Keeping Busy

by Tracy Gray

  “It’s not.” I agreed. “But it’s a hard habit to break.”

  He focused his attention on a spot somewhere over my head. “It’s a learned behavior. Anything learned can be unlearned.”

  “That’s what they tell me.” I mumbled.

  His eyes found mine, again. “It’s true. It just takes time and a willingness to change. That’s the problem with athletes, if we think a habit serves us well, even if it’s unhealthy, it’s hard for us to drop it.”

  “Don’t be analyzing me.” I teased.

  “I’m not. I’m empathizing with you, cuz I do the same shit. Not where sex is concerned. I totally let myself go during sex. I feel all the feels.”

  He was grinning at me, and I couldn’t help grinning back. He was just too damn fine.

  “At least you can relate, other dudes...not so much. My last guy kept insisting that I didn’t like sex.” I pinned Maddox with my gaze. “I like sex.”

  “Maybe you just didn’t like it with him.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe. The bottom line is that in order for me to give up control, I would have to trust completely, and the only person I trust like that...is me.”

  “Okay. Okay. So, I’m guessing when you get intimate with yourself, you stay engaged.”

  I laughed out loud. “Definitely.”

  “I’mma put this out there, and you can do what you want with it - I have never backed down from a challenge.”

  “Did I challenge you? I don’t remember challenging you. We were sharing, Boo. That wasn’t me throwing down the gauntlet. That wasn’t a challenge.”

  “Just keeping my hands to myself when you’re around is a challenge, Pudding.”

  “Ugh, you’re so corny, Busy.”

  He moved closer to me, even though we were only about a foot away from each other. “Let me off the leash, Pudding. Let me pursue you, date you for real. The shit that happened with them other dudes has to be unsatisfying. I’ll help you relieve your frustration.”

  Ooh, he was so right. I liked sex, but it did have the tendency to be unsatisfying. Looking at Maddox, I didn’t think there was any way that sex with him would be a flop, still, I wasn’t going to tell him that. “Yeah, yeah. Every dude thinks he has the magic stick. But when we’re in the middle of doing that thang, and I’m mentally planning my outfit for the next day, what then? You gonna want a do-over?”

  “Oh, you’re talking so much shit.”

  “You gonna make me eat my words?” Please promise to make me eat words, then come through and actually make me eat my words.

  “If we’re in the middle of doing that thing, and you’re planning out clothes to wear…” he started.

  I waited to hear whatever platitude he was going to spout about how hard he would make me cum, and how he would “snatch my soul,” and all the other bullshit promises men liked to make.

  “I’mma be highly disappointed in myself.” He continued. “And you might hear me crying in the shower.”

  I screamed in laughter. “Wow. I can’t believe you.”

  “And yeah, I might want a do-over.” He chuckled.

  I stared at him, imagining what it would feel like to let myself fall with Busy. To trust that this gorgeous motherfucker would actually catch me, and give me the same energy back. A girl can dream. I thought to myself.

  He surprised me by pulling me to him and kissing my lips. “This is me, shooting my shot. Can I pursue you? I think it’s fucked up that your last guy was too selfish to take care of you. I mean, it’s obvious to me that you didn’t give ‘im your heart, but you did give him your body, and he couldn’t even take care of that. I can see why you kept your heart to yourself. I’m not gonna even mention your heart, cuz you seem like the type to keep it under lock and key. But if you give me your body...I’ll take care of it. Let me pursue you, Ma. Let me date you for real.”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak, not completely sure if my mouth would say, “hell yeah!” or “Busy, that’s not a good idea,” so I just nodded my head.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

  I nodded again and I would’ve sworn that Candie was in my panties doing a “happy dance.”

  “Bet that.”

  Maddox

  9

  She agreed to me pursuing her. That shit was crazy, and I halfway didn’t expect her to agree to it. Mecca wasn’t necessarily easy to read, but she was candid. She wasn’t one of those women who spent time trying to make you guess what she was thinking or feeling, she just told you flat out. I liked that shit. I liked a lot of shit about her. I had since the first day I hung out with her, when I took her to my youth camp practice, and she had my kids running plays with her.

