A Ledge

I would take Joshua in my bedroom with me when I needed to calm down or when I suffocated on thoughts of his father and couldn’t breathe. His skin was smooth to my touch and of course he had that new baby smell that could calm even the shoddiest of nerves. I’d swaddle him tight, rock him in my arms and sit by the open window. I remember the bottom of my sheer curtains would blow against my foot like an extra calming touch, like a spirit was there rubbing my feet, telling me everything would be alright. It was our ritual, well, my ritual. Taking the baby in the room, shutting the door and rocking him until I calmed down, instead of him.

Even when he was still in my womb, I knew he’d be my peace. As soon as I found out I was pregnant nothing made sense until I’d rub my belly, feel him kick and remind me I wasn’t alone, that I never would be again.

And then he betrayed me, but of course he would, he was just a baby. And everyone betrays you eventually.

“What do you mean, betrayed you?”

“That peace that only he could give me, he took it away eventually. I’d put too much pressure on him, I’m sure. Who turns to a new born baby for peace? One day he woke up in the morning and started screaming. He didn’t stop for three days straight. It was as if he was telling me he was quitting his job as peacemaker. I figured I’d do the motherly thing and return the favor for my baby. He’d held my hand, one finger at a time and led me away from the ledge so many times, right there in that room. I would do the same for him. I was his Momma, after all. So I took him in the bedroom, closed the door and rocked him by the window until I gave him the calm I’d depleted from him.

I sat down but that only made things worse. He screamed until I stood. I walked away from the window and paced the floor, sang him a lullaby, told him to hush, not say a word, promised him a diamond ring and a mocking bird. But it didn’t work. He screamed so loud that I worried for his lungs. I can’t even remember where my parents were. It was just Joshua and I in that room for three days of screaming, him out loud, me silently throughout my whole being. I rocked him until I shook him but he wouldn’t stop. In my mind I’d picture tiny snipers in the corners of the room. I’d actually look up and image them with one eye closed, the other looking through the scope of a gun with a laser between my eyes. The thought of them was my only comfort at that point.

On the third day I put Joshua down on the bed and stepped away from him. Maybe he needed space from me. Maybe my sadness rubbed off on him too much. I let the cool breeze flow over his body but it didn’t calm him down.

I moved him up on the bed, closer to the pillows, right between the pillows, actually. I climbed on the bed and hovered over him, my sweet baby boy that betrayed me. My hand picked up a pillow but my eyes stayed on him. I couldn’t bring myself to look at that pillow. I wanted to know what it would be like to change my life. So, I covered his face with the pillow, just a bit. I didn’t press down or anything. I watched his arms and legs move and wondered what it would feel like to see them stop. I watched them for one moment, maybe two, more than anyone should.

Next thing I knew, my mother was behind me, asking me if I’d seen the remote control. I took the pillow off of his face and fluffed it up back in its place then fluffed the other one like that would negate what I’d just did. I looked down and Joshua and saw his little body gasp for air, a sound he’d never made before. But his breathing went back to normal right away. He stopped crying, that’s for sure. My mother looked like she’d seen a ghost but she didn’t say anything. To this day, she’s still never mentioned it. I can’t blame her. I swore to myself I wouldn’t address it if she did and I swore I’d never tell anyone.

“Why are you telling me?”

“I have no idea.”

Boy Child

Keith’s parents were some of the richest motherfuckers I’d ever met. They hosted their only son’s high school graduation party in a ballroom at the Grand Hyatt Hotel in downtown Denver. It looked like a wedding, just filled with a bunch of teenagers and old relatives that couldn’t take the noise.

I said hello to my best friend, my fellow graduate, then looked around the room for the last third of my crew.

Dante was hovering over the punch bowl when I approached him. It must have been spiked. We didn't get past "Sup" and a fist bump before I felt hands suddenly covering my eyes. 

“Guess who?” Kayla asked.

Her high-pitched squeal was easy to recognize. I moved her hands away from my face and caught the tail end of Dante holding back a laugh. Kayla was the most popular girl in school. She had long blonde hair and enough booty to make a black girl jealous. She had a perfect face, a tight body, a tolerable personality, good grades, was head cheerleader, blah, blah, blah. Every girl hated her and every guy wanted her, but she was mine. We had been a “couple” for about six months now. According to her warped logic, as long as she kept swiping Daddy’s credit card and supplying more than half of my wardrobe, my heart and my penis belonged to her and only her. Boys will be boys and fools will be fools.

I turned and faced her.

“Hey, baby,” I said, kissing her on the lips.

“Where’ve you been? I tried calling you after your party.”

“With Denise,” would have been the wrong thing to say so I settled for, “just busy, sorry.”

“It’s okay. At least you’re here now.” She wrapped her arms around my neck, assuming her usual octopus positioning when we were around other people. Sometimes I swore she’d pee on me when other girls were around just to prove a point. 

“Mmm, you smell good,” she said. She buried her face in my neck and it felt good. My neck was my spot. Information she knew.

“Gotta smell good for you, baby, always for you.”

“Ok, love birds,” Dante interrupted, “I’ll see y’all later.”

“Bye!” Kayla chirped, bubbly as ever.

As I gave Dante a head nod, I noticed a girl just beyond his left shoulder. She had long, wavy hair and wore a tight, black dress that made her look like sex on legs. My favorite style. Her eyes were on mine and she smiled, gave me a wink. I wondered how long she was watching. I made a mental note of her gaze but gave her no physical response. I looked back down at Kayla before she followed my wandering eye.

“You want to get out of here?” she asked.

“I just got here.”

The girl in black moved towards Kayla and me. She stopped and started talking to this guy that I think was in my photography class.

“But, I have a surprise for you,” Kayla whined.

I tried to focus on the girl in front of me but, as fine as she was, new pussy always looked better than old pussy. Kayla took my left hand with her right, looked around the room, checking our limited level of privacy and slid my hand down her pants. I felt her silky smooth skin and nothing else, no granny panties, no boy shorts, no nothing.

“I shaved her clean for you, daddy,” she said, trying to whisper seductively but eventually having to speak up because the music was so loud.

Fuck. That felt good. I let my hand linger there, enjoying the fact that we could be spotted at any moment. I curled my middle finger up inside of her, making her moan before I pulled my hand out of her pants and back into my pocket.

“Damn, baby,” I exhaled, halfway speaking to her, halfway to myself. I was torn. Kayla had skills to say the least. She would do anything I asked her to do in or out of the bedroom. A week ago I told her that I wondered what she felt like completely shaved and now here she was, smooth as silk. But she was getting too clingy. A girl who would do anything for you eventually would want everything from you. I needed her to know that her pussy didn’t control me, that I wasn’t going to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted like she did for me. Besides, the less affected I acted, the more she needed to please me.

“She feels good,” I said, keeping my voice casual.

I bent down to give her a kiss and the girl in the black dress caught my eye again. The dude from photography class was talking her ear off. She was clearly uninterested as she kept her eyes on me. I kissed Kayla but kept my eyes, unlike Kayla’s, open. I stared at the girl in the black dress as I sucked on Kayla’s tongue that was already in the back of my throat. She was standing only about ten feet away from us and I felt like she was the one I was kissing. The girl in the black dress stared at me, stared at me and bit her bottom lip. She was bold. Anyone who had any sense and a good pair of contact lenses could see what she was doing but I guess she didn’t care. The more I kissed Kayla the more the girl in the black dress bit her bottom lip, licked her top lip, and slid her fingers up and down the middle of her dress. Holy shit, she was turning me on.

“Ouch!” Kayla screamed.

My eyes darted back to the girl in front of me. She was repeatedly touching her lip and drawing back fingers smeared with blood.

“Darren! What the hell? You bit me!”  

Keith, who happened to be walking by, gave me a Please, no drama look. I gave him a head nod, letting him know I wouldn’t disrespect him like that.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Kayla, trying to calm her down.

I didn’t even notice I bit her, didn’t feel my jaw clenching, my teeth closing down on her thin lip. I was way too lost in thought.

The girl in the black dress licked her lips one last time, turned her back to me and started walking out of the room, leaving that guy from my photography class standing alone, still rambling. She reached the doorway that led to the hotel’s main lobby, pivoted to give me one last look, then left. My eyes were glued to her body and this time I couldn’t hide it.

Kayla finally stopped touching her lip when she realized I was no longer engaged in our situation, realized my ‘I’m sorry’ was nowhere near sincere, realized I was checking out another girl. Now both Kayla and I were staring towards the exit. With all of my might I tore my gaze away from my next potential conquest and looked down at a girl who was obsessed with me. She had tears in her eyes. She said nothing, just stared deep into my eyes for a moment and then walked away.

I wasn’t fazed.

I got what I wanted without having to try. Kayla knew she was not the apple of my eye, that she could be replaced. That’s how I needed it. No commitments. No strings. She ran over to her friends that wrapped her in a blanket of pity, hugging her, stroking her hair, telling her it was okay, telling her I was an asshole, and giving me looks of death.

Once again, I went unfazed.

I turned away from that bullshit and headed for the exit. I hated to leave my boy’s party so soon but opportunities like this didn’t come up all the time. Well, they did, but still, the girl was fine...

The Usual Booth

They sat in their usual booth at the usual place. Two booths down from where they sat on their first date. 

Tonight wasn't their second date or third or fourth. Well, at this point they weren't really dating anymore. 

He wanted attention and sex and a comfort blanket while he sorted through the emotional residue of his ex. 

He'd deny all of that, though. He was a nice guy after all. 

She wanted love and security and longevity and validation from an outside source as opposed to a mantra she repeated to herself every morning. 

She'd deny all of that, though. She was an independent woman after all. 

He smiled that smile that could move her to tears.

She moved her lips in that way that made it impossible for him to hear a word she said. 

They both tried to focus. 

She told herself before hand that she wouldn't bring it up. There'd be no talk of "What are we doing?" "Why am I here?" "What do you want from me?"

He told himself... Well, I'm not sure what he told himself. 

They ate and drank and joked with the waitress. 

He cracked jokes with that Will Smith charm.

She poured out her intellect and he drank every drop. 

He reached over the table and hovered his lips in front over hers. He killed her with anticipation. 

They kissed.

Again.

And again.

She knew there was nothing better. 

He wasn't quite sure. 

She missed being loved.

He teased her heart and she enjoyed the fatal stimulation. 

He wanted her but...

He wanted her but something...something she'd never really know. 

No matter how many times he explained it. 

She felt victim to karma. A seasoned heartbreaker herself. 

Alas.

He walked her to her car after she refused to "sit and talk" in his.

He asked to see her again. She broke her promise and asked him why...why not...why not me...why not so many things.

He spurted words but did not answer. 

They kissed again and said goodbye.

She kicked herself as she drove away and choked on the cliche caught in her throat. 

