One Night (15 page)

“I dream in black.”

He chuckled. “Would think you'd dream in colored.”

“Don't make me sit on your face.”

“I'd like that.”

“But let me say this: White dolls outsell black dolls, always have and always will, and that's because black parents are more likely than white parents to buy their children dolls of a different race. You don't see little white girls with a basket of black dolls. You don't see little white girls putting black angels on their Christmas trees. You're brainwashed from the first breath. It carries on into adulthood. Black women race to dress up like Wonder Woman, get the Wonder Woman symbol tattooed on their rear, wear Wonder Woman negligees, but you rarely see a white chick . . . whatever. Yeah. I digress.”

“You probably dream in colored while you sing Negro spirituals and eat cabbage.”

I laughed. “What's your addiction?”

“Tonight, it's you.”

I smiled. “Is it this nice with your wife?”

“No. We don't have moments like this. At least not with each other.”

I asked, “You make love to her this good? Is this why the distraught woman is so jealous?”

“We don't . . . we don't have fun. I didn't lie. Nothing I said was a lie.”

“Why put up with it? Sounds like she married you for the sake of being married.”

“Marriage is hard work, and you have to show up in hard hat and boots every day of every year.”

“Yeah, but everybody who shows up on the job ain't necessarily working. Some are just showing up to get a check. People come to work to not work, and if you ask them to work, they get an attitude.”

“I guess that's true.”

“Everyone wants the job, the title, but no one wants to roll up his or her sleeves and work.”

“Very true.”

I said, “They want to delegate. Bunch of reality-TV-watching wannabes trying to be like the fake bitches on television. They want the wedding, the ring, and the gifts the same way people want the job, the benefits, and the vacation days, but don't want to do any more than they have to do to maintain it.”

He shrugged. “We choose the people. The choices we make are seeds to our misery.”

“Guess I'm a freakin' farmer.”

“We're all farmers, reaping what we sow.”

“Yeah. That's true.”

“Things have changed. They changed a long time ago.”

I kissed his injured face. Kissed his face and masturbated him slow and easy.

My cell vibrated again. His cell did the same at almost the same moment.

We kissed, again lost in ecstasy, and chuckled.

He took to my breasts, sucked Tina and Marie like he knew them well.

I squirmed, held his head, said, “You really want me to sit on your face?”

“I do want to continue my chat with Susan.”

“Be careful what you ask for. She's loquacious and will talk to you all night.”

“Bring Susan to me. Tell Susan to come have a discussion.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I want to tell her how I used to want to visit every country in the world.”

“Even Greece?”

“Never been, but would go if invited.”

“Don't get any ideas.”

He laughed.

He made himself comfortable on his back and I climbed him, straddled his face, adjusted Susan, and leaned toward the headboard so I could keep my balance and stay in control, so I wouldn't fall on his nose. Right away that tongue began to wiggle. He concentrated on the ten and two o'clock marks on either side of my vagina. His wicked tongue found a spot that made me ride and grind and bite my lip and close my eyes tight and give up intense sex sounds. He made his tongue dance back and forth across my folds. He was on two hot spots.

There was a knock at the door. The licking stopped. The intense sex sounds faded, but didn't die all at once. Skin flushed, pupils dilated, parts of my body shaking, in slow motion I fell away from his face. He sat up, mouth wet, dampened by the honey from sex. My legs shook and I pulled at the sheets.
Coitus interruptus
caused sexual agony, but the removal of a tongue at the moment when I could've climaxed created a special kind of throbbing and annoyed me on a new level. I set free an aggrieved cooing sound that came from not making it to ne plus ultra. I had almost reached the pinnacle, was ten licks from going over the top. I made my hands into fists to keep from touching myself to get the other side of the pain. Vibrations escaped my lungs and I was unable to breathe. Soon I coughed like I had Middle East Respiratory Syndrome. I grabbed his hand, was about to use his fingers like a toy.

He said, “Your fingernails. Ouch. Your nails.”

“Sorry sorry sorry.”

I put his hand on Susan, made the tips of his digits rub her, caress her, stroke her.

Whoever was outside thumped at the door again. Then I let his hand go, was able to catch my breath, was able to open my eyes. I panted and frowned and glowered at the entrance to our fornicave. Our phones had sounded like danger signals; now someone was kicking the door. The two actions felt connected. Someone was hunting for someone. Someone had found whomever he or she was tracking. They banged with urgency and anger. We regarded each other. His eyes were wide, his jaw once again tight, as if he questioned whether it was Chicken and Waffles. My eyes questioned if it was his distraught wife.