  She was beautiful, smart, witty, sexy, and some dumb ass motherfucker had slept on her, leaving her free and open for me to pursue. I didn’t want to spend a lot of time on it, but dude must’ve been wack as hell.

  Mecca wasn’t an actress, she wasn’t one of those chicks who pretended to be into the romantic/physical stuff to save a dude’s ego. It was mad obvious when she checked out of that kiss. Her entire energy changed. Who the hell didn’t notice something like that? The only thing I could figure was that the pussy was so good, he was too caught up to realize that his girl’s head was on the other side of town while he was in it, working up a lackluster ass sweat.

  Fuck him. I was up next, and there was no way in hell that I was gonna make the same mistakes he made. That was what I was thinking as we sat side by side on the couch in my family room later that night. Mecca was in soft pink - some type of cute, girly cropped top, and matching shorts. She looked pretty as hell with that soft pink against her honey colored skin. She looked like she held the key to my happiness.

  Her feet were in my lap, and I was rubbing them while we half watched some movie with Kevin Hart on cable. I was in basketball shorts and socks. It was a calculated move, me not wearing a shirt. I wanted Mecca’s mind on my physicality. If she was already thinking thoughts of a sexual nature, it would make it that much easier for me to keep her attention when I decided to love up on her.

  “Busy, it’s been a long day.” She said.

  “Let’s call it a night, then.” I suggested, gently removing her legs from my lap.

  I stood up from the couch, and she stood up after me, yawning, and stretching her body in a way that was sensual without even trying to be. I stood there, glued to the spot watching the effortless movement of her body. Even her yawns and stretches had rhythm. How the hell did that happen? My dick jumped in my basketball shorts.

  “Ay, come here, Mecca.” I said, beckoning to her with my head, even though she only stood mere inches away from me.

  She closed the distance between us. I didn’t touch her, although I wanted to. I wanted to establish the ground rules, and I didn’t want her mind, or my mind clouded while we talked.

  “I need to touch you. Like, I have to touch you. And I’mma touch you everywhere that I want to touch you, in every way that I want to touch you, but if you don’t like something I’m doing, just let me know. I’ll stop, and try something else.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was soft, but assured.

  “I’m not gonna try to have sex with you, though. This ain’t about that. This is about establishing muscle memory. I want to get to the place where your body recognizes and trusts that my body will provide pleasure.”

  She blinked a few times. “Well damn, Busy. That’s sexy as hell.”

  I grinned down at her, nodding my head. “I need you to trust me, but I can’t demand you to trust me in your heart on day one. That kind of trust is built over time. So, instead of that kind of trust, I’mma work on getting your mind and body to trust me to give it pleasure, and respond accordingly.” I took a beat. “Is it okay for me to touch you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, and if I see you floating off into space, I’mma call you on it. Don’t leave me alone in this, Mecca. Do your part. Stay engaged. And I’mma do my part. I won’t be
so into the pleasure you’re giving me that I get selfish and leave you out there by yourself.”

  “Okay.” She practically whispered.

  I guess she recognized that I was about to make things very real, because she went from assured to tentative. I was cool with that, though. I knew what I wanted to do, had been thinking about it for weeks.

  I ran my hands over her arms, and felt goose bumps pop up at my touch. I didn't acknowledge them, instead, I ran my hands over her arms again, letting her get used to the feel of my hands on her bare skin, the weight of my hands on her arms. Bending my head, I found the crook of her neck, and buried my face there, inhaling her scent. Mecca smelled delicious, like butter pecan ice cream - sweet, and buttery. Her scent brought to mind memories of summertime, sunshine, and laughter. I couldn’t help sucking her there to see if she tasted as good as she smelled. When I discovered that she did taste as good as she smelled, I couldn’t help sucking her there again, as my hands traveled from her arms to her back, rubbing her soothingly.