She said goodbye without him. She said goodbye for good until they'd meet again. 

The Farmhouse

The small crack in the window let in enough snow-covered air to cool down the humid kitchen. She had one loaf of bread in the oven and was kneading a second. He built this kitchen just for her. She baked in it every weekend just for him. 

She tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear when she heard the front door. He was back with more firewood. More cool air from outside came in with him. He walked into the kitchen, stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She stopped her work, closed her eyes and inhaled him. He smelled like trees and snow and the deepest, darkest nights. 

The farmhouse was a soft yellow on the outside, with a kitchen of the same color. Those were her only requests all those years ago. The rest was up to him. He used a mix of oaks, maples and pines. He included a breakfast nook, a fireplace and a room just for her when she wanted to read. 

Twenty years had passed. Twenty Christmases. Forty birthdays. Fifty-two weekends of escape, even if only for dinner. This place was their own. No children. No friends or relatives. Just the two of them. 

He built it for her and she loved him in it, endlessly.

She put the second loaf in the oven while he hung up his coat. 

A fresh fire was lit and they snuggled in their established places by the fire. 

Her head nuzzled into his chest, in its usual position. She listened to his heartbeat and smelled his sweater that had hints of cedar and smoke. The heartbeat was slower than usual. She knew to treasure it. Knew it wouldn't last forever.

He ran his fingers through her hair. Inhaled its hints of coconut and lavender. He kissed her head, knowing he would not always have that chance. He studied each strand of her hair, wished he could memorize each one. Wished he could imprint each strand into his memory to keep with him until the end. He inhaled her again and pulled her in closer. 

The fire heated their bodies, stilled their minds as they lost themselves in the flames. The smell of fresh bread blended with the burning wood, surrounding them. They let the elements take over their senses, if only for a moment. 

This would be their last night by the fire. Their last trip to the farmhouse. Their last embrace. They held each other and fought to record the moment. To hold it tight and never forget. Each smell. Each sound. Each touch. He'd fight to hold on. She'd fight to never let go, to always remember. 

"I love you."

"Forever."

A Night in San Francisco: Part III

Picture it: Denver, 2017. That's a Golden Girls reference. Do people get that? Ugh, aging sucks. Anyway... Denver, the summer of 2017, picture it. 

It's been a little over one year since that fateful night in San Francisco, okay, Oakland. I'm back in my own city, recently single after my first queer relationship. I've scissored, licked pussy and am feeling accomplished AF. One year with no peen, just pure, painless pleasure. Hashtag winning. Things didn't work out with that relationship but it's alright. For the best. 

So on fateful night number two, I'm out with some friends on the first friday of the month. The one night when the local gay clubs transform into a lesbian dream and the gay women in my city come out to drink, dance, play and have nothing but a great time. 

Maybe because I'm newly single, maybe because it's been a long week, or maybe because I was born in New York and have always been loyal to my roots, I quickly run through two Long Island Iced Teas, soon after arriving to this spot. 

I'm feeling good, dancing smack dab in the middle of an epic grind train. I'm usually the woman watching grind trains from the corner of the room while I sip on rum and Malibu, shaking the hell out of my head but tonight is different. Tonight: TWO back-to-back Long Island Ice Teas. I'm getting my groove on with a blonde woman and her friend, a young man that looks to be no more than 21. I ignore that fact and keep grinding because I don't have work tomorrow and fuck it. When the grind train gets too hot, literally and figuratively, I pop my head up, take a breath of any cool air I can find. My eyes scan the club and I'm quickly convinced they are playing tricks on me. Over by the bathroom. I think I see her. It can't be her but my god, it might be her. 

I swoop off of the dance floor and follow this silhouette. Walking towards the bathroom, she turns her head slightly and then I'm sure. Holy shit. It's her. The woman from Oakland. The woman in the green t-shirt.

What the hell is she doing here???

I don't even take time to pinch myself. I see her walk into the bathroom, flashing that same damn smile that changed my life a year ago and I'm right behind her,  slowly following her inside. 

Once inside I don't see her. She must be in a stall already. I fix my hair in the mirror, readjust my boobs and apply some lip gloss. Then, she exits the stall. Stands right next to me and washes her hands. This time, I'm not shy. This time I'm, well, a little bit drunk, and inhibitions are nowhere in sight. 

I turn to her as she dries her hands. 

Excuse me?" I say.

She faces me. She smiles and I attempt not to kiss her then and there.

"Do you live in Oakland?"

Her eyes widen a bit. "I live in northern San Francisco so, yeah, pretty close. How did you...?"

Then the words just flowed, came up and out just as easily as the Long Islands flowed in and down.

"I thought it was you. We met last year at a club in Oakland and, well, I fell in love with you at first sight."

And then it dawns on her. Enlightenment washing over her face. "I remember you."

"You do?"

"Of course, you were so nervous. It was adorable."

I giggle and blush. 

"You cut your hair," I say.

Now it's her turn to blush. "Yeah, I cut it short earlier this year. That's crazy that you remember that."

"I couldn't exactly forget you." My eyes lower a bit. 

"So, love at first sight, huh?" she asks. 

"Okay, not love, but, let's just say, one look at you and my life took a drastic turn... for the better."

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely."

"But we barely spoke. I figured at the end of the day you weren't interested."

"No, you got it right the first time. Just shy."

"Are you still feeling shy?"

I shake my head no.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Lulu."

I can't help but laugh. "Your name would be Lulu."

She laughs with me, probably fully aware that her name sounds like it came straight out of somebody's fantasy.

She says, "I think we need to commemorate this moment. It's not everyday I have a run-in with such a gorgeous woman, only to meet her once again. Seems a bit serendipitous, no?"

I agree with her.

I ask, "Well how do you think we should commemorate?" 

She leans in close and stops my breath. I swear she'll kiss me. She doesn't. Bypasses my mouth and places her lips next to my ear. "Perhaps we start by exchanging numbers? I'd hate to lose you again."

I MELT but say, "that's quite wise."

We exchange numbers, quickly. I can't help but save her contact info as "Little Lulu". 

"How long are you in Denver?" I ask.

"Just through the weekend. Flew out for a work conference."

"Fuck, she has a job. A job that flies her to conferences. HAWT," I think, but don't say. 

"So, you leave tomorrow?"

"Monday morning."

"Is your schedule full tomorrow?" I ask without a follow-up question ready. 

"I have two meetings, first one's not til 2 though."

I nod my head and she smirks.

"Plenty of time for us to finish up brunch and maybe a walk through your favorite park," she states, not asks.

"Yeah," I breathe, barely over a whisper. "I'd like that. Do you want me to call you in the morning?"

She smiles. Laughs, "No, not in the morning." 

And she kisses me. 

I swear I could cry. 

Her arms wrap around my waist. My arms drape over her shoulders and I inhale her. Our tongues intertwine and we're lost in each other. Surroundings disappear. I hear a faint, "get a room," and happily ignore it. She props me up on the bathroom counter and presses her body against my own, nestled perfectly in between my legs. 

"Let's leave," I say. 

She grabs my hand without hesitation and pulls me towards the exit. I give my friends of the grind train a wink. They wink back. The 21 year old man with his jaw falling on the floor giving me all the "get it girl" he can muster in one look, and we're gone. 

The Lyft ride takes forever. We spend twenty minutes squeezing each other's thighs and tickling each others palms but we finally make it to my home. I thank God I cleaned yesterday but pray I took out the trash. We step inside and I whiff. Trash is out and plug-in air freshener is on high. I forgot about that. Praise Jesus. 

As if she knows my home, she leads me to my own bedroom. I undress her. She undresses me. One scan of her body and again I think I could cry. 

My mouth begins its exploration, careful to cover every nook and cranny. I'm gentle with her and take my time. Who knows what this is, what it will be, if I'll get this chance again. 

She's a bit more forceful and I welcome her aggression. She pulls my hair, bites my neck and pumps her fingers inside my body, forcing moans out of my mouth. I lick those fingers, taste myself and smile, my own hunger growing. 

My tongue bathes in her wetness, a deep sea diver on a maiden voyage, filled with a nervous excitement for the treasures that await.  Her thighs wrap around my neck and begin to shake. I find her spot and drive her insane. My desire proves greater than my inexperience. I treat her clitoris like the gift it is... until I don't. Until I suck it into submission and Lulu comes uncontrollably on my face. I wipe away her juices and a grin, pleased with myself. 

She doesn't give me much time to kiss her tummy and stroke her hair before she's pushing me down on my bed, returning the "favor". Her experience trumps my desire to make the moment last. I can't describe what she did. Words don't suffice. But my body will never forget. Afterwards, I curl up in a ball and for real, for real, try not to cry.

I wonder Who is this woman?

More serendipity creeps in as she asks me, "Who are you?"

I laugh. "I could ask you the same thing."

"I can't believe I saw you again...in a completely different city."

"Tell me about it." 

"Do I still get brunch with you tomorrow?" she asks.

"You get literally whatever the fuck you want."

She laughs and licks her lips, "Oh, is that so?"

I nod my head, fully ready to give her whatever the fuck she wants.

Words aren't needed. We both know what she wants. 

She spreads my legs with her knees and takes it. I hate when people say dumb shit like "it's yours, take it". It feels borderline rapey to me. Like, what if one day it's not yours but you think it's yours and you just take it? Nah, son. But when I tell you this pussy is HERS!!! Hunty chile, listen. It's hers. Jesus help me.

The next day we never make it to brunch. We make love all morning until she has to get back to her hotel room. Has to get ready for her meeting.

"When will I see you again?" she asks.

"Who knows. Probably on another dance floor," I joke.

"How about we don't chance it this time?"

I nod my head and say, "yeah, okay."

Even while currently basking in a fairytale, I struggle to believe in fairytales. Still well aware that this could be nothing more than a fun story for her. 

"I mean it. I want to see you again."

I choose to believe her. 

"Then you will," I say before kissing her for the thousandth time.

We say our goodbyes and she leaves, off to fulfill her original duties. 

As soon as I close my door behind her I call Savannah.

"Girlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll. You still plan on visiting your new friends in Cali?"

"Yeah, I'm going next month! Why?"

"Cuz I'm going with you, bitch! Listen to this shit...!"

A Night in San Francisco: Part II

Now this is where you’d assume I approach her and my life changes forever, right? I spot her. She spots me. All other bodies on the dance floor melt away and we are Tony and Maria from West Side Story, the only living beings in the micro-universe we just created through a mere glance across the dance floor. We walk towards each other in slow motion, refusing to break eye contact, I hold out my hand when I’ve almost reached her and she pulls me in. Tight. We say nothing. I focus on her lips while she licks them. I bite my own. Our eyes meet again until they close in perfect unison and we kiss. Fireworks won’t begin to describe what we feel. Earthquakes, nothing more than slight missteps. Together we are power, our passion burning hotter than the sun’s core.

