he held the door open for me.

  “How was your day off?” I asked in the way of small talk.

  “Day off?” he asked back, which I assumed was for me to explain.

  “Saturday, the weekend,” I elaborated. “You don’t have to be at work.”

  “I always have to be at work since I am new and most of the job is learning everything I didn’t know about the job,” he informed me. “I worked all day and will work tomorrow as well. This is my time to eat with you and have intercourse. I mean fucking.”

  He corrected himself, and I burst out laughing.

  “You’re funny.” I chuckled.

  “I do not intend to be,” he said with a straight face.

  “I know.” I smiled. “I’ve been looking forward to dinner and fucking too.”

  “Good.” He nodded and turned to face front.

  That for the most part stilled the conversation until we arrived at the restaurant. This one was seafood, and boy was it delicious. There was no fishy taste or smell to it, and the freshness was evident.

  He and I chatted about his new job, at length, since this was the thing he focused on. The conversation shifted to my mom, but I shut that down. Then I turned it back on his parents, and a dark cloud came over his normally content face.

  “I do not wish to speak about them. Like you.”

  “That’s fair,” I acknowledged.

  He did not order drinks or dessert but paid the bill, and we went back to his place.

  “Would you like some water, Portia?” Duncan asked me.

  “Sure,” I replied and sat down on the rocking love seat.

  He returned with a bottle of water and ice chips, just like I liked. It almost made me smile, because I think he asked that on the questionnaire that, seriously, had sixty-eight questions.

  Duncan returned with a glass of water and sat down on the couch next to me. He turned on the television and immediately flipped to Hulu and the show, Single Parents. I couldn’t help but turn to him with a huge smile and say, “You are too cute.”

  He looked at me like a Pug would, as if he were assessing my face. Then he replied, “I am not cute. Asymmetrically proportioned, yes. Tall, according to American standards, without a crooked nose, and some centimeters off from having thin lips.”

  It was my turn to look at him with the tilt of a Pug’s head. The man decided to continue, “I believe I do understand your sentiment. You mean to say, I am thoughtful, not cute. You, Portia, are the beautiful one. I have not seen you in the morning, but I suspect you will remain—”

  He was cut off from finishing what I could only presume were some words that might not get him laid, by my lips taking his in a kiss. My legs closed him in, so I was straddling him, and I wrapped my arms around his body and simply kissed him. There was a grunt, and then he jerked back.

  “Portia, what are you doing?” he exclaimed. “You like to watch Single Parents after a long day. We have to—”

  “No, I want you to fuck me. That’s what I want after a long day,” I shared and leaned in again.

  I’m not sure what computed, but he lifted me with the strength of his lower body alone. He flipped off the television and carried me to his bedroom, which had also changed. I had no time to take in any of the newly added items because I was being lowered to the bed and kissed hard as he
pressed into me and stifled my ability to move.

  The kiss didn’t last long because he bit my bottom lip and pulled it into his mouth. I moaned loudly. I loved when he did that.

  Duncan had my wrist locked in his hand, and I felt a slip of something soft around my wrist.

  His mouth was no longer on me, and his concentration was on my wrist. When I looked up, he was tying a knot around the headboard. A thrill ran through me, and I physically preened with his care toward securing me to the bed. It was hot as hell, and my anticipation grew even more.

  Duncan began to take my clothes off, piece by piece, revealing my red lace bra and panties set. As he began to remove these items, proving this not to be as difficult with only one arm tied, he latched on to my nipple and sucked hard. My back arched off the bed, and I moaned softly. My thighs tightened around his waist as I pushed up onto his dick. He pulled away and stood beside the bed. Undressing, as he intently focused on my body, avoiding my eyes.

  When he finished, he bit down on my areoles, causing to a moan to escape that seemed to be trapped deep inside. It resembled a wave, but Duncan did not lose focus, as he continued to chew on my sensitive, hard nipples. Before I could even get used to this, he was moving towards my lower regions. He latched onto my clit, sucked and pulled on it with his lips. This move had me squirming and rubbing against him for relief as much as I could.

  “I want to cum,” I whined, but he kept going at his own pace, until I closed in both of my legs around his head.

  Duncan had untied me, and I didn’t even know, I was so out of it. He pulled me in his arms and carried me to the bathroom, where he turned on his many shower heads.

  “Can you stand?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I managed to reply.

  Duncan put me on my feet, and I turned to see several things that had me gasping.

  There were three different shower caps of different colors with the words, “Black Hair Matters” in bold letters on the top. There was a dryer, the kind I used for my weave, and a weave kit that included emergency tracks, glue, and needle with hair thread. He had also purchased gel, edge control, hairdressing, tea tree oil, and a hair wrap.