Black Silk (3 page)

At our dinner at Les Deux Fleurs, Mr. Picasso told me ever so patiently that I was a little hasty in deciding he was Puerto
Rican. He told me his father was from a small village in Spain and his mother was Haitian. I was feeling too ashamed of my
ignorance to say anything but, “Well, that certainly must mean you’re good at languages,” which I knew was ridiculous as soon
as I’d said it. I told him about Turtle as though he was the only family I’d ever had, and maybe for the moment he was the
only family I felt it was important to mention.

The romance that Mr. Picasso had promised for the evening was as potent as the wine he ordered, and when common sense told
me to choose one over the other, I put my glass down and concentrated on that mouth. I remained sober enough to stop at my
apartment door and say, “It was
muy bien, gracias,
” which I learned from the Berlitz paperback I’d picked up at the ShopRite on my corner. Then I reached into my bag and presented
him with my business card. I’d sprayed it with White Diamonds and made sure I’d included my home phone in lilac ink, but I’d
printed it out so he could definitely read it, which wasn’t always the case with my script.

Mr. Picasso called me on Sunday afternoon to say how much he’d enjoyed Saturday night and even slipped in that he’d gotten
a good night’s sleep, but not before taking a very cold shower. I pictured what I’d only dreamed about standing at half-mast
in his shower and giggled after I’d hung up. I’d agreed to meet him Wednesday night for an early supper. He said, “I’ve got
a late appointment at seven-thirty again, but if we met in the neighborhood at, say, five-thirty, I could get back in time.
Would you mind? I do so want to see you sooner rather than later.”

Of course I didn’t mind. Mr. Picasso suggested an Indian restaurant called the Taj Mahal on First Avenue. He brought me a
single sunflower with another business card that said, “Picasso would love to run his fingers through your hair. Join me for
champagne and a hot-oil massage. Anytime. After business hours.” I smiled slyly as he watched me read it. “I’ll let you know,”
I told him, munching poori.

On Saturday night I insisted that we meet a little later so that I could go to L.H.A.L. I still hadn’t gotten up the nerve
to tell the girls, but I’d made a decision concerning Picasso and I wanted their blessing, even if they didn’t know they were
giving it to me. Picasso wanted to take me to Harlem to Sylvia’s Soul Food. Sylvia’s is a little touristy for my taste right
about now, but the corn bread was still good enough for me to ask for another basket, and I did lick my fingers once or twice,
wishing there was one more chop hidden under my fried onions.

Once we got back downtown to my apartment, I barely made it out of Picasso’s arms. When I’d locked my door behind me, I ran
to the window, watching him cross the street and stroll slowly down my block with his hands in his pants pockets, under his
coat. I smiled to myself. Maybe he’s playing with his change.

I closed the blinds and took off all my clothes. I sat on my couch in just my heels with my legs spread wide. I pretended
the couch was the cab we rode down to the village in and Picasso and I were in the backseat. Picasso was on his knees in front
of me; I could see his smooth back and his shoulders in the streetlight. But nobody including the driver could see what Picasso
was doing to me or see me holding on to his hair with both hands as his head pressed between my thighs on the leather seat,
trying to open me wider, wider. And my heels dug in to the floor of the cab and because I wanted to open them even more for
him, for me, because we were both so greedy, I lifted my legs onto the top of the front seat and I held on to Picasso’s silver
curls, telling him, “Yes. Deeper. Deeper.” And he’s on his knees, hungry, and there’s more—yes—more where that came from.
Yesss. And my legs are moving—uh—up the partition toward the ceiling of the—oh—cab. Yes—ahh—yes-ye-ye-ye-ye-yesssss.

During the next week I told every member of L.H.A.L. I’m close to about Picasso, except I didn’t go into the Haitian-Spanish
part. I considered those details saved for a later date or debate, as I realized it might turn out. All the girls acted surprised
and pleased for me, which is the only way you can act unless you want people to suspect you’re jealous that one of your sisters
might be rediscovering parts of her body and mind she’s numbed like a dentist so that the cavities can be filled. Now, everybody
knows you don’t want to go around Novocained all the time. Tongue, teeth, and gums all got their purpose. It’s only when you’re
trying to fix them that you might want to desensitize ’em for a while.