If only.

It went a little something like this.

Savannah and I make our way inside and head straight to the bar to get our drink on and scope out any potentials for adventure. The bartender asks us if we’d like to try two titty twisters and we naturally say, “yes”.

I spot the woman in the green t-shirt from across the room. She’s dancing with two other women. They look like they’re just friends. Laughing and smiling and dancing but not too closely. Doesn’t look like anyone is boning anyone else in that group. I cross my fingers and down my titty twister before ordering another. I look back at her. Her hips sway from side to side and I curse god for making me human instead of the pair of jeans she’s wearing.

“You’re biting your lip. What’s going on?” Savannah asks.

“What?”

“Who are you looking at?”

“See that girl in the green t-shirt?”

“The one we met outside?”

“Yeah, her,” I say.

Savannah quickly surveys the situation. I watch her eyes check out the girl in the green t-shirt.

She says, “Okay, okay. I see you. I like it. I support it. You gonna do it?”

“No way,” I say almost laughing.

“What? Why not?”

“Because women are beautiful and terrifying and make me feel like a pubescent boy who hasn’t figured out how to use his dick yet.”

Savannah rolls her eyes. “Bitch, please, let’s go.”

She grabs my hand and pulls me towards the dancefloor.

We know the drill. We do it with men, maybe it works with women too?

We get close to the object of my affection and her group.

Savannah puts on the “come fuck me face”. I put on the “come fuck me” face. We dance together in a way that makes men drop like flies. It’s nothing special. It’s nothing new. It’s just real effective.

She looks at me. She looks at me and I lose “the face”. It’s replaced with fear and nausea. I start to dance off beat. I stop all together, take a breath and then just sway casually, hoping I don’t look as awkward as I feel. Savannah rolls her eyes and abandons me, distracted by a big booty and a smile and heart that doesn't hold the power to break her own. The two of them make a non-verbal agreement and head towards the bar. 

The girl in the green t-shirt walks towards me. My heart stops, falls out of my vagina and runs away. I stand there heartless and dizzy.

“So, you guys made it in,” she says.

Of course, I had to see you is what I want to say. In reality I go with “yep”.

“I’m glad. This place can be fun,” she says, her eyes focusing in on mine.

“Totally,” I say with entirely too much enthusiasm. My heart scurries back across the floor to find me, reenters my body and has a dance party in my chest. “Well, I’m going to go find my friend,” I say like a stupid, scared, pubescent boy who hasn’t figured out how to use his dick yet.

“Oh okay. It was nice to meet you,” she says.

I fumble, "You too, of course."

I make my way back to the bar where Savannah is waiting with an open hand, letting me know she’d love to slap me.

“I know. I know,” I say.

“Here.” Savannah hands me another drink.

"What happened to Big Booty Judy?" I ask. 

Savannah sips her drink, a slick smile creeping across her face. "She's in the bathroom waiting for me."

"Oh, it's going down like that?" I ask.

"Shut up. I'm on vacation. You gonna be okay?"

"I'll be just fine. Enjoy yourself."

She kisses me on the cheek and leaves me.

I spend the rest of the night watching the girl in the green t-shirt from across the room. I dance with a woman who legitimately looks like Lil Wayne in order to get closer to green t-shirt girl, the one I wish I was dancing with. It’s fruitless. My fear wins tonight. The girl in the green t-shirt eventually leaves. Savannah and I leave shortly after.

In the car ride back to the hotel, Savannah tells me about the women she met that night. About the numbers she got and how they’re all going to stay connected on social media. Maybe she’ll come out to hang with them again next summer. I’m half listening to her while I pull out my phone, open my online dating app and change my settings from “straight” to “bisexual”. Closeted curiosity isn't working for me anymore. It was time to put myself out there. Time to explore this other part of me I had tucked away. In my mind, I thank the girl in the green t-shirt.

She was the catalyst. The final straw in my life that pushed me out of my comfort zone and into my truth. I thought that would be the end of it, the end of her involvement in my life. She would be nothing more than the inspiration that led to my next relationship (another story for another day). But boy was I wrong. She’d be back. When I least expected it…

A Night in San Francisco

The story begins in San Francisco because of course it would. Okay, it was technically Oakland because the truth is always a few miles north of the facts of a story. Here's a little story with a little truth. I'll let you decide what's what. 

Oakland, the summer of 2016. I'm on a girls trip with a few friends. There's four of us and for the last two nights we've been drinking, dancing, getting high and chasing gay men in speedos while eating cookies bigger than our heads. We're lit AF. 

On the third night, two of my girls are beat. Let's just say we're not 21 anymore and a game of Go Fish with a glass of wine, face masks and hair bonnets also sounds lit AF to us. Two of them are tired but I'm still wired and ready to party. Luckily, I can always count on my girl, Savannah, to come out and party with me. 

We drop off the sleep sisters at the hotel and head back out on the town in search of...we don't know and we don't care. As long as we find it. 

Crossing back over the bridge to San Fran is too much work. Again, we lit but we're not 21. We decide to see what trouble we can find closer to the hotel in Oakland. 

After a quick google search, we're on our way to a strip of clubs all along one street that I conveniently forgot the name of.

Standing outside one establishment, the blue neon light illuminates our faces and our anxious souls. We're ready to keep the party going. 

Savannah is dressed like God herself in a skin tight red dress with curves that would make you slap your momma. I'm more laid back in booty hugging jeans and a low-cut, black tank top. When my girls come out to play I don't have to put much work in elsewhere. Besides, I'm pretty as hell. Hard labor not required.

Savannah approaches a group of women standing in front of us in line. 

She asks them, "What's the vibe like in here?"

One laughs and the other one says, "It's like a lesbian hip-hop club."

Now Savannah and I both live in different white bread cities void of hip hop clubs or black lesbians so our non-verbal confirmation of "It's go time" is written all over our faces. Neither of us will ever see anything like this at home and we're excited. Savannah is straight and I'm ummm, curiously in the closet? Closet curious? Either way, it doesn't matter, we're here to party and try something new so, we're in. 

I take a look at the woman who tells us what the vibe is like and smile. Tell her, "Thanks, that's all we needed to know."

She smiles at me in return. The pristineness of her teeth throws me off. She has a beautiful smile. I examine the rest of her face and her body and notice she's completely on point from head to toe. She has curly hair, that looks soft to the touch, a natural, like me. She's thin but toned, wears tight jeans and a loose, green t-shirt. She looks comfortable like she has no one to impress. She smells like lavender and she excites my lady parts. 

"God damn it," I think to myself. "I haven't even stepped inside yet."

But when I do... when we all step inside that den of precious sin and I see her start to groove on the dance floor...well, I can't deny it. I fell in love with her right then and there. 

She's In Control: Part III

"And then he said, 'I can handle a lot of things, Mrs. Anderson,'"

"You're cold-blooded, absolutely cold-blooded," Jameson complimented his wife. 

"What happened after that?"

"I asked him just a few more questions. Made the interview as short as possible. But it wasn't entirely just to piss him off. I have pilates every morning at 10; you know that."

"That's true. You do."

"And of course, I could have told him I was the one interviewing him that day..."

"And that you're married..."

"And that I'm married, but he was the one always pushing the rules, always making the assumption that women, including me, couldn't actually have a casual arrangement. Hmpf, little did he know. Sometimes, people just have to learn the hard way."

"Cold-blooded," Jameson laughed. 

"Am I cold-blooded, baby?" Michaela asked her husband. 

"You sure are. I think you need to be punished."

"Do I?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Who's gonna punish me?" she asked, scootching closer to him on their wrap-around, gray couch.

"Who the hell do you think?"

"Mmm, I'm ready for it.

"Ready to be punished?"

"Yes, sir."

Michaela laid her body down across their sturdy coffee table and spread her legs wide. 

Jameson ran his hands to the top of her shorts, yanked them down past her knees, past her toes and threw them across the room. 

She shifted, gathering his finger tips inside of her. 

Michaela moved back and forth over three of his digits while Jameson scooped his rock hard dick out of his sweat pants.

He replaced his fingers with a rod of pain. 

He allocated her punishment.

The punishment she deserved because she decided it was deserved. 

She bathed in the pleasure of her power. 

She demanded more and he gave her more. 

She thanked him by squatting on his face, grinding her juices into his mouth while bending forward and accepting his stream of excitement down her throat. 

They moaned in unison. Husband and wife, gripped each other for balance, for the stability that they only found in each other. 

Returning to the couch, he wrapped his arms around her and she melted into his chest.

"So, do you think you'll hire him?" Jameson asked his wife.

"Possibly. He's actually quite qualified."

"Sounds good, love."

She's In Control: Part II

In his freshest, gray, hand-tailored suit, Jerome sat in the reception area of Prime Consulting and waited. He pushed persistent thoughts of Michaela away and reviewed his perfectly rehearsed talking points. He'd been out of work for the last three months after a mass layoff at Brooks & Baker and although his severance was far from expired, Jerome was a man that liked to work. Idle hands were not his thing. This was his second interview at Prime, this time with the Senior Vice President of Sales. He'd done his homework and was ready to crush this final interview, just like he did in the first round. Jerome was a man who knew what he wanted in life and never had problems conquering. 

"Mr. Davis?" the receptionist called in his direction.

"Yes," he replied in a smooth tone.

"Mrs. Anderson is ready for you, now. You may go in."

Mrs. Anderson. The thought of a female boss excited Jerome. She would be his first. He attempted to push those thoughts away as well. With one final deep breath, he stood, straightened his tie and carried his endless corporate swagger towards the large mahogany door, the only thing separating him from the next rung on his career ladder. 

When he entered, she was on the phone. 

She raised one finger in his direction and mouthed, "Sorry".

Jerome did his best to control his face, to quell any visual expression of his perplexed mind that was currently scrambling to make some sense out of what he saw before him.

What the fuck was Michaela doing seated behind that desk? Was this some sort of joke? This wasn't funny. This was his livelihood she was playing with. Was Michaela's last name Anderson? Fuck, they agreed: No last names. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What was happening here?

Michaela was dressed in an off-white pantsuit. She looked older. She looked sexier. She looked professional and fine as fuck.

"Okay, Dave. I'll see you at three...alright...it's my pleasure...have a good morning...bye, now."

She hung up.

"Michaela, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Excuse me? I prefer Mrs. Anderson in this space."

"You're Mrs. Anderson?"

"I am."

"Senior Vice President of Sales at Prime Consulting?"

"That's right."

"And you didn't think this was information you should share with me?"

"You never asked."

Jerome rolled his eyes. 

"Besides," she continued, "We agreed: No last names, no details, personal or professional, remember?"

"Yeah, but I told you I had an interview here, today."