My heart raced, faster than before, and I trembled, now with fear. Our escape from the real world, our amoral escapade, was over. The knocks on the door made me realize how wrong this was. This unapproved adventure that had given me happy endings was about to have a very ugly ending.

There was one demanding bang after another at the door.

“Security,” a voice called out. “May I have a word with you?”

My lover took a deep breath, then called out in a stern voice, telling them to hold on for a moment.

I had to lie there, had to tremble, had to open and close my eyes.

I missed that feeling, his tongue being inside me.

The man from Orange County asked, “You okay?”

I panted, said, “Assholes. Couldn't they just call up here instead of banging on the door?”

He stood up, his breathing labored, his erection strong.

I said, “Maybe I should go to the door. You could stab somebody.”

He looked down at his condom-covered penis and agreed.

I found a robe, tugged it on, hand-combed my dreadlocks, wiped my face with the palms of my hands, and staggered to the door. I cracked it enough to see her face. She was a heavyset East Indian woman who didn't have an East Indian accent; she sounded very Californian, meaning she was born here in America.

She asked, “May I speak to the priest?”

“The priest?”

“The one in charge of the exorcism.”

“You've got jokes.”

“People are complaining about the noise.”

“Are you freakin' serious? We just started.”

“Thirty minutes ago. We've had a dozen complaints for at least thirty minutes.”

“Nobody was that damn loud. What, are we on a floor filled with celibate haters?”

“Just finish what you're doing so people can stop ringing the front desk.”

“We'll finish when we finish; that's when we'll be done. If you knock on this damn door again and disturb my groove, you'd better have a venti one-pump caramel, one-pump white mocha, two scoops vanilla-bean powder, extra-ice frap with two shots poured over the top, apagotto style, with caramel drizzle under and on top of the whipped cream, double cupped. Have a Merry Kiss-My-Ass, bitch.”

I closed the door, laughing, pulling my fingers through my damp dreadlocks, once again prancing, dancing like I was in Pharrell's “Happy” video. Orange County was on the bed, laughing as well.

He looked so handsome, so much younger, so yummy, so likable, so devoid of stress now.

He said, “How dare she?”

“Fat as butter and breath that stinks like durian.”

“A cream-faced loon, no doubt.”

“Wait. Are you a priest?”

“Afraid not.”

“Too bad. Was going to ask you to pray for me.”

“You're weird.”

“And confident about it.”

“Do that dance move again.”

I stopped and tap-danced like Shirley Temple. Then I went old-school, did the freak, spank, and bop, then threw in a little Cabbage Patch, Running Man, and Dougie. My body parts bounced and bounced. He watched Tina and Marie move with my groove and loved the show. I threw down some Iggy Azalea rapping “Fancy,” then went Beyoncé on him, did an amalgamation of her smooth moves, dropped it, brought it back up like a single lady. He laughed and clapped. His smile was broad, now that of a playful kid. Not long ago he had looked like a man incapable of laughing. Now he looked like a man who seized every risible moment and lived to arouse laughter, enjoyed provoking laughter, a boy trapped in a man's body.

I stopped performing, moved my dreadlocks from my face, and stared at the door, concerned.

“I'm glad that wasn't your distraught and jealous wife.”

“I can tell you've had a lot of dance training.”

“Your distraught and jealous wife would have been really upset when I opened the door.”

“Love the way you dance. Never would have imagined you could move like that.”

“Stop ignoring me. You hear me talking about your distraught and jealous wife.”

“I'm too busy admiring the way Tina and Marie jiggle while Ophiuchus bounces to ignore you.”

“Love the way you put it down. You make me want to apologize for things I haven't done yet.”

“You make me want to do a lot of things. You make me realize that the obstacles in our lives are self-created. Most of the walls we face are the ones we've constructed. We author most of our pain.”

“Stop being philosophical. I'm dancing naked.”

“I digress. You were saying?”

“That would've freaked you out if that had been your skinny, distraught wife banging at the door.”

“Or if Chicken and Waffles was standing out there holding a plate of chicken and waffles.”

“If Chicken and Waffles had been at the door holding the Obama Special from Roscoe's, yeah, that would've freaked me out.”

“I would've handled it.”

“He would've kicked your ass back to Colorado and up a ski slope.”

“Don't underestimate men from Vail Valley. Many have and ended up surprised.”

“You said you beat up the guy who slept with your high school girlfriend?”