I told my sisters that I’d decided to cook for Cortez Rojo Picasso Velasquez, which they all decided was genius on my part.
Cooking is one of my God-given gifts. I’m not too experienced with international cuisine, but a good cook is a good cook in
any language, and it occurred to me that if I could pull off a couple of tasty Spanish dishes, I would not only be very proud
of my courageous, adventurous self, but it would be the perfect aphrodisiac for an evening at Rotina Washington’s with Mr.
Cortez Rojo Picasso Velasquez.

There were Spanish markets in my neighborhood, but I decided that putting together a menu on my own was too risky. I tried
to think of who might help me, but I’m embarrassed to say that my circle of friends is fairly small and extremely conservative
in their eating habits. For most of them, going to a restaurant like the Temple of Thai after a Saturday-night meeting is
a walk on the wild side.

I came up with the idea of going to Pacquito’s, my local neighborhood Mexican restaurant. I wasn’t sure if Mexican was the
same as Spanish, but I’d ask, and if I was showing my cultural ignorance, I’d start again at the beginning. I took it as a
sign of good luck that Pacquito himself was there, in his white shirt and pants, standing over the stove.

“Hola!
” I called to him, a word Picasso taught me. Pacquito smiled and nodded. If he remembered me at all, he remembered I’d never
been that friendly before. “Mr. Pacquito, could I speak to you for a moment, please? I’m having a small dinner party and I
need your advice.”

After the first twenty minutes trying to convince me to hire him to cater the evening, complete with homemade flan for dessert,
Pacquito finally admitted there was a difference between Spanish dishes and Mexican take-out. But he convinced me they had
enough in common that if I listened carefully to him and followed his instructions, I could prepare a relatively simple meal
with a Spanish flair that he guaranteed was the place to begin, but would not be where my evening with Picasso would end.

“The secret”—he paused for a moment, I’m sure to give me some drama—“is jalapeños.” He smiled very slowly and raised one eyebrow.
“You want your evening a little hot? You let him know.”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s what I had in mind,” I lied, “but I’ll definitely pick a few up.”

Pacquito’s advice was to keep my dinner simple. Quesadillas, beans (not too many) and rice topped with guacamole, sour cream,
salsa, and finely chopped jalapeños. A small salad on the side with healthy lettuce, avocado, tomatillo sauce, and, again,
finely chopped jalapeños. A bottle of Spanish rosé, and I took the easy way out with dessert. Homemade flan from Pacquito’s.

I bought a CD of Spanish guitar music called
From Madrid with Love.
It had a photograph of a bullfighter’s hat on the floor next to a pair of backless pumps at the foot of a bed, and I knew
somebody thought it was a sexy picture, but I swear to you the first thing I thought of was that this bullfighter was wearing
some woman’s shoes before he’d gone to bed. But I went ahead and bought
From Madrid with Love.
It was the only thing I could be reasonably sure was Spanish for real, besides Picasso.

When I heard the buzzer, I was putting a few more chopped jalapeños in the salsa to liven it up a bit. They were hot enough
to make my makeup run, but I knew Picasso was probably used to them. I threw the last few bits into my mouth. My tongue felt
like I’d put it over an open flame. What the hell did I do that for?

Not only was I proud of my dinner, I knew I’d created an atmosphere where I could feel comfortable. In L.H.A.L. a woman learns
that it’s fine to be the seducer, especially if you feel you can be safe should you change your mind. I watched Picasso’s
butt as he strode across my living room to study my bookcase and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be changing my mind.

We ate dinner practically in silence. Picasso communicated by putting his hand across the table over mine and squeezing it
gently, like a promise. Or tucking a bit of jalapeño back into my mouth and leaving his finger between my teeth for a moment
as I bit it, gently.

He said he was surprised at my menu, but that he was flattered and it didn’t matter whether it was authentic Spanish or not.
“The point is,” he told me, “you have a generous soul, and that is a gift.” I was preparing to be even more generous and hoped
that he had a gift.

We were up and dancing to a ballad called “My Spanish Guitar,” which Picasso said was one of his favorites. My fingers ran
down his spine; then I used both hands to feel the meat of his back on either side. He held on to me, clasping just above
my hips. I leaned back so that he had to get a firmer grip. Turning in his arms, I felt Picasso’s guitar against my behind.

I reached back and took his hand, leading him to my bedroom. I lit candles, which I’d placed around the room, and checked
for both safety and flattering shadows.