"Guess you slipped up."

"Guess so."

Jerome could feel his corporate swagger leaking out of his pores. He felt the pang of an emotional beating in his heart as well but that emotion he consciously decided to ignore. 

"You brought your resume, I presume?" she asked. 

"Of course."

Jerome slid a folder across Mrs. Anderson's thick, expensive-looking desk. In it contained two copies of his resume, a cover letter, three professional and one personal reference. More information about himself than he ever dreamed he'd share with Michaela. 

"Please, have a seat," she said.

He sat. 

She opened the folder and looked over the documents, barely blinking.

"Impressive."

He cleared his throat, "Thank you."

"So, why Prime Consulting?" she asked.

He cracked a sly smile and licked his lips.

"Michaela, are we really going to do this?"

She looked too damn good in that suit. Jerome knew he'd never be able to focus, would never be able to take the woman he was bending over just hours ago seriously as his boss. 

"It's Mrs. Anderson in here. Please, don't make me repeat myself."

Her face was stone-cold. 

Jerome realized that he just might have to take her seriously after all. His sexual and professional desires battling it out between his legs. He crossed his left over his right knee and told his dick to relax. Time to focus. 

"I apologize," he said, looking away from her. 

"Now, tell me about your duties at Brooks & Baker."

She played with her necklace and held his gaze. 

It was in this moment that Jerome first noticed the massive rock balancing on her left hand's ring finger.

"You're married!?" he yelled.

"Mr. Davis, if you can't control yourself..."

"Nah, fuck that, Michaela. You never told me you were married!"

"Remember the rules, Jerome. No details, personal or professional."

He huffed and puffed three shallow breaths until he managed one deep one. He uncrossed his left leg then crossed his right over his left knee. He adjusted his tie and tried to match Mrs. Anderson's casual gaze, tried to relax his own. The emotional pang in his heart spread throughout his chest but again, he consciously ignored it. 

Another deep breath. 

"At Brooks & Baker I supervised a team of forty, managing over seventy-five multi-million dollar accounts."

"Impressive."

"Yes, I know."

"Think you can handle one hundred accounts?"

"I can handle a lot of things, Mrs. Anderson."

"Yes, we'll see about that."

She's In Control: Part I

"Here," he said handing her the simple blue toothbrush.

"Blue today, huh?"

"What's wrong with blue?" he asked.

"Nothing, I just think it's cute."

"What is?"

"Well, I've been fucking you for about six months now. You'd think I could have my own toothbrush here but every morning, you pull out a new one. Always disposable, always a different color. Like the only stability you want from me is my pussy."

"And you find that...cute?"

"I do," she said with a smile. "The way you try so hard to keep the boundaries clear. It's endearing."

"You don't have to do that," he said, putting his strong hand on her waist's soft skin, pulling her closer.

"What?" she inquired.

"Try so hard to pretend."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have to pretend to be the 'cool girl'. Women only bring up boundaries because they have a problem with the rules."

"You think I have a problem with the rules...that we established together?"

"That's what always happens eventually, isn't it?"

"You have a point. That's what usually happens. Just, not with me."

"Oh, really?" he doubted. 

"Really. I can have a toothbrush, a phone charger and a damn cat at your place and I still wouldn't expect or want commitment."

He laughed, "Yeah, okay."

"I'd stay longer and try to prove how many fucks I don't give but I should go, have a packed day. Let me just brush my teeth with blue and I'll be on my way."

Michaela turned away from Jerome, bent over slightly and brushed her teeth. 

Her bare ass grazed against his bare groin. 

She ignored his light, simulated thrusts and brushed, rinsed and spat. 

With a clean mouth, she dried her lips then threw the blue toothbrush in the empty trash can that sat conveniently next to the sink. 

"All set," she said looking at him through the mirror, refusing to turn and remove her body from his tumescent girth.

"All set, huh? Sure you're not forgetting something?" Jerome asked, moving himself deeper into her skin.

"What would I be forgetting?"

"You don't know?"

"Well, I know it's not my toothbrush," she replied, a sly smile caressing her face.

"You got jokes," he said, lifting his dick, using it to play between her pussy lips.

"Let me show you," he continued.

Michaela gripped the thick granite countertop, holding on for balance and bracing herself as Jerome pushed his way inside of her. 

His thickness never got easier to take but somehow was better every time. 

He fucked her to her core. The pleasurable pain vibrated through all vaginal walls, pounding its way up her thighs and throughout her insides. Her jaw dropped and she released the pain with a low groan. 

She could feel his pace increasing, his orgasm rising alongside her own. His grip on her waist deepening, her grip on the counter tightening. 

Before her next breath, he exploded.

She squirted.

He immediately caught her fluids, cupped his hand under the juices, collected them then spread them on her ass, an action that only excited her more, only made her squirt again. 

"Fuck," they released in unison. 

"Shower?" she asked.

"Quickly. I have an interview in a couple hours. Gotta prepare."

"That's right, for the Director of Sales position over at Prime Consulting?"

"Did I tell you about that?"

"You did."

"Weird."

Michaela rolled her eyes.

"Not too hot," Jerome requested as his lover turned the shower knob. 

"But, I like it hot," she responded. 

"I know you do. But, not too hot, please. For me?"

He placed a gentle kiss on her cheek and ran his fingers down her back. 

"Don't try to get cute with me, mister. No kissing allowed, remember?"

They stepped into the steamy shower. Hot, but not too hot.

"You really trying to tell me you never thought about breaking the rules?" Jerome asked her while lathering her back. 

"I never should have said anything about that damn toothbrush."

"I just want to know, want to make sure we're on the same page."

She turned and faced him.

"Trust me, you have nothing to worry about."

"Alright. Just checking."

He handed her the wash cloth then grabbed another for himself. He washed his body quickly, turned the water dial a bit closer to the red "H" and stepped out of the shower.

"You okay?" Michaela asked.

"Yeah, just, you know, gotta get ready, like I said."

"Alright. Just checking."

Michaela finished soon after, exited the shower, covered herself in Cocoa Butter Jergens then got dressed in the pants suit she'd brought in her modest overnight bag. 

"You going into the office?" Jerome asked.

"Yeah, have some early appointments today. I'll see you soon?"

"You know you will," he responded with an involuntary smile. 

"Good," she replied with a voluntary smirk. 

And she was gone. 

The Waiter

Imagine pure strength dipped in chocolate. His hands could crush me. And I would let them. His eyes pierced like the sun. I could never look for long. I longed for him to touch me. For his mass to cover me like an eclipse. No escape. I needed no escape. Just complete submission to his reign. In my mind, thick fingers graze my neck, lightly at first before he deepens his push digit by digit. My breath thins and I welcome it.  My body is his to take, gently, roughly, I give it to him. 

Imagine the sweetest song, composed just for you. Its rhythms matching the beat of your heart, its melodies humming the secrets no one knows. But he knows. He knows and he sings you to you, just for you. Others may hear but only you understand and he knows this. A secret between the two of you. He walks towards you and the harmonies grow louder between your thighs.

Imagine the face of an angel and the body of a god. Imagine the deepest, finest, richest mahogany rubbing against your wanting skin. He has no regard for the others in the room. He looks at only me. He leans over me, runs his massive hands through my hair and tugs. I do not flinch. I ask for more. He leans closer, pushes the table in front of me away. Stands over my body completely, his girth magnetic to my core. I do not flinch. I ask for more. He bends now, looks me square in the eyes, grabs my face when I instinctively attempt to look away. 

"Don't," he says. 

He kisses my cheek and I die. His inebriating scent gathers into a cloud that I mount and I float away. My eyes roll to the back of my head and he kisses my neck. My nipples awaken, hungry and jealous. He knows. He focuses on the buttons on my shirt. Undoes the top one slowly then rips the rest away in one aggressive swoop. I do not scream. I ask for more. 

I ask for more. 

"More?" he asks. 

"More," I beg. 

"I'm sorry, ma'am, what is it you want more of?"

My eyes roll forward and open. 

"Excuse me?" I ask. 

"I haven't taken your order yet so what do you want more of? Do you need more water?"

"Um, ahem, yes, please, thank you."

He leaves me. He leaves me devastated and thirsty. Water, the last thing on my mind. 

My husband's deep sigh carries across the table but doesn't touch me. I don't let it touch me. 

"Do you think we can come to this restaurant just once without you drooling over the waiter?" he asks. 

"No, my love, probably not."

Extra Credit: Part II

The sunlight flooding the room was welcome but it seemed to replace the pre-existing air. Suddenly, it was nearly impossible to breathe. 

He wasn't my professor any longer. He was a man, a man I wanted. 

I cleared my throat,"Well, I'm sorry that, um, situation didn't work out for you," I said.

"Please, don't be."

I cleared my throat again, "I'll do my best to get to class."

"I appreciate that. I think you'll really enjoy my presentation."

"Your presentation?" I asked, this time with a full-on cough.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, ahem, excuse me, I'm fine."

"Let me get you some water."

"No, honestly, I'm fine."

"Don't be silly. It's no problem."

He got up from behind the desk and walked over to the small kitchen area of the apartment.

I stood but stayed by the desk, taking deep breaths. 

He returned, just as quickly as he walked away, with a tall glass of water.

"Thank you," I said.

"Of course."

I took one sip, then another, then five more, my body searching for help through hydration. 

"I made you uncomfortable," he said, his eyes remained steadfast on my own.

"What? No, really, you didn't. I'm just, um, really quite parched."

"Alright," he said, visibly trying to swallow a laugh.

"What? What's funny?"

"Nothing,. I just find it interesting. Big, tough athlete who takes more hits than I'd like to imagine out on the field, but the idea of his professor being gay makes him squirm."

"Well, if that were true, it wouldn't be funny, it would be shameful. A person's homosexuality shouldn't make anyone squirm."

"Well, then? Why are you suddenly so tense?"

I placed the empty glass down on the desk behind me and gripped onto the edges of the old wood for dear life as it bore into the back of my thighs.

"It's just..."

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, do you think I could have another glass of water?"

"Don't deflect, young one. You can do it."

"Young one? You can't be that much older than me."

"Touche."

"How old are you exactly?"

"I'm thirty-one."

"Quite young to be a professor, no?"

"You're stalling."

I mustered my courage, looked deep in his eyes and bit the living shit out of my bottom lip.

"I'm also, you know..."

"A lover of Scandinavia?"

I shot him a look. 

"I'm joking with you. I know. You're homosexual. I'm guessing this isn't exactly public knowledge?"

"Wait, what do you mean you know?"

"A hunch I guess, mixed with a little wishful thinking."

My eyes bulged as I noticed how close he was standing to me. 

"Ahem, wishful thinking?"

"Sorry, I don't know why I just said that out loud."

He turned away from me, started eying the books on his massive wall of knowledge.