“Kicked his ass, broke the windows out of his Mustang, smashed his headlights, and left the car on four flat tires, with a touch of graffiti spray-painted bumper to bumper, then had sex with my girlfriend's friends.”

“You're a monster.”

“I went on a rampage.”

“You need to practice self-control.”

“When provoked, we're all animals; we all are capable of becoming monsters.”

“This animal has an uncontrollable desire to dance. Dance with me.”

He rose to his feet. Came to me. Surprised me that he could dance. It was a dirty dance. A sexy dance that I wished I could've recorded for posterity. We danced about a minute before we were too turned on. He pulled me down on the bed, aroused, his erection strong, eager to be inside me.

I told him, “Before that come shooter gets too close, we've made a pit stop, so change condoms.”

“Okay.”

“Let me do it.”

I removed his condom and dropped it on the soft carpet, then grabbed another rubber from the nightstand, opened it with my teeth as he massaged my ass, put the cock sheath in my mouth, amazed him once again as I put it on him, then kissed him after, made him taste what I had tasted.

He said, “You're torturing me, you know that?”

“I want my cheesecake before you go home and Donkey Punch your distraught wife.”

“Be warned. Now it's going to be hard, intense, not nice, and you will surrender.”

“I should put on a helmet.”

“Elbow and knee pads, wrist guards, a mouthpiece, and a parachute, too.”

“Whatever it takes to win the cheesecake.”

He sucked my neck and asked, “What's Donkey Punch?”

“Something we will not be doing because that is where I draw the line.”

Then I was on my back, the soft mattress again giving under my weight, again with my legs open, his penile weight again in my hand, guiding him back inside with him in control, in the position of male dominance. When I was a young girl, we called the act of a girl putting a boy's penis inside parking a car in her garage. This time he pushed deep. I know the people in the next room heard. They heard that uncontrollable sound I made upon penetration, and it was a din like no other din. The way it echoed, reverberated, was beautiful, because in that moment I felt more than beautiful. I was perfect. It was my song, sung in my voice, in three octaves, my call to the gods. Being opened up and filled with firmness set me on fire, made me jerk and whimper as if he had never stopped being inside me. He was intense when we first started, and he was just as intense as we continued. His husky grunts kissed my din and that turned me on. I was still wet, but tender, tingling, and again he shocked my system. I felt the fire come back, flames on high. His phone buzzed once. A text. Or his wife had hit him up on Facebook or WhatsApp. Then my phone buzzed. Chicken and Waffles had made my phone tremble like it was having an orgasm.

I fell into Orange County, into the cadence of his mean stroke. My body moved, my hips thrusting up into him as I held on, refused to let him go, and he kept up with me. Aurora borealis began again. My sighs, my purrs and soft cries, bloomed, and soon I gasped for air, jerked, covered my mouth. He yanked my hand from my mouth. I pulled my lips in tight, clenched my teeth, cursed and swore. When that wasn't enough, I put my head against his shoulder, tried to bite him and control him the way a jockey puts spurs into a horse. I tried to show him who was in charge. He rebelled, went deeper. We fought like that, fought each other as we both fought the need to come. The bright lights of aurora borealis went on and on.

He took control, turned me over, became aggressive, now a caveman in bed. I was waiting for him to beat his chest and yell in monosyllabic grunts. He was behind me, had his hands on my waist and was going in and out of me slowly. Slowly. Nibbling. Whispering. Teasing. He tortured me and I sang, arched my back, raised my head, looked through my fallen dreadlocks and saw the red digits illuminating the time. Tonight I was stealing the time of another woman. I was a thief, robbing as I had been robbed more than a handful of times, maybe as I had been robbed on this same day. The universe timed us while other lovers waited on us. I had thought that we'd be done with this and gone within an hour, but Orange County had made me his summer home during the wettest winter. He went too deep. My eyes rolled into the back of my head and I called out to God and Jesus. I collapsed from my knees and lay flat on my belly. He asked me if he had hurt me. I told him to not stop, not to slow down, to give it to me like that, to give it to me like that, like that, like that. He was intense without being brutal. He gave it to me like that for a while, for as long as he could endure that pace, then went back to gentle stroking, kept a steady rhythm. Like that, like that, like that. The feeling of falling owned him. He had no self-control, no composure, no sophistication. Then, all of a sudden, he slowed, then stopped moving. I assumed he'd had a quiet, secret orgasm.

I asked, “Did you finish?”

He struggled to breathe. “Not ready to come yet.”

“You can if you want to.”

“Don't want to.”

“Are you trying to kill me, or convert me into being your mistress?”