“No,” I told him as he reached beneath my dress’s shoulder straps. “I want to undress you.” Picasso looked surprised for a
moment, but then he smiled wide and nuzzled my neck with his mustache, traced the same pattern with his open lips. As I unbuttoned
his starched white shirt and slipped it back to his shoulders, he was still smiling. Picasso’s shirt slid to his elbows and
I slid down his body, reaching around his waist. I pulled gently at each sleeve, and his shirt fell onto my bedroom carpet.
Picasso’s hands were out to the sides. I looked up at him. As I expected, he was more than ready to let me have my way. But
he was breathing harder and I could feel his ass muscles tightening under my palms. I pushed my head into his groin and he
moaned softly.

I unbuckled him and took his black dress pants and pale blue boxers with their navy blue stars on them down to the top of
his boots. When I looked up now, I saw the guitar between me and Picasso’s smile. Now I haven’t seen that many instruments,
but this was certainly one of the finest, from the rich deep color of the wood, to the healthy, muscular shape, to the energy
and life it had just waving there above my head. Picasso leaned down slightly and laughed. “
Hola. Hola, señorita.
”

On my knees, I smiled back. “
Hola,
yourself.”

He reached to lift me from where I was kneeling, but I had no intention of stopping. I’d never made love like this before,
taking the man for myself before I let him touch me. It gave me a feeling I wanted to remember, one I knew I could grow to
really enjoy.

I opened my mouth wide and took one of Picasso’s balls in, releasing it quickly. I went to the other side. He arched back
and groaned. I started up the shaft of his dick with my tongue and stopped at the head. Sitting up quickly, I stared up at
him. I was Rotina Washington, Conqueress. I held on to Picasso’s dick as I eased up onto my bed and reached into my nightstand
drawer. I’d bought Lifestyle Mano Grande Sensitivo. I didn’t have that much practice, but we had a special meeting at L.H.A.L.
on Good Sex and Living to Tell about It. We practiced on bananas and all the girls teased me on how well I did putting the
condom on it with my mouth and then oral-sexing it down.

I was able to tear open the package without letting go of Picasso’s dick. With the condom in my mouth, I moved my fingers
gently up the shaft and parted the lips. Picasso’s entire body tightened like an iron clamp. I was enjoying my Woman in Charge
Sex. I placed my finger directly into the eye of the guitar. Picasso’s face turned the color of eggplant and I thought,
I’m better at this than I expected. Go easy on him, Rotina. Make it last, girl. Make it last.

Then Picasso screamed as though I’d bitten the head off his dick and wouldn’t let go. “Aaaaaaah!” I released him and rolled
backward onto the bed. “What is it? Tell me! What did I do?”

“It’s burning! Burning! Aaaeeeeee!”

Picasso ran into the bathroom as quickly as he could, considering his pants were at his knees around the tops of his cowboy
boots. He’d stopped screaming openmouthed, but he was grunting now, like he’d been shot. I was right behind him, feeling helpless,
confused. What had happened that quickly?

Watching him at the sink throwing water onto his dick, I put my hand up to my mouth, terrified. What? What? Oh, no. No, it
couldn’t be. Slowly, behind him, as Picasso continued to dance in front of the sink with his dick in it as far as he could
get it, I held my fingers over my nose and breathed in my answer. Jalapeño.

Cortez Rojo Picasso Velasquez was experiencing Rotina Washington’s Jalapeño Love. It had been a long, hungry time in coming
and now my Picasso was trying desperately to cool his dick from the heat of my touch. Oh, Rotina Washington. Jalapeño Love!
Who, at Leave Him and Live next Saturday night, would ever believe me?

Almost an hour later Picasso and I lay on my bed eating flan and Breyers Vanilla Nut. I’d made an ice pack with one of my
best towels and placed it between Picasso’s legs. He’d told me about twenty-five times it wasn’t necessary, that he was perfectly
comfortable now. He’d even looked down at his crotch and joked, “I’m afraid to tell you, it has seen much worse.” But he quickly
apologized, realizing I was still too shook up to find it funny and it certainly wasn’t my idea of romantic.

Picasso stayed the night. I began to dream as we held each other. I remember rolling over onto my side and thinking for just
one moment of pulling Picasso closer behind me and guiding his hand up where I’d missed a hand as I slept. I felt his foot
slide up my calf, but I shifted slightly so that he had to move it.