"It's alright," I told him, "But you're, right. It's not exactly public knowledge."

"You don't have to worry. I would never..."

"I know. I can tell."

I walked over to him, his back still to me. The cologne he wore was subtle but invigorating. He smelled like cedar and vanilla. Carefully, I held my breath. 

He turned, completely un-startled by my proximity. 

"I can keep a secret," he said.

"As can I."

"Is that so?"

"I mean, obviously."

We laughed together. 

The gap between us closed.

He pressed his right cheek against my left and whispered.

"Would you like a secret to keep?"

Extra Credit: Part I

"Hey, Taylor!" I heard a perky voice call out from behind me.

I turned to see Danielle Something running towards me. 

"Hey Danielle," I said with an even tone, wanting to turn away from her and keep walking.

"Wait up!" 

She caught up to me, completely out of breath, and tried to stable the hot cup of Starbucks in her left hand. She wore tall, leather boots and a puffy vest, jacket, thingy. She looked like every other white woman in Princeton, New Jersey this time of year. 

The summer was a sweltering mess so when temperatures finally dropped and the leaves started their gorgeous display of oranges, yellows and reds, it was as if the entire campus exhaled, smiled and ran to the nearest Starbucks. I hated to admit that it was my favorite time of year as well. The thought alone reminded me of how insignificant human life could be, especially my own. 

"Great game, last weekend," she continued.

"Thanks. Yeah, it was tough one but we managed to pull it off."

"Totally. I was never really into lacrosse until I came here and well, until I saw you play."

"I'm flattered," I lied.

"You're really great out there."

"I really appreciate that. Look, I hate to run off but I'm running a bit behind schedule..."

"God, I just love how you say that, 'Sshedule'. You Brits are so adorable."

"Right. Well, it was nice to see you Danielle," I said, having about all I could take and stepping away.

"Call me!" she screamed out, "Let's get coffee some time!"

I raised a hand in lying agreement and was on my way. I really was running late and didn't have time for asinine chit chat with the likes of her. 

I originally planned on carrying out the family tradition of attending Cambridge but there comes a time in every man's life when he has to step out on his own. Besides, I wanted to see The States. North America and Antarctica were the only continents I'd never seen so I figured I'd study here opposed to with the penguins. I only had one year left at Princeton. After graduation, who knows, perhaps I'd visit the penguins. I was just fine with a four year lull in my love life. The Princeton demographic wasn't particularly my cup of tea. 

Checking the address again, I realized I was almost there. I'd missed my first Scandinavian History class for this semester, resulting in an email from the professor asking me to see him in his office, his home office.

Only in America.

After twenty minutes of crisp, apple-scented air, I'd arrived. The building was old and grey. One of those Victorians that looked like the insides would surprise you with gorgeous renovations or would match its outside and look like complete rubbish. Stepping inside, I found the latter to be the case. 

Professor Thompson lived right there on the first floor, second door on the left. My heart fluttered a bit. It'd been years since I felt like I was "in trouble". At twenty-one years old, I was wildly more responsible than my peers. I was here on a lacrosse scholarship, got straight As, held down a job at a bookstore and hated the taste of beer. As a star athlete with blonde hair, blue eyes, an extremely symmetrical face and a bright future ahead of me, I was used to praise and admiration. Suddenly, I felt like I was walking to my mother's room for a spanking after eating all of the biscuits or something. 

I took a deep breath and shook away the thought. 

My right fist grazed the good lightly and a voice said, "Come in."

The inside of the apartment matched the rest of the building unsurprisingly. The light bulb in the one visible lamp flickered every few seconds, providing minimal lighting for the small living area that seemed trapped by heavy, dusty drawn drapes. The floor was covered in books that spilled over from a bookshelf that adorned an entire wall.

Smack dab in the middle of the mess stood a young, black man who looked only a few years older than myself. He had broad shoulders and clothes that looked much too stylish to belong in this apartment that was better suited for a seventy year old writer who refused to interact with humans or the sun. 

"Taylor?" he asked, looking up from a book.

"Yes, hello."

"You're right on time. Please have a seat."

He smiled at me, revealing perfectly white, movie star teeth. Again, nothing about him physically matched his surroundings. 

I looked around for a place to sit and came up short. 

"I'm sorry. This place is a dump. I'm in research mode so it's hard to focus on anything else."

"Like cleaning," I stated hastily, stupidly. 

He laughed, thank God.

"Yes, like cleaning."

"Professor Thompson, can I start by saying I'm truly sorry I missed the first session. Your class is the same time as lacrosse practice and I'm having a bit of trouble working out the schedule."

"Yes, you're quite the star on the field, I hear. Here, sit down."

He moved a stack of books from a chair in front of an old desk and motioned for me to sit. Probably noticing just how dark it was in the room, I could barely see him, he walked over to the window and pulled back the drapes. 

"Oh my, what a gorgeous day," he said, "Guess we don't need this."

To the relief of my eyes, he shut off the flickering light, letting the sun do the real work instead. Professor Thompson sat in a larger chair on the other side of the desk, sitting a bit taller than I.

I took another deep breath.

"So, there's a problem with your schedule?"

"Yes, it's just, um, practice. I have practice at the same time as your class."

"Then why sign up for the class?"

"It was the only history credit available at the time I registered and I was hoping, well, I was hoping..."

"You were hoping you could get by with watching the lectures online and just reading the assigned texts."

Shit. He saw right through me. 

"That's exactly why I asked you to come see me today, Taylor. Not many of my students fight for a seat in Scandinavian History so I usually end up with the ones that registered late once all the quote on quote fun classes are full. But Scandinavian History is enthralling! And challenging! It's not a course you can just sleep on. I know what you're thinking."

"You do?"

"Sure. You're looking at me like I'm nuts. So did the rest of the class when I gave them this speech during lecture, the lecture that you missed."

My eyes lowered. 

"But let me tell you, Scandinavian history is full of blood, sweat, tears and guts flying everywhere. You don't want to miss out."

His passion was almost comical. No one in their right mind could be this engrossed in the history of Scandinavia. He was endearing to watch though and I found my tense shoulders relaxing a bit.

"Professor Thompson, may I ask you something?"

"Please, call me Chris."

Only in America.

"Alright, Chris. How exactly did you get involved in this field?"

"Are you asking me that because I'm black?"

"What? No, of course not. I would never..."

"Relax," he said with a smile, "I'm just messing with you."

"Oh, alright," I replied.

"Love."

"Love?"

"Like most humans with open hearts walking this Earth, I made a choice because of love. It was only a few years ago that I was sitting right where you are. I was twenty years old, almost done with under grad, looking forward to law school. Then, I fell in love."

"With...a Scandinavian?"

"With a Scandinavian."

"Well, that's just absurd," I said, again, hastily, stupidly. 

"Taylor, you're absolutely correct," he said with a laugh. I joined him with a chuckle. 

"I fell in love with a Scandinavian who was studying the history of his country. I switched majors so I could take classes with him and never thought about becoming a lawyer again. Things didn't work out, or course, but luckily for me I also fell in love with the material, the research, the history. So to answer your question, that's how a thirty-five year old black man ends up as a professor of Scandinavian history. 

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude or anything but did you say you switched majors so you could take classes with HIM?"

"Yes, I did."

"So, you're..."

"Yes, I am."

"I see."

"I'm sorry. That's not something I should discuss with a student but you'd be surprised how often I get that 'So, how exactly did you end up here?' question."

"It's fine. I don't mind and I apologize for prying."

"Not a problem, Taylor. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable."

"Not at all," I lied.

Yes, I was a grown man. Yes, I was living in a liberal city in a mostly liberal country but no, no I hadn't come to terms with my sexuality. I hadn't told anyone, friends or family or the sea of uniformed white women, that I was gay. 

And now, here I was, too afraid to admit that I was sitting across from the most beautiful man  I'd ever laid eyes on, listening to him tell a story of falling in love with a man that most likely looked like me. Uncomfortable didn't begin to describe the feeling. 

NotAPsycho.com

View fullsize

“Hello, and welcome to NotAPsycho.com. We’ve already established that your future partner is not mentally unstable, not dangerous and will not harm you in any way. Would you like to proceed?” the automated, female voice asked.

“Yes,” she said, without stroking one key on the unnecessary board in front of her. She stared at the screen with wide eyes. She almost wished there was something to click so she could feel more proactive; but, she wouldn’t complain. There was nothing to complain about these days. She sat on her fidgety fingers and listened for the next prompt.

“Tell me a bit about yourself. What is your name?” the monotone voice continued.

“Olive.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Sex?”

“Female.”

“Sexual Orientation?”

“Bisexual.”

“Does your bisexual orientation extend to transgender women?”

“No.”

“Does your bisexual orientation extend to transgender men?”

“Yes.”

“Height?”

“Five feet, six inches.”

“Shoe size.”

“U.S. size seven, women’s.”

“Religion?”

“Buddhism.”

“Geographic location?”

“St. Louis, Missouri.”

“Occupation?”

“Computer Software Developer.”

“Chocolate or Vanilla?”

“Vanilla.”

“Which receives precedence, the peanut butter or the jelly?”

“The jelly.”

“Ethnicity?”

“Um, mixed?”

“Please specify.”

“Well, I’m…”

“Please refrain from using utterings like ‘Um’ and ‘Well’.”

“Half Irish, Half Kenyan.”

“An African American specifically known as ‘mixed’ referring to having one white parent and one black parent.”

“Yes.”

“Three favorite hobbies?”

“Tennis, Drawing, Watching Movies.”

“Allergies?”

“None.”

“Thank you, Olive. Now let’s talk about your desired preferences in a partner.”

“Alright.”

“Male or female?”

“No preference.”

“We are here to create your perfect match, ‘No preference’ is not an available option.”

“Male.”

“Cisgender or transgender?”

“Cisgender.”

“Religion?”

“No pref… um, oh shit, sorry, all religions may apply?”

“All religions. Again, please refrain from using utterings like ‘Um’.”

“Sorry.”

“We are here for you. There is never a need for you to apologize.”

“Understood.”

“Height preference?”

“Six feet tall.”

“Ethnicity?”

“African American.”

“Light-skinned or Dark-skinned?”

Olive hated that she had to pick. Again, she wouldn’t complain.

“Dark-skinned.”

“Mocha, chestnut or charcoal? Please refer to the examples on your screen.”

“Chestnut.”

“Lean, muscular or a perfect mix of the two?”

“Perfect mix.”

“Unique name or simple to pronounce?”

“Simple to pronounce.”

“We are calculating your perfect match. Please stand by.”

Olive watched the screen. Her fidgety fingers freed themselves from under her bottom and twirled through her hair.

The screen read, “Loading.”

Ten long seconds later a smiley face emoji appeared, written underneath: CONGRATULATIONS!

