Best Black Women's Erotica 2 (7 page)

Pictures were no match for the enormity of everything around her. Z could see the lights of the Empire State Building in the distance, but her attention was broken each time she
tried to stare by the constant darting of cars in and out of the traffic around them. The road was huge. The cars were huge. The people in the cars were huge. The sky, a bright gray, was huge; but no matter how hard she tried to block out everything around her, Z couldn't find a single star.

The electricity in the air was so heavy she could feel it. Her first nights in the city, it seemed as if the sun never set. She was nauseated, the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood straight. The lights never dimmed enough for her to find her favorite stars, the touchstones that would keep her from feeling too far from home. Z was shaken by the omen she saw in the sky. Her mother, her grandmother, her sisters were in hiding behind the manufactured light, and she knew they were out there reaching toward her. But this new place spun like a sparkling force field erected to keep her from feeling safe.

Her aunt had thankfully given Z a week to get acclimated before she started the job that had been arranged for her. T was a nurse at the hospital and had arranged for her niece to work in maintenance while she attended school. That week, she mostly lay in her room, reaching for quiet. Giving up, she sometimes watched television with her cousins. They took her out to see some of the sights once, but she became overwhelmed by the quickness of everything. Fast walking, fast talking, fast driving. The bicyclists rode as if they were racing. Fifty-foot televisions blared from the sides of buildings. Her cousins teased her for her skittishness.

Z found a patch of grass, a couple of blocks from the house, where she spent afternoons just listening to people talk. She was wooed by the different languages and looks black people had here. Some looked like they were from back home, but when they opened their mouths they sounded like everyone else. Each night she sat at her window and looked for her stars. She found one on the second night. A few nights
later she saw a few more, but there were never more than a tiny handful fighting through the bright night sky.

Once she started work, she had less time for reflection. She worked the graveyard shift at first, but picked up as many doubles as she could. She liked the people she worked with, and found herself daydreaming over the rhythmic pull of the mop over the floor. While the paper towel wiped cleanser off of windows and counters, she grew her English by listening to the television dramas playing full blast in every patient's room. Z picked up pieces from people talking all around her and found comfort in knowing she wasn't alone in her struggle to communicate.

On the long days when she stayed over for an afternoon shift, Z was kept awake by Reagan, a young orderly who kept her in stitches with tales of her wild life. Through Reagan, Z learned about things like pantylines and body shots, rave parties, shotgun tokes, hip-hop concerts, wonder bras, and the best quiet spots in the library to read both alone and with someone else. Reagan was two years younger than Z but lived on her own. Although she moved to the city to be a singer, Reagan still hadn't sung much outside of karaoke bars and back alleyways.

Z loved listening to Reagan talk and scheduled as many afternoon double shifts as she could. She needed the money; she was still repaying her aunt for the airfare she borrowed to get here. But more than that, hanging out with Reagan was a periodic cure for the loneliness that dragged behind her like September storm clouds. Z felt completely out of place here, in this jungle, where everyone else seemed so wild and free. She didn't have a thing in common with her own cousins. They were still just kids, and their big concerns were school and those video games they played all day and night. They had only been back home once, and couldn't imagine life without television or a million grams of sugar a day.

She was in no hurry to be rushed into marriage, like her aunt's friends would have her do. She had come to go to school, to try to make a new life. Even if Z wasn't sure what that meant yet, she was beginning to get an idea. She started going for long walks, sometimes even walking to and from work. She would look around at the houses and the people, pass by the restaurants and sidewalk cafés. In the park large groups of men played football, just like back home.

Over the months, Z slowly started to relax into her new environment. She was comfortable with her job. She had repaid her aunt, and was sending money home to her mother and sisters. She was also saving money to start school and had even begun going out to movies and parties with Reagan. Usually she just sat in the corner and watched everything that went on. Sometimes people would come and talk to her, but she was so shy she didn't quite know what to say. Z felt as if she was carrying a big secret that no one here—no one who wasn't from home—would understand.

Reagan pushed her to go on dates, but Z always playfully changed the subject. One afternoon they decided to have lunch together in the park by the hospital. Reagan spread out a sheet she'd copped from the supply closet, and they lay down and spread out their food. Reagan was midway through the dramatic story of her date last night with one ex when another showed up at the same party.

Now, you remember that Dylan dumped me because I was cheating on him with Shakira? That was, like, a year ago, but we talked it all out. You remember, I told you about it a few weeks ago, how we sat up all night watching the
Twilight Zone
marathon and talked all about our relationship and how we were both responsible for the breakdown in communication—
Z knew it was pointless to try to get a word in once Reagan got going, so she just nodded for her to go on.

Yeah, so I was sitting there having a drink with Dylan,
and we're just talking about this film we went to see—you have
got
to see it, but I'll tell you in a minute—and in walks Shakira. She's with her
new
girl friend and they both look so totally hot I almost dropped my drink. I stopped talking mid-sentence and just stared. I'm telling you, I
totally
forgot where I even was and that I was talking, much less what I was supposed to be talking about. And Dylan sees this. And all of Dylan's friends see this. And Dylan gets all pissed and tries to start an argument with me but, like, I'm not trying to have an argument with him, all in front of everybody. Especially not in front of Shakira.