  She draped her arms around my neck, seeming to melt into me like she had so many times before and I pulled us closer, pressing against her until her breasts were flat against my chest, and my hands were in her hair.

  “You smell like ice cream.” I told her, between nips and sucks.

  She moaned incoherently.

  “Tell me what you like, Mecca.” I said, while my hands traveled her body, my fingertips and sometimes even my fingernails gently moving across her bare skin. After I touched everything, I stuck my hands back into her hair, resting my fingertips against her scalp, periodically tugging at random locks.

  “What your hands are doing, what you’re doing to my neck.” She breathed.

  “Yeah? What about this?” I moved one hand from her hair, and rubbed my right thumb across her left nipple. Even though I asked, I already knew she liked it, because her nipples were swollen to hard peaks before I even touched them. Slowly over her perfect mound, my thumb teased and tantalized, and even though I loved the way her arousal felt under my finger, I held myself in check. It wasn't about how I felt, it was about how she felt. I took my mouth off of her neck, and moved it to her nipple, replacing my thumb, covering her nipple through the fabric of her top. My hands moved down to her ass, cupping handfuls, dragging her up to her tip-toes.

  “Everything about you is good, Mecca.” I said into her chest.

  She didn’t respond, so I lightly circled her nipple with my tongue. Her hands left my neck, and involuntarily went into my hair. I liked the reaction, so I licked her nipple again, and followed that with a pulling suck. My right hand left her ass, and moved up her back until I came to the back of her bra. Quickly unclasping it, I pushed up her top and bra, then attached my mouth to her bare breast. I felt her knees slightly buckle, when I nipped her there. With hands as determined as heat seeking missiles, I found the top of her shorts. Sliding inside her panties elicited a vibration from low in Mecca’s throat. That sound did something to me - caused my dick to go from semi-hard to completely bricked up in mere seconds. Mecca’s pussy was bare. I was a sucker for a hairless pussy. When my hand made contact with her skin, I looked down at her and our eyes met.

  She didn’t say anything, but her eyes and her grin clearly communicated, “Yeah, that’s right.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling. “You got me.” I admitted. “I definitely like that. But don’t start celebrating, stay right here with me.”

  She nodded her agreement, but her energy had already switched, so I pulled my hands out of her panties and hugged her to my body.

  “What?”

  “You know what.” I told her.

  “I’m sorry.” She apologized, looking remorseful.

  “You ain’t gotta apologize. You were right there with me for a while. What happened? When I touched your pussy you got nervous? Decided to pull back? Cuz you could’ve let me make my little discovery and keep going.”

  “I know.”

  “You know it’s a choice to stay engaged, right?”

  “I know.”

  “As long as you know.” I told her with a shrug of my shoulders.

  “You giving up on me?” She tried to keep her expression blank, but her eyes were too revealing. She was concerned.

  “Hell nah.” I leaned in and kissed her lips. “We’re just getting started, Ma.” I took her by the hand. “It’s been a long day, let’s head upstairs.”

  I left Mecca in the guest bedroom, and headed for the master. Once inside my room, I spent a minute gathering up things to pack for training camp. I was an organized person like that. It probably came from having so much chaos in my life as a shorty.

  Once my mother got really sick, and everything was left to my dad to handle, shit just started slipping through the cracks. The first thing to go was household upkeep. Our house was my mom’s showplace. She kept it clean and orderly, “a place for everything and everything in its place” was her life motto. Moms was a neat freak - probably borderline OCD. My dad loved that about her, he was always hugging her up and telling her how she took such good care of her four guys.

  When she got ill, it was obvious that he didn't have the same predisposition to cleanliness that she had. It didn't take long for our house to fall into despair. Dishes piled up in the kitchen, clothes piled up in the laundry room, dust piled up on my mom’s decorative knick-knacks. Shit just went straight left in a matter of weeks. Somebody had to step up, it was obvious that my mother couldn’t do it, and my father wouldn’t do it. Xavier was two and a half, he couldn’t do it. That left Brandon and me. At seven and ten years old respectively, we became full-time students, part-time housekeepers and fill-in nannies.