“Olive,” the voice returned, “Out of the options that will now appear on your screen, what is your ideal first date.”

She took a moment to read through her options.

“I would say, B. SIT ON THE COUCH IN OUR PAJAMAS AND WATCH MOVIES.”

“Olive, are your living quarters clean, currently?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Are you menstruating?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Would you like to meet your future partner?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. We do not like to waste time here at NotAPsycho.com.”

Olive looked around her small, studio apartment. She walked away from the screen in front of her and headed to the mirror in the bathroom. Did she look okay? Okay enough to meet her future partner? She grabbed her toothbrush and scurried around her cluttered counter in search for the paste. She found it under a hair bonnet and twisted the cap open as fast as she could.

As she brushed she heard the automated, female voice return, in what sounded like a louder volume.

“Olive? Olive are you still there?”

“Coming!” Olive struggled to return through frantic brush strokes.

She spit and rinsed. She ran to her closet, ripped off the old, tattered t-shirt she wore and short shorts covered in white paint, threw on a flowy, pink sundress and some deodorant and returned to her seat in front of the screen.

“Olive, is that you?” the voice asked.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“That wasn’t necessary, Olive.”

“What do you mean?”

“The clothes, the teeth brushing. There is no need to worry, your future partner accepts you just the way you are.”

“Sorry.”

“Olive.”

“Right. I understand.”

“Would you like to go on your first date now?”

“Yes, I would.”

“What is your exact address?”

“391 Sherman Street. Apartment 3F. St. Louis, Missouri 63199.”

“Please change into whatever pajamas you wore last night.”

Olive walked to her closet slowly and tried to steady her heart. She retrieved the tossed t-shirt and shorts and changed before returning to her seat.

 “Thank you, Olive.”

“Thank you.”

The screen went black and almost instantly there was a knock at the door.

He was six feet tall exactly with warm brown skin, a rich and even tone. He wore a white tank top that pronounced his acceptable physique and gray sweat pants. He flashed a surprising smile. Olive was surprised perfect teeth didn’t include an upcharge.

“Wow,” he said instantly.

“Excuse me?” Olivia asked.

“You’re perfect, more than I could have asked for. Sorry, I just, I, um, didn’t think this site would actually work.”

“The site is here for you. There is never a need for you to apologize.”

They laughed together.

“That’s right. I forgot,” he said.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked.

“Please.”

Olive closed the door behind him and caught a whiff of his scent. He smelled like Irish Spring soap and Old Spice deodorant.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Olive. You?”

“David.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, David.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

“What’s that?” Olive asked, gesturing to a DVD case in David’s hand.

“The Bridges of Madison County,” he said, holding up the movie. “I thought we could watch it tonight, if that’s alright with you?”

“It’s my favorite.”

He smiled that perfect smile.

“Good, I’m glad.”

For a process that was so smoothly orchestrated, Olive felt nervous. The butterflies bombarded her stomach but she didn’t mind. She welcomed the reminder that she was alive.

“Would you like some popcorn?” she asked her guest that was undoubtedly not mentally unstable, dangerous or a harm to her in any way.

“Sounds great, I’ll put the DVD in while it pops.”

“Thank you.”

Olive and David sat on the couch with no inches between them. He put his arm around her and she rested her bent knee on his thigh.

The butterflies persisted but after a little red wine, the flutters succumbed.

After the movie David looked deep into Olive’s eyes.

“I’m glad I’m here,” he said. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Olive smiled and bit her bottom lip, a physical warning to her tear ducts to keep in control.

“I’m glad it’s you too, so very glad,” she said.

They moved to her bed and climbed under her covers.

He lied behind her and scooped her close.

She was safe and warm.

He told her about his parents, his sisters and his nephew.

She told him about her boring job, her dashed dreams of being a tennis star and her desire to travel more.

He promised he’d take her wherever she wanted to go.

Eventually, they drifted off to sleep, staying in each other’s arms, separating only when he needed to stretch his arm. Then they would separate but somehow always managing to find each other again. They both slept soundly, dreaming peaceful dreams neither would remember in the morning.

The first date was a success, like they always were once two individuals were ready. Tomorrow, they would worry about the future, but for tonight, they would rest.

Spoken Word: Part III

Correction, to that, there was absolutely nothing to say. 

I looked down into the eyes of the man I knew would be mine and mustered every drop of confidence I possessed as a sea of knowing suddenly washed over me. I gave Kevin Lowe a peek of devilish grin, stood in front of him and pulled him up to stand on his feet and meet me toe to toe, eye to eye. 

I wouldn't let him buy me a drink. We didn't have time.

Throwing inhibitions to the wind, I tossed my arms around him and kissed his perfectly waiting lips. 

Yep.

One kiss was all I needed to know he was the one.

We ignored the roaring crowd around us. I may have heard Trina "whoop whoop whooping" like Arsenio Hall but I couldn't be entirely sure.

This didn't make any kind of sense but I was smart enough to not question. 

I kissed the man I knew would be mine, giving him every part of myself in that moment, receiving every inch he gave in return.

Every inch.

Every inch?

It hit me. We had to leave. We had to leave, NOW.

Instinctively, he read my mind. Kevin Lowe tore his lips away from mine and I cursed the air that took their place.

Without a word he marched towards the door, his grip still firmly wrapped around my hand.

I looked back only momentarily to grab my purse and mouth, "holy shit!" to a bug-eyed Trina and we were on our way.

We stepped out into the cold air and were all over each other once again. We passionately kissed to his car, annoyingly separated, climbed in the vehicle then made out some more.

The shit was bananas.

Somehow we made it to his place without causing a five-car pile up on the way. I refused to keep my hands to myself. He refused to stop me.

Under any other circumstances, I would have inspected his apartment, checked out how a potential boo lived. Did he own a vacuum? Were the dishes done? Was there a dog? Tonight there was no time for any of that shit.

We banged. 

We banged right there in front of the door. 

We banged on the kitchen table.

We banged on the couch.

We banged on the treadmill! He had a treadmill. 

We banged in bed until the sun started to rise. UNTIL THE SUN STARTED TO RISE.

We finally slept for a few hours, something I've never done comfortably after an initial encounter, then woke up starving. 

This nigga fed me some left over brisket and mashed potatoes and put some cream on my rug burn. Apparently we banged on the carpet too. 

Fifteen hours after I first laid eyes on him, Kevin Lowe dressed me in one of his white cotton t-shirts, looked deep into my eyes and asked, "So, what is your name?"

"Mrs. Lowe," I informed him as if he didn't already know. 

Spoken Word: Part II

"Good Evening, I'm Kevin Lowe."

One sentence and I don't know how the microphone in front of him didn't melt right there and then. Lord knows, every pair of panties in the place did. 

He continued as the crowd attempted to regain composure.

"I came in here tonight with the intention to recite my piece In The Rain---"

Three women down front exploded in cheer.

"Yes, daddy, in the rain, give it to me in the rain!" one pleaded. 

"In the rain!" another cried in orgasmic agreement.

Kevin Lowe flashed them a perfectly pristine, white smile.

"I'm sorry, ladies. I truly do apologize but my mind is preoccupied. You see, I didn't think this would happen to me ever again but, I think I just fell in love."

His eyes were glued to my own as we both blocked out the gasps engulfing us. 

"I've never been one to believe in love at first sight and I promise you this was not my intention but will you permit me the space to speak freely?"

The audience clapped and snapped and nodded in allowance. 

He looked around the room, made eye contact with more than just one, more than just me.

"Like I said, I never believed in love at first sight. Love at first sight was a fairy tale, a legend for teenagers and sad singles, a myth that traps you. Because if you've ever been in love, like I have, you would know that love is patient. Love is time. Love is a choice. Love is dedication. You see, I'm a man. I'm a grown man and these are things I know. I am not bamboozled on the fourteenth of February yet know how to participate in the act of loving a women with all of my self, three hundred and sixty five days a year. I know how to cherish that love, preserve it, mold it, water it, finesse it and above all else, never forsake it. I'm a man. I'm a grown man and these are the things I know. Love does not come over night. Love takes time.

But when I say I think I just fell in love please believe that it is true. One look was all it took but best believe I stole two. She caught me by complete surprise as lovers often do. Her hair swept up, her face hidden, her body turned away. I couldn't see her eyes but my heart sensed her soul was here to stay. 

I hate to sound corny. I hate to sound cliche. But when she finally turned and faced me, she took my breath away. 

Could one woman possess such absolute beauty?

My mind began to race.

I saw her in a home we shared. I saw her climbing into bed next to me, on top of me, me inside of her. I heard her moan and I felt her grab my hand. I saw myself take that hand and guide her in our dance. I saw our children. Three in all. One had my eyes, another her smile, the baby, a precious little girl, replicating her mother's kind soul. 

I took one look at the curve of her hips, the joy in her smile and the light in her eyes and my future became clear. 

This wasn't my choice, y'all. Like I said, I never believed in love at first sight."

Kevin Lowe freed the microphone from its stand, walked off the stage and made his way towards the crowd. He continued to ration out eye contact among the room of starving women, desperate for a taste. He walked to the left and right, made his way through his admirers. Made his way towards me.

"Now, I don't know if it was love at first sight for her. She didn't notice me when I first saw her."

The crowd scoffed in disbelief.

"It's alright though. I enjoyed that moment on my own. That moment of total peace and clarity. That moment of falling in love. Would she love me back? I had no idea. In that moment it didn't matter to me. She didn't need to. I would just be grateful for that space and time. I felt no fear, no nerves. I just looked at her and thanked God for letting me know what irrational love felt like.

I was thankful for the wave of nonsensical certainty that tingled in my toes, snaked up my legs, pulsed through my groin and melted in my heart. If she didn't feel the same, if all I ever had was that one moment of true and ridiculous love, well, I could die a happy man, a man who'd experienced something most never knew existed. If I live the rest of my life with the simple memory of her in that dress and that smile, well, shit, what else is there, right?

But you know what, y'all? I'm a greedy mother fucker. I can't even lie. So before I leave here tonight, before I hand over this mic, there's something I just have to know---"

Kevin Lowe stood directly in front of me. I tried to steady my quivering legs to no avail, praying the dozens of eyes on me didn't notice. 

He lowered his body down to bended knee, took my left hand with his right and steadied the microphone in front of parted lips.

There was only one unified gasp this time, an audible expression on behalf of my speechless self. 

"To the woman who stopped me in my tracks and left me breathless before I even learned her name," he continued, "May I buy you a drink?"

To that, I only had one thing to say. 

Spoken Word: Part I

"I think about death all the time.

I think about death all the time.

I would jump.

On a gorgeous, clear sky, sunny, hot day in the city. I would make love to the ledge with my eyes, my last love, before stepping onto its weak embrace. I would smell the air, feel the sun, hear the bustle of the city I love, call myself crazy, tell myself no, don't.