He ached to get to his happy ending, but he paused to smirk.

I said, “Not going to happen.”

“You're terrible.”

“And you're married.”

Part of me wanted to end this torture. His breathing was so ragged, his body so reactive to touch. I loved what I was capable of making him feel. I moved underneath him, but only for a few seconds; I was tempted to make him lose control, but I only made him suffer, made his sex sounds rise, made him grab the sheets. It was hardboiled, gritty, intense, action-packed, the way I like it in bed. A moment passed and he started again, breathless, his pulse pounding. He moved like he wanted revenge, released an underlying current of aggression balanced by an appreciation for the beauty he saw in me. He gave it to me like he wanted to bend me, not break me. He moved like he wanted to win all the cheesecake.

The way he was in bed, I knew who he was. He was a frustrated man who had no control at his job, no control at home, a man pushed around and taken for granted, and now he got to be the boss, the boss of a woman like all the women who had ever walked by him and never offered a second glance. He got to release his frustration. He gave it to me like he had studied the art of sex, like he was an educated man who had been a horrible lover when he was younger, was ridiculed for coming too fast, had been sexually incompetent, then studied how to not come so fast, had studied his own body, had studied the makings of a woman, had studied the art of foreplay, how to excite a woman, how to make love, and now his mission was to make it last, to not embarrass himself, to conquer and prove to a woman like me, a woman who represented his every rejection and failure, that he was the alpha male among all alpha males. He gave it to me without pause, and I reciprocated, moved my ass, danced under him, sang under him, put my nails in his flesh, strained, became overwhelmed, and came. My orgasm was his victory. He needed me to come to feel validated. I felt like I came many times. I kept going. Had to. Wanted that cheesecake. We changed positions a dozen times, variations of missionary, variations of woman on top, variations of doggy, variations of being side by side, and as he put me through some sort of flexibility test, I pulled a pillow to my face to smother my never-ending chant, and all I could think was that my lame boyfriend would have come by then, would have finished long before then, when the timer was still in the single digits. This lover was a beast. The more he gave the more I asked for, as if there would be no pleasing me. He put a finger inside. He slid a finger inside my ass effortlessly. He took it to a new level, one that was twisted, dark, and very compelling. I loved it. I announced that I loved it. Every part of my body trembled, and I said things that would never get me into heaven.

My hands slapped down and grabbed the sheets, my curses and whimpers filling the room.

He showed me what he was made of in bed, showed me what he could do when unleashed. He took me through positions, advanced sexual positions. He carried me, my legs wrapped around him, and moved in and out of me, stroked me as he walked around the room. He took me to the bed, put me down gently so we were side by side, giving and taking, stroking and humping as Heatwave sang “Always and Forever.” That smooth, outré dance music set the pace. He rubbed between my legs, squeezed my breasts, sucked my fingers, repositioned me, had me on my back, one leg up, the other open, going deep, going for deeper penetration, going for the cheesecake. I sang a song that had Jesus's name in many verses, but due to the profanity would never be heard on Easter Sunday. I was the contortionist; he was the acrobat. It was exciting. Not knowing what he was going to do excited me. He was on his back and then pulled me over, had me on my back touching his chest, my legs bent back. He held me and did the thrusting. Soon I was on my back, my hips arched, and he was on his knees between my legs, again thrusting deep inside me. Songs changed and we changed positions: Stevie Wonder singing “You Are the Sunshine of My Life.” By the time that song started, I was standing on the carpet, one foot on the ground, the other high in the air. I held that position. Surprised him with my flexibility as he took me like he was taking a ballerina, a prima ballerina assoluta. From there, I was on the edge of the bed, my feet on the carpet, and he was on his knees, between my legs, moving in and out of me, whispering provocative things to me. I scooted back on the bed and he kissed my body, rested on his side, had me on my back perpendicular to him, my leg over his hips, and he was sideways, like a cross, going in and out of me, crucifying me with pleasure. Then I took over, wanted to be back at the edge of the bed again, this time with him sitting on the edge, me straddling him leaning back, my upper body off the bed. He held me, had me suspended in air, in a position of trust, and he did all the work, his dance so sweet and without pause, thrusting, stroking, doing me well until we lost balance, and he tried to hold me, and I tried to grab for him. I fell to the carpet. I fell and he tried to hold me, but fell to the soft carpet with me.

Still aroused, severely aroused, I didn't miss a beat, and kissed him, kissed him, kissed him. Was going to mount him, ride him, and earn carpet burns, but he stood up. He reached for me and I reached for his hand, let him pull me back to my feet. I stood up too fast and became dizzy for a moment. He held me until I was steady. Not until then did I move my dreadlocks from my face and laugh a little.