  In all honesty, I don’t know where my father was or what he was doing while my mother fought the most harrowing and hopeless part of her illness. I just remember not really seeing him at home. I remember getting up every morning, showering and dressing myself for school, then waiting for Brandon to do the same. Next, I would get Xavier clean, fed and dressed, then put him in his stroller. The three of us would walk to Xavier’s daycare, then Brandon and I would head to school.

  You couldn’t do that now. Somebody would definitely report my father to DCFS if he pulled some stuff like that in this day and age - having his ten year old drop off and pick up his 2 and a half year old brother from daycare. But back then...nobody said a word. Nobody cared, as long as my father paid, and that was the one thing he managed to do...pay. He kept the lights and gas on. Kept a roof over our heads, picked up groceries, paid my football, paid Xavier’s daycare, and Brandon’s computer class, but he damn sure didn’t pay attention, or check in to see how his sons were handling watching their mother waste away. So, I checked in with Brandon. Used my fifth grade knowledge to help him with his second grade homework, laid out clothes for him, made sure he ate and showered and just tried to be a “good” big brother.

  Things went from bad to worse after my mother passed away. The strand (as precarious as it was) that was holding my father together snapped, and the bottom fell out. But I guess he realized that he was ill-equipped to continue to front like he was handling things. He sat Brandon and me down, and told us that we were going to stay with our grandmother - his mother, until things “settled down.”

  Less than six months later, he enlisted in the Marines and never looked back. The irony of him enlisting in the military wasn’t lost on me, even as a ten year old. His way of dealing with being too cowardly to face his wife’s death and raise his sons was to do something that on the outside seemed very brave. I couldn’t honor the shit. There was nothing brave about bouncing out on three vulnerable, scared, motherless little boys...even if it was to go to Iraq or Kuwait or wherever the hell he ended up. The war he needed to fight was right in his own heart and mind, not somewhere in the Middle East.

  Personally, I thought the nigga had a death wish…he was trying to join my mother up there in heaven, so he didn’t have to face the pain of losing her down on earth. He h
ad a death wish, right up until he didn’t...when he met Tiffany. Married Tiffany. Had three more kids with Tiffany. Kept it pushing with Tiffany and never looked back for my brothers and me.

  I mean, he showed up at my NFL draft party in grandma’s backyard with his new family in tow. That was an awkward as fuck encounter that I tried never to think about. He tried it again when Brandon got his law degree. My grandmother invited him to the graduation and to his credit, he showed, but again, we didn’t know him...or his new family. So again, it was awkward. But apparently, the military gave him a “never give up - can do” spirit, because he was front and center again when Xavier was drafted and grandma threw that backyard turn-up a second time. That was less awkward, more stilted, because again, we didn’t know him.

  Whatever. My childhood left an impression on me, and part of that impression was to be neat, clean, orderly and prepared. So, I spent about an hour packing and arranging one of my suitcases. When I was finished, I headed downstairs to make sure all of the lights were off, check the alarm system, and handle whatever else needed handling before I laid it down. As I passed the guest room, I noticed that the door was open, and the lamp was on. I made my way down the hallway and stood in the doorway of the bedroom. Mecca was curled up in the middle of the bed, messing around on her iPad. She’d changed out of the shorts and matching top, and was in what looked like a sleep t-shirt.

  “You cool?” I asked her.

  She looked up, giving me a small grin. “Yeah. I’m one of those people who has a hard time falling asleep in someplace unfamiliar. I think it comes from traveling so much as a child. Sometimes we fell asleep in one country, and woke up in a whole different one. I might be a little traumatized.”

  She was traumatized? She didn’t know the half. “Trauma comes in all forms.”

  She nodded. “Why’re you still up?” She looked down at the screen of her device to check the time. “It’s after one.”