Black Silk

by Retha Powers

  And no, she did not want no Bible. Could someone instead please get that box of letters from the bottom of her closet? She’d read them years before, never answering a one. Now was the time.

  From the crack in her windowpane, Asenath felt a startling trace of warmth in the air. She thought about Rhonda Robinson, saw her granddaughter scratching furiously at her flat chest, trying to get at something. (All wrong, all wrong. Wake up girl! Let me show you how. Let me come near you.)

  She asked aloud, —Are you still having those dreams?

  Pisces

  _________________

  by Anne Atall

  I am Pisces, which to me explains 2 things:

  #1: why I am bisexual

  #2: why I love to fuck in the water

  Let me explain.

  About #1:

  Pisceans are sometimes described as wishy-washy and indecisive, or as flighty and always coming and going. This notion probably comes from the image of the two fish in the sign: Each one swims directly opposite to the other.

  A friend of mine once told me that Libras are more likely than other folks to be bisexual. Something about the Scales, and always struggling to remain in perfect balance. Well, I’ve decided to appropriate the bisexuality argument for my astrological sign, too. One of the fish is pulled toward the boys; the other swims fast and furious toward the girls. There you go: perfect balance dictated by the stars.

  About #2:

  I adore being in the water. When I was a child, my mother had to pull me by the hair from the ocean on more than one occasion because, despite chattering teeth and pruny fingers and toes, I refused to get out of the water.

  I remember tubing down the Delaware River with a boyfriend of mine a few years ago. We went with a bunch of friends from school. A group had scouted out where the van would drop us off; they had a cooler of beer in the bushes nearby. Once the van had taken off and most of the suburban family day-trippers had floated off down the river, we pulled out the cooler and hooked it up between a few of the tubes with some rope.

  The sound of the rushing water and the sun warming my neck and shoulders were all I needed for the Craving to kick in, but I suppose the beer also helped to make me lose what few inhibitions I do indeed have. My tube and my boyfriend’s tube had drifted behind those of our friends. They paid us no mind as they splashed around and sucked down their beers. I used the rope to pull my tube over to his and climbed onto his lap. I had just planned on a little kissing, but as I bore down on him, and felt the thick, unyielding seam of his jean shorts pressed to my pelvic bone, his erection growing against the fleshy inside of my thigh, his tongue probing the warm, wet recesses of my mouth…

  Somehow I managed to get my bikini bottoms off and tucked them into the front of my bikini top, under my T-shirt. I thrilled as the cold water splashed against my ass, and dripped from the thick, black hair between my legs, the drops spiraling down the crinkly strands like kids going down one of those corkscrew slides. My vaginal muscles had that quick little spasm that tells me I’m really turned on—it’s kind of like the mild tremor before the Big Quake—which sent cold water shooting up my cunt, making my head spin.

  He slipped out of his shorts, leaving him completely naked, but that was okay, because he was on the bottom and pretty much out of view.

  And then we started going at it.

  It was incredible. It’s remarkable we didn’t drown, actually. Just as I started to come, we hit rapids and the tube nearly flipped over. There was fear in his eyes, but I couldn’t really care at that point; my nails dug in to his back as I struggled to hang on to him and the violent shocks traveling out from my center, wave upon wave, vibrating from my vagina to the tips of my fingers and toes.

  Once we reached calmer water, I realized that I had lost my bikini bottoms somewhere along the watery way. I had to rip off the bottom half of my T-shirt to wrap around my waist as a makeshift skirt.

  When I am depressed, or stressed, or can’t get to sleep, the thing I love most is a shower in the dark. The absolute dark that unplugs your ears before it morphs into a soft gray and the eyes take over once again. The sounds of drops hitting the vinyl curtain, slapping the porcelain tub like waves against the sides of a boat, the tiny pool of water forming in my navel—all work to soothe me.

  I met a woman once who hated the dark. She told me she always slept with the TV on when she was alone. Once inside my starkly lit bathroom, I unbuttoned her jeans and tried to persuade her that a shower in the dark is one of the best things in the world. She seemed pretty convinced after I bent down to trace the lines of her navel with my tongue. She dropped her pants and laughingly showed me the shimmering wetness in the crotch. She is one of those women who never wear underwear. This has always struck me as slightly dangerous—rebellious, anyway. I couldn’t even imagine what my underwear must have looked like.