“Guess I really should have put on a motorcycle helmet.”

He laughed.

I said, “Not funny. At least I didn't queef.”

“Glad you didn't have cabbage.”

He laughed harder and so did I.

Like I was a dominatrix, I pushed him back on the bed, made him get back on the edge because I loved that position. I sat on him and wrapped my legs around him, put him back inside me, put all of him inside me, moved clockwise, rode his cock clockwise, then changed the course, rode him widdershins, rode that cock counterclockwise. The laughter stopped. He was flabbergasted—a good flabbergasted, speechless, but not soundless. Once again, he was in awe. Cheesecake was on the line.

We faced each other, kissing, caressing, and I moved up and down on his power. He tensed, held me, and enjoyed the ride. Soon, keeping him on the edge of the bed, I turned around and gave him the lap dance of all lap dances, one much better than the weak one Nicki Minaj gave Drake. I danced on his anaconda while I sang “Romping Shop” by Vybz Kartel, sang his explicit part and the part by Spice, was wining my bubble against him like a Jamaican in heat. He couldn't stand the wickedness of incendiary dancehall moves. He was on some new shit now. His eyes rolled and he moaned like an old man. I danced until he cursed, growled, grabbed my hips, and took control, made skin slap against skin.

“How do I feel inside you?”

“Indescribable.”

“Never in my life have I felt anything like this. Never in my fucking life.”

“Merry Christmas, Baby. Merry Christmas.”

His strokes were deep, unexpectedly good, and sent me into a blinding fog of light.

The more he gave the more I asked for, as if there would be no pleasing me.

I murmured, “I'm coming.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

We moved around the bed and soon I mounted him again, sat on him, took charge of depth and speed and rode backward, reverse cowgirl at the pace of a drunken turtle. I tortured him. He set free more protracted moans, sensual whimpers that felt like flashing colors, and he squeezed my slow-moving rump. Biting my bottom lip, then sucking in air, I rode him backward so I didn't have to see him, didn't have to witness orgasm rising in his handsome face, and didn't have to see his sexy eyes. But he felt damn good inside me. His rod, his staff, it comforted me. This handsome man, this married man, made me feel good. In this position every man had made me feel good. Men had lit up my body, had set me on fire, but few had illuminated my memory, so most were forgettable, unremarkable. Again, instead of coming, he paused, pulled out, gave me his mouth, his heated breath, his tongue.

He whispered, “You like that?”

“I like that. I like that a lot.”

His hands cupped my breasts and I closed my eyes, closed my eyes and licked my lips.

His tongue found its way to my belly and then moved back between my legs. He moved his tongue back and forth, left to right, until I couldn't take it anymore and held his head on my sacred spot.

As he licked me, his hands cupped my ass. Soon he moved his hands back to my breasts and pulled at my nipples. My nipples were strong, powerful, dual epicenters of my arousal.

Forbidden fruit. He savored me as if I tasted like the sweetest forbidden fruit.

He was very accommodating, like he really wanted to please and then be pleased.

I said, “I want you to come.”

“Not yet.”

“I want to look in your eyes and see you come, want to feel what it's like when you come.”

“Soon.”

I pushed his face away and straddled him, my back to his face, and held him, guided him, as he entered me again, filled me up again. I moved, determined to make him come.

I asked, “What does it feel like to be inside me?”

“Warm. Tight.”

Our melodies became Gregorian chants that intertwined like a sacred hymn.

He asked, “What do you want, most of all?”

“What?”

“Out of life. What do you want?”

“An unencumbered life.”

“Let me help take care of you.”

Then I turned and faced him, looked into his two-colored, my blues rising and becoming smoky and guttural hums, like it had been a long time since I'd allowed a man to taste me, to ease inside me, and I owned the fear of both creating attachment and becoming emotionally involved. This man didn't know me and I didn't know him. But now we were familiar.

He asked, “What can I do to make your life less encumbered?”

“My dutty wine makes you want a concubine.”

“I want more than this.”

“You want to be allowed to use my body as you see fit, then discard me when you're done.”

“I want you.”

“You want to be with me for the same reason men go to see Scarlett Johansson in movies.”

He talked like he wanted to be my hero, to become my personal Lone Ranger, the honest man in the Wild West, the one who rode in on a white horse and saved the day. He said things, sweet things that men say when they are enamored by what they feel, enthralled and a slave to what they desire.