Reagan thinks about what to say next, just long enough to put a forkful of salad into her mouth, chew it, swallow it, and reach for another.
So anyway, we have to leave and it becomes a big hairy deal, like I was just telling you, until, of course, we wind up in bed having the best sex ever.

You mean,
Z pipes in,
since last week.

Yeah. Oh wow, yeah. Last week was off the hook. But last night was even
better.
I'm telling you. He was so passionate. By the time we got there he was feeling all sorry and apologizing for even getting mad and talking about how grateful he was to have me back with him and all that. You know, kissing my ass just like I like it…and I just really let go.

They sat quiet for a while after that. Z was trying to imagine what it would feel like to have her ass kissed. Reagan was daydreaming about the sun as it rose over Dylan's sweaty back. She stretched a smile across her face as she remembered how high it had risen by the time they finally went to sleep.
Yeah, Z,
she said with a wink and a smile.
You should've been there.

Z laughed along with her friend and finished her sandwich. She was just polishing off the last drops of tea from her thermos when she steeled herself to ask the question she'd been holding in for so long.
Reagan?

Reagan always seemed a bit amused that Z was a virgin. She got the whole thing about where she was from, and Z'd told her about the arranged marriages and how she wasn't ready for anything like that. Reagan had even tried to get her to go out on dates, offering to double, but Z seemed petrified by the idea of letting anyone close to her.
I mean, there's virgin,
thought Reagan,
and then there's VIRGIN
. Z acted as as if she didn't even know what it was like to kiss a guy. Reagan filled her mouth with a huge bite of her sandwich and leaned back on the grass. She was just daydreaming and chewing, daydreaming and chewing with this sneaky, lusty expression on her face that drew Z closer. It was as if she could sniff the excitement radiating from Reagan's body into her own.

When she finished chewing, Reagan swallowed slowly, licking all around her mouth and wiping both lips before she began.
Well, when I'm with a man, I feel like the most extraordinary gift.
She checked Z's face for a reaction, then continued.
I feel wrapped completely in the beautiful paper of his skin. His arms strong around me. His head buried in my neck or planting kisses across my face, my chest, my fingers. The smell of a man gets all over you, Z—inside and through you like a cloud of honor. It feels like he's worshipping me, like somehow I'm worthy of worship. And when I let him inside of me, it's as if I'm returning the favor, enveloping him in my warmth, wrapping him in the flow of my juices.

They both sat on the grass hugging their knees to their chests. Z sat speechless, trying to imagine. As hard as she tried to paint the picture in her mind, there were holes, blank spaces she couldn't quite fill in. When she could finally stammer out a few words, she turned her face to Reagan and asked,
What about women? When you're with them, is it the same?

Reagan thought about it for a moment before deciding.
Yes, and no.
Z drew closer, tuning out all distractions with rapt attention.
When I'm with a woman it's like the ultimate acceptance. All the little fears and doubts, the self-consciousness—it all dies away. It's like discovering everything that's beautiful about myself. Not like hearing someone else saying it, but seeing it with your own eyes and knowing it's true. All of that nitpicking fault game I play in the mirror disappears and I'm left awestruck by the soft, delectable beauty in all kinds of bodies. When I'm with a woman, it's like the softest embrace; like being reborn and the world is new and bright and loud and scary, but there is someone holding me through it with comfort and protection, kisses and caresses, sweet, heavy smells and precision.

Z was trying as hard as she could to imagine it. But she couldn't. She felt close when she remembered lying in the grass with her friends back home, listening to the bees buzz above them. Or the nights she would sneak out to the stream and hold hands with G, or with B, talking about the future when
they would all come to America. She felt Reagan watching her and her face went hot.
Have you ever had an orgasm, Z?
Her face grew even hotter as she looked down at her hands and slowly shook her head.

No,
said Z.
I told you I've never done that with anyone. I can't until I'm married, anyway.

Well,
said Reagan, painting that sly grin across her cheeks again as she leaned in to whisper,
you
can
do anything you want. You just have
chosen
not to do it until you get married.

No,
said Z, tears welling in her eyes,
I can't. You don't understand,
she said, lying back on the grass.
You can't understand! I must wait until I get married. After a while, I'll have a marriage arranged from home and then I'll do it. No one here would want to take me out, anyway—

What couldn't I understand? I have crazy, fanatical parents too. I moved away. Now I do what I want. I mean, at least you can get out the vibrator when your aunt's not home. Take advantage of different shifts….
Reagan stopped when she recognized that lost look that spread across Z's face when she didn't understand a particular expression someone said.
I know you know what a vibrator is. My god, you
are
from
Earth,
Z! They have vibrators everywhere.

Z just shook her head. She was trying to think of what the word meant, but all she could think of were pagers and cell phones.
OK,
said Reagan, as if she'd just uncovered a
major conspiracy or was about to impart a wonderful secret.
A vibrator is, like, a sex toy. You turn it on and it vibrates, like a pager—kind of,
Z nodded,
but stronger and longer. You can rub it all over your body. But then, when you put it down over your clit,
said Reagan, as she lay back and tried to illustrate,
and rub it around, it's just like someone else's finger or mouth or body—only better. 'Cause you control the power with a flick of your thumb.