  Anyway, this is beside the point.

  That shower was where I first lost my “queer virginity.” Actually, that needs a little clarification. Women had gone down on me before, but I never really thought of that as lesbian sex; probably because it really irked me in college when girls I knew called themselves “experimenting” but would never in a million years let girl juice get in their mouths.

  Anyway.

  In the shower that night, in the dark, we kissed and kissed and kissed… I remember the heady sensation of feeling like I was losing myself in her mouth… drowning, in the water, in the circling of her tongue, in desire. I was delirious with the smells of her and me, at first separate, then mingling, then distinct again. The pattern of my breathing chased after hers; panting, shallow. My tongue traced the paths of her ear, around the outside curve, and then spiraled inward, flicking at the tiny hoop in the piercing as the hot breath from my nostrils steamed inside and caused a shiver. I kissed one breast as I squeezed the other, sucking, letting my teeth graze the hardening nipple… My tongue trailed down to her navel… I love belly buttons, and the way abdomens curve out from their sinkholes…

  On my knees, I parted her hair with my tongue. She began to sway, and leaned back against the wall. The shower spray hit the side of my face and tickled my eyelashes. The smell was deliciously sharp; she tasted more salty than the Me I had tasted on her lips and my own fingers.

  And I think of all this now, as I awaken with pruny fingers and wrinkly toes in the arms of the woman who currently holds my attentions and fascinations. Surprised by a thunderstorm, whose pelting raindrops were much too cold for the middle of August, we stripped down as soon as we reached the apartment. I ran a steaming bath and sprinkled the water with eucalyptus leaves and scented oils (I am a woman seduced by powerful smells) while she raided the refrigerator for the strawberries she had been craving all afternoon. When she climbed into the tub with me, it became clear that she hadn’t craved the taste. She clamored for the experience. The easy sinking of her hard, sharp teeth into the soft, yielding fruit; the deep, deep red shocked by that sparkling white; the curve of the berry as she curled her tongue around it; the roughness of the seeds stroked by the tip of that playful tongue; the luscious juice dripping down her chin and making a soft splash in the water.

  I chose one of the larger berries and trailed it down her neck before taking a bite. The bite uncovered the coldest, wettest part of the fruit, deceptively pink beneath the ripe red of the dry, seeded exterior. I pressed this wetness onto her collarbone and smeared it down her chest, eventually swirling it around her nipple before it disintegrated and I had to lick the mess from her body.

  Me Between My Own

  _________________

  by Camika Spencer

  It was 1987. It started with a natural need that came from the core of my young being. I was fifteen, taking a look at my pussy for the first time. It felt instinctive after laying in my twin-size bed gripping my forearm between the unyielding clutch of my legs feeling the need to hunch against something solid. A natural need to have something pressed against me. Inside me. As the overwh
elming feeling of curiosity called, I jumped from the bed, careful not to wake my mother sleeping in the next room, and locked myself in the bathroom. I grabbed a hand mirror from the cabinet and propped myself on the toilet. At first glance it had the appearance of a piece of candy I once picked from a Valentine’s Day sampler. A small ocean of pinkness surrounded by coconut-shell-colored waves of flesh with dark wispy beginnings of pubic hair. I ran my index finger around it, separating the outer lips, feeling the warm smoothness of my vagina. Exploring that intimate part of myself by traveling my finger in it as far as I could, wiggling it around, and withdrawing.

  As I sat gap-legged on the toilet, I touched the tip of my clit. Added pressure… resigned… then again. It felt good so I repeated the activity, stroking my way into a new addiction. I leaned back on the toilet seat, closed my eyes, and exercised my hand more, humping against it with the fervor of a child pup trying to keep up with its mother. Then, without notice or warning, drums began to beat inside me. I opened my eyes and removed my hand, ignoring the pounding heartlike beat surging from my valley. My vision blurred and I saw myself as a young whore as a clear substance glistened my naive jungle and dripped onto the mirror. I jumped up, wiped myself, cleaned the glass, pulled up my panties, and tiptoed back to my room, cowering beneath my sheets, intending never to visit that sacred place again.