I would repeat this cycle again and again.

I would block out anyone who called out to me.

I would feel the hot metal press into my thighs as I sat there. I would let go with one hand, let it float through the air. I would smell the concrete, the grit and grime, even from up there.

The heat would remind me of first days of school, basking in the sun, waiting for the bright, yellow bus.

I would distract myself on purpose. I would repeat the mental cycle.

And then as if by accident my other hand would let go, joining the first. My heart would instantly drop, the first feelings of regret rushing in. As if it weren't my choice, as if someone pushed me, my body would lunge forward."

"Bitch, what the hell did you get me into?" I leaned over and asked Trina accusingly.

When she suggested we hit up Spoken Word Night at Mango Cafe, I didn't think I'd be sitting here, contemplating whether or not I needed to call the Suicide Hotline on this Negro's behalf. 

"Girl, I don't even know. Maggie at work said this place was crawling with fine, sophisticated brothas on Thursday nights."

"Yeah, well I have a feeling Maggie lied to you. So far we've seen a wanna-be Maxwell who just can't sing. I don't know why he was even singing at a spoken word night in the first place. And this dude who clearly needs to call on Jesus or his momma or goddamn, the hospital. I don't think we'll be seeing any Darius Lovehalls tonight."

"Bitch, why you gotta be so negative?"

I just gave her a look, letting her know that I knew that she knew damn well why I was being so negative.

She got the hint.

"Let me get us two more drinks. You just keep your fine little self here and try to smile."

I flipped her off lovingly and watched her walk away.

Trina wore a skintight, floral print, mini dress with six inch purple pumps. If it weren't for her two-a-day workouts, she'd look a hot mess but her body was perfect and she was far from afraid to show it off. She could throw on anything and look flawless. I wished I had her courage. Hell, I wished I had the body that came with that confidence. Don't get me wrong, I kept it tight. My weightlifting three times a week was enough to keep me in a comfortable size six. Just don't expect me to enter any of the fitness competitions my best friend did twice a year. 

Surveying the room, I clearly realized I didn't care what I looked like at the moment. I'd met Trina here right after leaving the office so my hair was still swept up in a bun, black-rim, hipster glasses adorned the bridge of my nose and my modest yet sleek black heels matched my tailored black blazer and cream-colored dress. My outfit was the perfect mix of "sexy librarian" and "go the fuck away". Perfect for this evening.

Mango Cafe was dimly lit and intimate. There were about fifty people in the room, cozily gathered in front of a simple, black stage. The decor was Moroccan inspired with colorful throw pillows casually tossed on each love seat that matched the same tile patterns on the walls. The cafe would actually be perfect for a romantic night despite the fact that there was absolutely no talent in the room. 

"Don't look now," Trina whispered loudly, interrupting my exasperated exhale. 

"Okay," I said while impetuously starting to scan the room.

"Nigress, I said, 'Don't look!'"

"Calm yourself! What exactly is it that I'm not looking at?"

We huddled our heads together as Trina began in an actual whisper.

"At the bar, nine o'clock, the finest man you've ever seen in your life. I tried to lean in, show him the cleavage. He wasn't having it. No ring and my gaydar didn't go off so, fuck him for dissing me but still, we officially have our eye candy for the night."

Our heads parted as we sat back in our seats simultaneously as if some imaginary sports coach yelled, "Break".

I sipped my vodka tonic and looked to my right, away from the bar. Letting my eyes linger on that side of the room for a bit, I slowly swiveled my head towards the left, hoping Trina wouldn't disappoint. We didn't usually have the same type in men so my hopes weren't too high. 

Three more seconds of swiveling and our eyes found each other's. My brain screamed, "Bitch, keep swiveling!" But, I could not look away. 

He exposed an enchanting smile while I licked an uncontrollable grin off of my lips. I took another sip of my drink. 

"Mmhmm, I told you," Trina said, surreptitiously surveying my surveillance. 

"God damn," I released.

"Mmhmm," she repeated. 

In a place like this, I expected brothers to be well-dressed but quirky with full-beards, glasses and clad in dashikis while they stepped to the mic and "dropped some knowledge" on their "simple-minded" audience. I expected educated pretentiousness dripping from every pore. This was spoken word, after all. The skinny brotha with a Ph.D. was exactly my type so I could take a little arrogance as long as it came with brains the size of Russia. 

"My type" was exactly NOT what I saw over at the bar. My mind would usually protest but the sudden moistness between my legs informed me that my body argued otherwise. 

His skin was the deepest, smoothest, richest looking chocolate. Hair cut close to his head, his waves tapered neatly off into that jaw-dropping dark sea of skin. While he did indeed have a beard, it was short, not protruding further than the skin on his face, well maintained and sexy as hell. He wore a suit that I could instantly tell was tailored specifically for his body and a five hundred dollar watch. The same one my boss sported when his boss was in town. 

Jesus help me. 

"Well?" Trina asked.

"Well, what?"

"You gonna sit there and pretend you're not undressing him with your eyes or are you going to go over there and say something?"

"Girl, please. You know that is not my style. If he's interested, he can come to me. You know the deal."

"Mmhmm, I know you're bougie as all hell."

"Bingo."

I finished my drink and contemplated getting another. I could use some more liquid aide to get through the rest of these "performers" if they were going to be anything like the crazies that already spoke. I didn't want to walk over to the bar though. I didn't want Mr. Perfect thinking I was anything more than physically thirsty. 

"Hope you're ready," Trina said slyly through the corner of her mouth.

"Ready for what?"

"He's coming," she informed without ever parting her teeth. 

Shit. Why the hell didn't I go home and change first? Why was I still wearing these dorky glasses? Should I quickly do the slow motion, shampoo commercial, take off my glasses and release my hair move? No. Too obvious. Shit. What do I do? Sip your drink and relax. Fuck, it's already done. Fuuuuuck. Breathe, bitch, just breathe.

He took a roundabout way and was now directly behind us. I could feel him. I could smell him and Lord Jesus, did he smell good. Maybe he was trying to sneak up behind me? Maybe he planned to confidently whisper some sweet nothing in my ear. I wouldn't jump. I'd be ready. I could feel him.

I waited. 

I waited.

I waited.

And nothing. 

Damn, maybe he was gay. 

The ice in my glass had to absorb my frustration as I demolished a piece between my teeth. This night was back to being a bust.

The host returned to the stage, pulled his wack ass fedora lower over his eyes and massaged the microphone stand. It was quite uncomfortable.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said in his worst Barry White impression, "Please welcome to the stage, a man that needs no introduction, a man we all know and love, our featured artist of the night, Mr. Kevin Lowe."

The crowd erupted for a man that clearly did require an introduction because I had no idea who Kevin Lowe was.

"Excuse me," I heard from behind.

Trina's head whipped around simultaneously with my own. 

Holy shit.

Clean cut, Mr. CEO was a well-known, well-loved artist? Could have fooled me. 

He walked between our chairs, closer than needed. He definitely could have gone around. He looked over his shoulder as he approached the stage, unapologetic and comfortable, he rested his gaze on mine and licked his lips.

"Holy shit," Trina released, again through unparted teeth.

I tried to keep my cool as Kevin Lowe finally turned and took the stage.

Now this I had to hear. 

My Married Neighbor: Part III

The front door knob turned slowly. The hinges creaked as the door swung open. The footsteps were heavy and deliberate. 

Two minutes ago I was ready. Now, my heart beat visibly through my chest.

I heard him walk straight to my staircase and begin his ascent. 

I'd left the door unlocked, hoping he wouldn't knock, hoping he'd just come in and find me in my assigned position. 

He didn't disappoint.

The footsteps continued. He was at the top of the stairs. 

I licked my lips and took a deep breath. 

My back faced my rooms opening. I could feel him behind me.

"Perfect," he uttered, deep and smooth.

From across the room, his single word covered my body in chills. 

I turned and looked over my shoulder, garnering all the sex appeal I could muster. I wanted him to want me as much as I desperately wanted him.

"Hello," I said.

He responded by lifting his black tank top over his head and letting it fall to the ground. 

His eyes stayed on mine as he silently stepped out of his boots, unbuckled his jeans and slowly walked towards me.

My body began to follow my eyes and turn towards him.

"Stay put," he said.

I obeyed, turning both my body and sight away from him. 

I heard him push his pants to the ground. I wondered if his boxers or briefs were included in the removal. 

A moment passed and I heard nothing. 

I almost turned around to check but was careful to follow instructions. 

He didn't keep me waiting long.

Before I could exhale my held breath, he climbed onto my bed behind me, his completely bare body pressed against mine. He buried his face in my hair and inhaled deeply. 

"Damn," he exhaled, "You smell good."

I attempted to swallow my girly, flattered smile. 

He moved my hair to one side and kissed my neck, slowly moving his lips down to my shoulder. 

Looking down, I saw his hands draped over my arms. His skin was darker than my own. It was rougher, stronger. He squeezed my arms as he continued to caress my shoulder with his lips.

"Lie down," he instructed. 

Without a word, I extended my body, stomach flat on my sheets, arms resting at my sides. He straddled my body and kneaded my skin, gently starting at my shoulders, his touch firming as he descended down my back.

Magically, his hands massaged every ounce of nerves out of my body.

I so desperately wanted to turn over, to grab his face, to kiss him passionately and ease him inside of me.

But I didn't move.

His hands reached my behind, massaged my cheeks with the perfect pressure. 

Then he kissed them, gave each cheek a peck, then a nibble, then a lick, then a bite. 

My body spontaneously wiggled as he blew a breeze of cool breath across my back. I moaned into my pillow and could feel my pussy start to drip. 

He laid his body on top of mine. Unapologetically, his manhood grazed against my backside. My legs instinctively spread. 

"Dallas..." I started.

"Don't worry," he said, apparently reading my mind. 

He reached down to the ground, retrieved a condom from his pants pockets and was back on top of me once again. Sliding on the protection only made me want him more. There was nothing in my way of abandoning this game of domination and just taking control my damn self. 

My thoughts were quickly interrupted. His tongue was back but this time not on my ass. 

Dallas shifted off of me and lifted my hips, propping my knees up on the bed, turned himself over to lie on his back, his face directly underneath my opening and slowly lowered my body down onto his face.

"Oh," I moaned repeatedly, uncontrollably. 

I balanced my weight to rest between my knees and my hands. I had more control that way. 

He grabbed my ass as I grinded forwards and backwards, to the right and left, making a million circles on his face. He followed my rhythm, squeezed my behind and went with my flow, let my body move wherever it needed to go.  

His tongue on the other hand needed no direction at all. He licked and sucked and tickled and teased and ate and drank and ate some more.

I wouldn't be able to handle it much longer.

