Black Silk (46 page)

Those boys would holler and squeal like tortured pigs, banging the tables and tossing dollar bills at my feet, just to get
me to bend over. Look, look down. I never took no money, though. I’d just toss my head back, smile my pussycat smile, and
go about my work—wetting the tables and wiping them down.

Sometimes, when it was getting close, close to the time when I knew it wouldn’t be much longer—like tonight—and my body hummed
and vibrated with electricity, my nipples turned a deep purple, and my swollen clit poked out from between my lips I’d let
them touch me—just a quick feel—cool the burn, muffle the humming.

I’d walk even slower between the tables, stopping a moment longer to rub the rag across the chipped and scarred wood. Sway
my hips back and forth to the tune of the blues, blowing in time to the stroke of fingers that played on the globes of my
behind, squeeze out a note before letting go. Take that quick dip down the valley of my damp blouse, pinching the purple nipples,
knowing the flow would come—squeeze out over my puffy clit, between my sugar-brown thighs, wet and sticky in the heat. It
would be soon—tonight.

And I’d laugh, laugh at my secret, knowing what awaited me beneath the overhanging willows, on the bed of the cool waters,
in the wake of wet mist. Tonight.

Fresh from the shower with those urging hands at my back, I crossed the creaking threshold, finding my space on the top step
of the porch, enough room on the two below to stretch my legs, loosen my thighs, and catch a little breeze. Catch something.

Elbows found their resting place behind me, neck arched back as a single line of sweat trickled down the deep cleft of my
naked breasts—eyes closed, waiting.

Behind my lids I could see. Tall, sleek as polished wood. Dark as ebony. Solid as a shadow. A whisper, no more than a ruffle
across the flesh. Hairs stand on end. Tonight is now.

Like silk, beaded with satin, long and wet, the tongue licks away the soft, sweet cream from my cunt in slow up-and-down strokes.
Tease the clit. Suck it gently. Mojo hears me. No need to speak.

Yes, tonight. Elbows brace my weight. Hard purple nipples jut toward the stars. Hips rise, rotate around the tongue of silk
and satin—draw it in with two, three quick pulls of my well-trained cunt.

Hot breath rushes up the dark, wet hole, spreads out, fills me. Fingers, long and hard, caress my flesh with a tenderness
that squeezes tears from my closed eyes. Lips on mine, the taste of me on my tongue. The scent of him is everywhere; in the
trees, the moist earth, the planks of wood that brace my elbows, cradle my hips.

Stars rain down on us, sear our flesh, making the steam rise from the river as we undulate on the rhythmic crest of its ripples.
Glide over and then under the lazy current, submerged in wanton abandon—limbs light as air, mouth open, gulping down the sweet
shots of release.

Tremors, beginning deep in my womb, spread like a mad flock of doves, clenching my toes, curling my fingertips. The power
of it lifting us to the bed of grass and moss beneath the willows.

Wrapped in the dark embrace, the willow’s vines encircle my wrists, ankles, securing them wide and willing. The silk and satin-beaded
tongue licks my lashes, traces the bridge of my nose, dips deep into my mouth, circling, dancing, quivering.

My pussycat smile opens and closes begging to be filled. It cries its own river of white tears that soak my gaping thighs.
The flesh there trembles.

I cannot cry out, plead, or implore. The bulging thickness fills the hollow of my mouth, stretching my cheeks, teasing the
back of my throat. Ribbons of hard muscled thighs clamp the sides of my face, fighting for control, losing the battle on the
downstroke—suckled and teased with the tip of tempting tongue. One drop, two, I savor the bittersweet nectar.

An almost animal howl, heavy, deep, inflamed, pierces the night sky, tumbling over and over, scattering the birds, rising
the tide of the river, stirring our bed of mint-green grass and moss.

The eager, skillful mouth that moments ago held captive the cock upon which all time and man began was suddenly empty, gaping,
needy like a babe hungry for its mother’s tit.

I felt then hard and sleek, wet with the pleasure of my mouth—felt it slide down my chin, probing, looking. Swallowed now
in the warm valley of my breasts, dripping a dewdrop path of eternity in its wake. Across my belly into the circular hole
of my navel—hovering there, taunting me.

Round hips arch, ready, as the vines tighten—stretch wider, the loose thighs higher, legs spread east and west.

Clit, like a pink pearl, slick, pulsing and hard—my tiny cock—needing someone, something to fuck. Tonight.

The weight of his rich, shadowy blackness bears down on my spread-eagle form, light as air, heavy as night.

The head, full, round like the polished knob of an African walking staff, probes against the wet walls of my smile. Wide.
Wide. Inch by inch. Creamy flow smooths the entry, pulses like my own heartbeat growing.

Hip-length dreadlocks descend around us in a blanket of black velvet, shutting out the world. Only us now—pumping, grinding.

No words, just sounds tear from my throat. White light dances behind my closed lids. Farther, deeper, the mahogany staff plunges,
pries—wider, slower. Maddening.

Shuddering waves of lust electrify, send my body jerking toward the heavens, bound to earth only by the tender vines and the
pulsing, pumping shaft that remains locked deep in my pussycat smile.

Hips above me move in a hypnotic, rotating rhythm. Teeth nip the purple nipples—snapping my well-trained cunt open and closed.
Silk tongue with satin beads is everywhere at once, even as the African staff swells, beats, meets my heart. My skin sings
to its song. Bodies tremble, rising from the bed of grass. Wanting it. Wanting more. Tonight.