  Shame engulfed me, as did the voice of my mother. “Keep your legs closed!” she’d said to me the day I got my cycle, three years prior, and every month thereafter sounding like a broken record, and despite her pointed finger preaching, there I sat, legs opened, revealing myself to myself. Disobeying Mama, I lay in my bed shivering with thoughts that I’d left some omen and my mother would find out I had failed at keeping my legs closed and she’d punish me. But I’d borne a fathomless curiosity that day. One that would send me on a journey later in life that would eventually end where it began. Me between my own.

  It was March 1999, I was twenty-seven years old, and Reginald and I had fucked for the last time. He was a beautiful, engaging, and intelligent man who was undersexed and deeply submerged in personal problems. I’d indulged my twenty-seven-year-old self in his drama for three years, until he finally admitted to me that I wasn’t the one. With a few tears and a lot of curses, I released him. That sneaky spring night (three months after our relationship was over), as we fogged my car windows and called each other’s names, I went as he came. I wasn’t his after that. I didn’t belong anymore. It was a rebound fuck. One of many fucks that came along once I began searching again for that feeling I discovered at fifteen. That guilty that I hurt her feelings or maybe this will bring him back kind of fuck. It was rushed, hard, and done without any of the conversation that it deserved. With every thrust and moan, I acquiesced. Finding that valuing myself didn’t mean saving myself for Mr. Right, but it meant letting Mr. Could-Be-Right know up front who I was, what I wanted, and for him not to add or subtract to it. That would happen from here on out and it would save me a lot of heartache; so I thought. The months went by as I wrote in my journal and Iyanla-Vanzanted my way to answers as to why I was gainfully employed, childless, honest, dependable, attractive, spiritual, and smart but single. I wanted a man to call my own. No, let me change that. I wanted a dick to call my own. A dick that represented me to the fullest. A dick with passion, charisma, rapture, and a little adventure. A smart dick. This dick couldn’t just be any old dick. Not the kind with children or girlfriend/wife drama. I wanted a dick that complemented my pussy. A single dick that wasn’t down for the bullshit that comes with lack of communication or fear of rejection. I wanted a safe dick. A dick with testimonies about how life has dealt some hard blows but one that knew it was always in the best interest to keep getting back up and fighting the good fight. I wanted an honest dick. I wanted a dick that was sensitive enough to call me when it was thinking about me. Ask me how I was doing. Send me a birthday card. Be free enough to do these things because it was a caring dick and not a dick held up by time constraints, marital obligations, sexual frustration, tainted quickies, or the hassles of overbooking booty calls. Simply put, I wanted a personal, liberated fuck friend.

  It was August 1999 and his name was Terry. Beautiful. Talented. Single. Smart. “My reflection” was what he’d crowned himself. Terry had a sexiness that vibrated well past his oblique brown eyes and charming smile. It seeped through the way he smoked a cigarette while stroking himself in the middle of a good football game. His sexiness was in his lazy walk. It whispered to me when he danced, and it smiled at me when he called me by my last name. When he sang his favorite tune, it toyed with me and I let it. Me being five months’ deep in excessive masturbation, Terry became my new fantasy. He was the air spirit that roamed over my hardened nipples, at night, as I lay in bed fondling my clit, believing that once we finally crossed that threshold there would be no reason for either of us to have alternates on the side. I had let him know up front that I wanted to put him where no man had been before. “Where is that?” he asked like a curious child. “Not to fuck you before I get to know you,” I replied. I had become the new breed of female-nigga. Aggressive. Sly. Up front. Personable. Unattached. I made time to make a man feel special without intentions. Terry became special. I told him secrets, gave him gifts, cooked for him, loaned him money, and even told him how unique he was without batting an eyelash or stuttering. I did it all. Sure I cared, but not enough to entertain any premature thoughts or questions. My heart stayed at home. My feelings came first.