My body tilted forward in a desperate attempt to escape but he wouldn't allow it. His grip tightened as he held me in place. 

I shuddered and tightened the muscles in my thighs around his face until that rare wave of ultimate bliss rose from my toes and exploded through every cell in my body. 

I panted and moaned as my body finally relaxed, melting further into him. My body felt heavy under the weight of release but Dallas didn't seem to mind. He held me up, licked me clean, placed kisses delicately across my opening from one thigh to the other.

After one last kiss goodbye, Dallas removed his head and readjusted to hover over me. He finally turned me over, allowing me to lie down on my back. 

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"There are no words."

He smiled. 

"Good."

There wasn't much time to rest. He started kissing my collarbone as his fingertips grazed my stomach. His hands moved down to my thigh as his lips moved up to my mouth.

He turned me onto my side and we lied there face to face, his hand now planted firmly on my ass. 

His eyes were deep and dark. I was lost instantly. In that moment I didn't care that he was married. I didn't care that his lovemaking was so powerful I was bound to fall for him, bound to get hurt. I just stared into his eyes and let it happen, welcomed any foreseen danger with an accepting smile. 

I moved closer to him. His hand moved up to my face, his fingers now running through my hair.  

Unable to resist, I closed my eyes and kissed him, long and hard. I was hungry to taste him. We had just been quite intimate but I needed to kiss him, to feel truly close to him. He reciprocated. 

His grip in my hair tightened slightly and he devoured me. He made me feel like the only woman on the planet, the only woman he could ever possibly want. Holding eachother's faces, we melted deeper into each other. We were hungry, the other the only possible food source. 

We turned and I was again on my back. He, finally, on top of me. I grabbed his back and pulled him lower. I needed to feel him, all of him.

Without breaking our rhythm or missing a beat, I felt his hardness enter me, finally. Our hips joined the dance our mouths already began. 

He moved deep within me and I dwelled in his presence, pleased with the pain. 

My mouth moved to his chest to his arms and back to his lips. 

I pulled his hair as he furthered his exploration inside of my body.  

Nothing in this world had ever felt better. 

His movements increased and I felt it coming again, the wave of pleasure. I tried to fight it, tried to slow down and resist it but again, he wouldn't let me. He pinned my arms above my head with one hand and grabbed my hip with the other. He took control completely and I was powerless. 

My eyes closed and I let it happen. I had no choice. I was pinned to my bed not only by my lover's grip but by a blanket of pure ecstasy. 

I moaned and Dallas joined me. A two-man choir singing the most heavenly hymn.

The wave was back, this time rushing over the both of us. In perfect unison, our bodies exploded euphorically, then settled. 

He stayed inside of me. He stayed on top of me. I hoped he'd never leave. I knew he would. 

His head rested on my chest and I played with his hair in the silence. 

"Where did you come from?" he eventually asked.

"Clearly, I should be asking you that question."

"I've never...No one's ever made me act this way before," he said.

"I thought you had an open marriage."

"I do, we do. But, I've never just connected with anyone this quickly, not even my wife."

"Careful."

"You're right. I'm probably saying too much."

"Yeah, don't want to get a poor girl's hopes up."

"Is that what's happening?" he said, his eye contact returning to its usual intensity.

"I plead the fifth," I said with a coy smile.

"I like you."

"I'm afraid of you."

He kissed me. He kissed me long and hard and I prayed he'd never leave. 

My Married Neighbor: Part II

That damn superwoman complex got me again. I stood behind my car in the blazing July heat, both arms covered from elbows to wrists in sweltering plastic as I successfully loaded all of my grocery bags onto my arms, refusing to make multiple trips. I smiled at my brawn for a full three seconds before looking up and noticing my car's tailgate high in the sky, gleaming in the brazen sun. My right hand began to raise but stopped at my wrist. The left was the same. Loading the bags onto my arms was doable but lifting even one to close my trunk required the strength of ten men.

"Shit," I murmured in defeat. 

I looked around me and considered putting the bags on the ground but my stupid stubborn pride just wouldn't let me. Okay, a bit of pride mixed with a bit of laziness as I had no intentions of unloading all of these bags off of myself only to load them back on again after closing the truck.

"Shit." I murmured again. 

I was stuck. 

For half a second I lifted my foot in the air, delusionally believing I could possibly reach the top of the trunk with my toes and slam it shut. With my tennis shoe only half a foot off of the ground, I quickly realized what an idiotic idea that was.

That's when I heard the laughter. 

I swung around to find its source with all intentions to scold my mocker but when I saw his face all hope for speech was lost.

He was sweatier than I was under this sun. He wore black basketball shorts, blue running shoes and nothing else but a string of ear buds that rested around his neck. His sweaty, olive-colored skin called out to me with each reflective glisten in the sun. His hair was thick, a beautiful black and his face was almost as blinding as his body.

"Do you need some help?" he asked with an amused smile. 

"Excuse me?" 

"With your tailgate, I could get that for you."

"Oh, um..." I stuttered, completely lost for words. What was a tailgate? What was help? What were words? What?

"Here, let me."

Penetrating my bubble ever so slightly, he reached his hand in the air and closed the trunk with ease. My eyes stayed fixed on his pulsating bicep. 

A faint, "thanks," escaped my lips, or at least I think it did. It was hard to know anything for sure in this moment.

"Where are my manors?" he asked himself, "Let me take these bags for you."

One moment my arms carried the weight of the world and the next I felt as light and free as a bird.

"Lead the way?" he asked, with no regard for the fact that we were strangers and he was asking for directions to my townhouse, my home, where I live, where he should not be aware of because he's a complete stranger.

"Right this way," I responded without hesitation. 

Pulling my keys out of my pocket, I led him to my unit and thanked God I decided not to be lazy this morning and cleaned up. The air should still smell like the vanilla candle I was burning this morning too. 

We stepped inside and I was right, the room's aroma was warm and inviting. 

This sexy, half-dressed stranger walked straight into my kitchen and placed the grocery bags down on the table with ease. 

"This is the same one we have?"

"Same what?"

"My wife and I, this is the same layout of our townhouse."

"Oh," I replied, desperately attempting to mask my crushed soul. 

He didn't have a ring on. I guess a lot of people took those off while jogging. Damn, jogging!

"Don't do that," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"No need for your face to drop."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't mean to be so forward but, hell, maybe I do. You should know that my wife and I, we have an open marriage."

Instead of my face dropping, this latest revelation almost led to my eyes bulging out of my head and skipping out the room. I tried to keep my cool.

"Well, that's great for you and your wife and all but I, um, I..."

"Find me attractive?"

"Excuse me? I don't even know you!"

"My name is Dallas and you are?" he asked extending his right hand out to me.

I looked down at it hesitantly before offering up my own. 

"Claire, I'm Claire."

"It's very nice to meet you, Claire."

"Likewise, I suppose."

"Now that we know each other, may I be frank?"

"I get the feeling that's the only way you operate."

He smiled.

"I promise you, I'm not usually this brash but when I saw you outside, I knew I had to meet you."

I had to look away from him as the blood flooded my reddening cheeks. 

"Why is that?"

"You're beautiful, Claire, but you must know that."

"I do. I didn't know I was beautiful enough to make strangers want to cheat on their wives but I guess this information is good to know."

"It's open. It wouldn't be cheating."

"What exactly wouldn't be cheating?" I asked coyly, knowing exactly to what he was referring. 

This was wrong. This was all wrong. This man was probably a rapist and a killer and I'd just led him into my home freely! What was wrong with me?! This was wrong. But God, did it feel so right. It was like a fantasy. Granted, the men in my fantasies usually weren't married neighbors of mine but mphf, the way he looked at me. He had me powerless. Even if I did feel power in this moment, I'd hand it over to him willingly. God damn, what was happening?

"If I came back here," he started, answering my question while capturing my eye contact, refusing to let it go, "with your permission of course, and made love to you. That would not be cheating on my wife. That would be me making love to you. She wouldn't have a problem with that."

"How do I know that?"

"Would you like to ask her? You can. She's at home right now, not too far away."

"No, thank you."

"Well then, Claire, if you'd let me, I'd ask if I could come back here. I'd ask you to wait for me with all of your clothes off, seated on your bed, feet tucked under your behind, waiting for me to come find you and make love to you. We live in the same home, I'd find your bedroom easily."

"And...make love to me?"

"That's right."

"Not fuck? You wouldn't fuck me?" I asked.

"Would you like me to?"

I didn't know what to say. I liked being the one asking the questions. I was too afraid to admit how much I wanted all of this just yet. Maybe I'd wake up from this dream before having to. 

"I'm not sure."

"I don't want to fuck you. I want to come back here and make love to you."

"And if I were to allow this, when exactly would you come back here?"

"Tomorrow, at this exact time."

I looked over at the clock on the wall and made a mental note while his eyes remained steadfast on mine.  

"Alright," I whispered in silent terror. 

I had no idea what I was doing or saying or thinking or feeling.

"Alright?"

I nodded my head.

"You'll wait for me? Exactly as I asked you to?"

"I will," I said louder.

He was powerful and I wanted to match his energy as much as I could, whether I was believable or not, I couldn't know but figured I'd try. 

"I very much look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Claire."

"Likewise."

He took my hand, kissed it simply like a gentleman, a grand juxtaposition against the bold, dominant aggressor I'd just met. 

"Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow."

And he was gone. 

My Married Neighbor: Part I

I sat on my bed, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Clad in nothing but a tiny black thong, my body was completely shaved and I was ready. I would have been nervous if I wasn't so ready, ready for him to leave his wife alone in their home and walk down the street to mine, ready for him to join me, ready for him to punish me like I knew he would after just one look, just one conversation. It was inscribed in his eyes. He was a man who took what he wanted. He was a man that could hear your heart beating through your chest and knew how to calm you with just one touch. He could fulfill each one of your needs then surpass expectations with glories you never knew existed. 

My hair whispered against my cheek. The scent of my mango shampoo lingered down the hallway from the bathroom, into my room. I hoped he'd like it. I knew he wouldn't say. 

He was scheduled to be here in exactly three minutes. An eternity. I sat completely erect, my feet tucked under my ass in the middle of my pristinely made bed. This is where he told me to wait. This is how he told me to wait. I followed his orders and I waited. 

Images of him rushed through my mind. His strong hands, his rippling muscles, those eyes, that smile, his thick head of black hair. I wanted every part in front of me now. I wanted him to touch me, to overtake me without saying a word. Words were far from needed. His tongue would serve other purposes today. My lips parted in longing anticipation as my eyes drooped shut. I pictured him on top of me, inside of me. In my mind he was aggressive and demanding, confident and calculated. He was a smart lover, a successful lover.

Two minutes. Two minutes and he'd be all mine. 

I would be nervous if I wasn't so ready.