“Cher. Cher,” croons deep in my ear, hot as a desert wind. Large hands cup the perfect globes of my ass, squeezing the cheeks,
kneading. Faster. Pulling me closer.

Vibrations consume me, stiffen my limbs as the cock reaches that hidden place deep within the walls that suck and tease—touches
it. The perfectly carved head rubs it, bumps it, strokes it. Delirious now with pleasure, time and space merge as the eruption
of eternity splashes within, the promise of forever fills me, and I weep in joyous response.

Tender lips, tinted with honey, kiss away my tears, join my mouth in silent song. Bodies locked into the hereafter begin to
beat again, insatiable, eager. Again and again. Over and over.

“Cher,” he cries now, the only word in my ear. All I ever need to know or hear.

Night moves toward dawn. The scorching orange sun rises above the horizon, hangs above us, darkening our blacker-than-black
skin.

More. Again. All through the day we love, fuck, screw, come again and again. On the waves of the rivers, the bed of moss,
the planks of porch wood. Even as the world moves around us, without us. And night returns, then dawn, still we are bound—pushing,
pumping, crying, coming—over and again.

A cool breeze slowly sneaks through the willows, ruffles the blades of grass, and we know that our time is near.

My eyes drift open in time to see the shadow and hip-length dreads move in a blink beyond the threshold of my bedroom door.

The scent of him lingers in the air, clings to my skin, crawls through my hair, creeps up between my brown-sugar thighs to
whisper good-bye to my smile. “
Au revoir,
Cher.”

And I sleep.

When daylight streaks through my window, slowly I rise from the dream that held me captive for three days and nights. My reflection
mirrors my mind. Blades of grass cling to the backs of my thighs. Prints from the vines outline my wrists and ankles. My cunt
throbs and beats to the tune I sung with him in my head. Clit, still swollen and hard, peeks out from between wet lips. The
taste of honey still clings to my mouth. The deep-throated groan of “Cher” burns my ears.

Yet I am alone in my room in the light of day.

I smile. Mojo lover.

Washing down the tables at the saloon, dress clinging to my damp curves, body humming to my Mojo’s tune, I smile.

“Where you been, Frigid?” one of my regulars asks as I dip out of the way of groping, gumbo-stained fingers. “Lemme see what
you got under those skirts.”

I laugh. My pussycat laughs, too, just as I catch a fleeting glimpse in the dulled saloon mirror of a shadow draped in locks
of black velvet.

I arch my neck as the single thread of sweat dips between the swell of my breasts. White tears slide down my brown-sugar thighs.
The heat is near. I feel it fanning against my back, pushing me out into the night.

__________

Anne Atall
is a scholar of American and Caribbean literature. She enjoys reading modern fairy tales—erotic and otherwise.
She lives in America’s heartland.

Breena Clarke
grew up in Washington, D.C., and was educated at Webster College and Howard University. She is the author of
the national best-seller
River, Cross My Heart,
which was an Oprah’s Book Club selection. Her writings have appeared in the anthologies
Contemporary Plays by Women of Color
and
Streetlights: Illuminating Tales of the Urban Black Experience.

Darris
is an essayist, book reviewer, fiction writer, lecturer, and public speaker who also works as a college administrator
in Washington, D.C., as well as teaching women’s studies courses at local colleges. She lives with her partner and mothers
two children.

Eric Jerome Dickey
is the
New York Times
best-selling author of the novels
Liar’s Game, Cheaters, Milk in My Coffee, Sister, Sister,
and
Between Lovers.
He is also a contributor to the photography book
Mothers and Sons
and was one of four contributors included in
To Be Real: Four Original Love Stories.

Carolyn Ferrell
is the author of the short-story collection
Don’t Erase Me
and winner of the
Los Angeles Times
Book Award along with the QPB New Voices Award; she was a finalist for the Barnes and Noble Discover Award. She is also the
author of the novel
The Big Book of Fairy Tales.
Her work has been anthologized in
Streetlights, Giant Steps: The New Generation of African American Writers, Children of the Night: The Best Short Stories by
Black Writers, 1967 to the Present,
and
The Best American Short Stories.
She has been a Fulbright fellow and currently teaches writing at Sarah Lawrence College.

Lolita Files
is the best-selling author of three novels:
Scenes from a Sistah;
its follow-up,
Getting to the Good Part;
and
Blind Ambitions.
Her novels have appeared on a number of best-seller lists, including those of Blackboard and Barnes and Noble, and Ingram’s
Top 50. Lolita, a native of South Florida and current resident of Los Angeles and South Florida, is a student of pop culture
well versed in literature, film, television, and music.

Thomas Glave
was the first black gay male writer to win the O’Henry Award since James Baldwin. He is the author of the short-story
collection
Whose Song?
—a finalist for the Violet Quill Award.

Reginald Harris
is the editor of
Kuumba: Poetry Journal for Black People in the Life.
His work has appeared in online and paper journals such as
Blithe House Quarterly
and
Obsidian II
and anthologies such as
Men on Men 7
and
His3.
A recipient of an Individual Artist Award in Fiction from the Maryland State Arts Council for fiction, he lives in Baltimore.

Donna Hill
has penned more than twenty books,
Temptation, Masquerade, Spirit,
and
A Private Affair
among them. Three of her romance novels have been made into movies for BET. Dubbed “the queen of black romance,” Hill is
also the author of the novel
If I Could.