  Dealing with Reginald had taught me that. Terry and I kicked it hard. We shared intimate nights at posh restaurants, feeding each other and having warm filling talks. Everything we had, we had in common. From sitting up sharing a joint as Chris Rock politically joked his way through thirty minutes on HBO down to the way we slept together, without touching or letting our libidos take over. He found me sensual and told me that he never doubted for a moment, if given the chance, he’d enjoy a roll in the hay with me. He’d even caught me staring at the modest bulge in his pants on several occasions. I was trying to check the merchandise on the sly and had gotten caught. It was unpretentious even though I was oddly embarrassed, but there were days that my mouth watered thinking about wrapping my warm, wet mouth around his hardened cock while watching him enjoy being enjoyed. He laughed about the whole thing. Joked. Nervous laughter sometimes. In the space of five months Terry and I had become close. I respected him. But it wasn’t long before shit began to fall apart. I found out that Terry had been involved in a relationship that lasted longer than the Civil War. He’d been involved with the love of his life for seven years and abruptly she ended it. Left him hanging like the nuts he owned. She’d hurt him. He missed her. She moved away, putting states between them. He kept her picture openly posted in his bachelor’s pad. I let it affect me. My lusting disappeared. Fantasies became fragmented. The wetness that consumed my panties when I first met him no longer existed. I’d attracted a man with issues, which meant he no longer had the potential to be a personal, liberated, free fuck friend. Unfortunately, I wasn’t willing to spend another five months on a brother only to have my hard work crippled. Terry would have to do. We discussed his feelings, and he voiced that he was okay. Told himself that it was over. Convinced himself that life goes on. Preoccupied himself with preoccupied people to keep from dealing with the detachment. Point-blank, I was embarking upon fucking a passionate but hurt brother. I was considering sharing nakedness with covered nakedness. Having fun while losing in the game of sex.

  It was November 1999. I’d turned twenty-eight and had put Terry on the back burner. As much as I wanted to have sex with him, I didn’t have the strength or the tolerance to look in his eyes and see his fears, reluctance, and want all at once. As I pondered actually crossing the line between the surreal and the substantial, where my sex life was concerned, I ventured to deeper pastures. Not greener. Found sex without the touching. I went cyber. I logged into a chat room as April_22. A shy, rare, and curious cybergirl typ
ing her way around a room full of bisexual females. It was new. It was exciting. My Scorpion passions took me there. Sure that if the right opportunity presented itself, I would taste whatever nectar dripped from the branches of the chat tree. It was after all safe, noncommittal, and a great way to openly explore taboo fantasies at my own discretion.

  As soon as I logged on, sisters acknowledged my presence. I followed along, letting them know I’d never slept with a woman but was curious, which validated my attendance. I opened up and found myself engaged in a conversation with a married woman who too was curious, but afraid. She said that her husband knew about her wanting to lie with a woman and had tried to hook her up with a local beautician, but she wanted to do the search and find on her own. She read hopeless. Her words were without the will to really try and get out there to find that person. She wasn’t my type (no pun intended). I relayed my own feelings of wanting to have a woman between my legs but to ultimately remain heterosexual. This was purely fantasy for me. A risk. We talked as women do. Supporting. Comforting. Questioning. Reassuring each other that we’d eventually complete our journeys, but it would not be with each other. Then a private message came to me. It butted in. It interrupted. It asked me what I looked like. The handle (name) attached to the message was Brklyn Brotha. His invasion was as deliberate as it was familiar. I responded giving him my age, height, weight, eye color, and skin tone. He said deep brown-skinned women turned him on and that his dick was hard as he sat thinking about what I felt like. Instantly I was aroused.

  He’d captured my attention. We talked and I learned that he was dissatisfied in a premature marriage gone sour. But unlike the sister I’d been chatting with, Brklyn Brotha was happy, energetic, bright, and knew exactly what he wanted. He was looking for pleasure. Sexual satisfaction. What his wife didn’t do for him, cyberwomen did. He was open. Uninhibited. Unafraid. Immediately we clicked. Dirty talk. Deep breathing. Touching myself in places he’d ask me to. Sending me his phone number for one hour and fifteen minutes of extreme phone sex. I leaned against the hallway wall with a dripping-wet twat as he told me where he wanted to lick and taste me. His hard New York accent penetrated my ears. Tingled my soul. Took me places. Electrified me. I met his words with sucking sounds and moans. He asked me to taste myself and I did, hating that this was a chance meeting that could only survive inside modem lines, secret log-on names, passwords, and keyboard kisses. As I fell to the floor, spread my legs, and let Brklyn verbally bring me to orgasm, he exploded on the other end of the receiver and then there was silence. We both were exhausted. I felt at ease. Between deep breaths we ended our relationship as we hung up our phones. I walked around the house naked the rest of the day.