“Goddammit, woman! When you gonna put that book down?”
“I’m waiting ’til I get to my favorite part.”
She gripped the fullness of his longing in her hand and read, “‘…She couldn’t make him look just like any other man to her. He looked like the love thoughts of women. He could be a bee to a blossom—a pear tree blossom in the spring. He seemed to be crushing scent out of the world with his footsteps. Crushing aromatic herbs with every step he took. Spices hung about him. He was a glance from God.…’”
Miss Cicero set the book on the night table, placing her bifocals on its cover. She kicked off her wide flat shoes and squeezed him again in the warm cup of her palm. As he opened the final hook, an intoxication of breasts, rose petals, and sweat cascaded before him.
She pulled her arms from the unbuttoned dress and let it fall to the floor beside the hairpins. She stepped out of the black satin underwear and stood with her legs open. He lifted her sagging breast and sniffed the fragrant petals that still clung to it. The moist entanglement between her thigh parted to welcome his fingers home.
“Miss Cicero, I’m about to read you my favorite parts.”
The river’s current drew his finger inside her. Again and again it dove beneath the waters, swimming to the surface with muscular strokes, only to plunge deeper into the abyss.
Miss Cicero arched her back and let a slow moan fly toward the ceiling. A tremor ran through her body and dropped into the stockings rolled beneath her knees. She leaned forward to rip open his buttons. His steel passion molded itself to the curve of her hand. She pulled its column to her navel, then pushed it back to its roots.
Mr. Thackeray’s groans caught the rhythm of her fingers. He felt for the smell of her breast and drew it into his mouth. With tongue and heart wrapped around her nipple, he sucked fifty years of guilt for having loved his best friend’s wife.
“Oh yes! Oh, Jesus, yes!” She dug into the curve of his back.
The dam began to weaken. Pieces of the river spilled over its edge and trickled down Mr. Thackeray’s arm. They mingled with perspiration and yearning seeping from his pores, and took him to the place of his dreams. Laughter and screams danced at the back of her throat.
The reins slipped through her hands. She felt the walls being sucked through her skin. They breathed each other into their lungs. He let her breasts fall behind his neck as he lay his cheek on her stomach. He tightened the circle around her hips, and pressed into her with a new fever.
“Let it rain, sweet darlin’. Please, let it rain!”
Laughter and screams leapt to the front of her mouth, and fell into the river, breaking free. The torrent raged through the cracked dam, pulling chunks of concrete, loneliness, and fear of death in its path. Her knees softened. Her bones cried for release. The river rained afterbirth, sweet wine, and buttermilk down her leg.
Mr. Thackeray slowly drew himself from her rainforest, lightly treading the path toward the tears he left laying on her stomach. He sniffed his wet fingers as if they were roses. Miss Cicero’s hand grazed the skin on his chest. Her voice rose from the room, spinning in half-circles.
“Zed,” she said, leaning on the rocking chair’s edge, “I need to lay down!”
The Call
C. C. Carter
The phone rings. A wet hand picks up the receiver. An acrylic red polished nail attached to a right index finger pushes the TALK button. “Hello?” she answers, winded from toweling off her body.
“What’cha doing?” the familiar deep voice asks, sending shocks down her thigh, causing her to wipe between her legs again.
“I just got outa the shower.”
“Damn, that’s a lucky bar of soap and how I wish I were that rag. I bet you didn’t know that the water was my tongue rinsing off your suds.”
She drops the towel, lets it fall on the cold tiled floor, says, “Stop, don’t start, I’m going to be late for work.”
With receiver wedged between her neck and shoulder, she walks naked toward the bedroom, grabbing feminine hygiene products off the shelf as she passes by the linen closet. “Give me a minute to get situated,” she says.
“Not a problem, I’ll call you in a few.” Click, the phone hums.
The phone rings ten minutes later.
The same red nail presses TALK. “You miss me or something?” Not questioning who’s on the other line.
“What’cha doing now?”
“Getting dressed.”
“Put me on the speaker.”
Four red nails and a thumb take the receiver, place it on the base, index nail presses SPEAKER, she asks, “Can you hear me?”
“So let me guess. Deodorant first, rolling slowly under caramel arms to shaved arches that need my face nuzzled there right now. Lotion oozing in your hand, pressed together between palms then caressing you up arms, between breasts, along indented waist, across stomach. Spreading seductively along hips, adding moisture between ample thighs, slipping slowly toward the back of knees, entering each space of toes—one, two, three, four, swallowing the fifth.”
Each movement she dances perfectly with the script, inhaling with word and touch. No longer separated by umbilical cord wires, they merge.
The voice continues, “That baby powder is a lucky mutha ’cause it gets to sink into places, lay there like I wish I could.”
She lies down on the bed, on her back, takes the baby powder, tilts it at an angle, and twists the top till the open holes protrude with white specks wishing escape. She closes her eyes and with lacquered red nail tips squeezes the white plastic bottle, releases powder flakes into the air that float over her like stars on clear midnight evenings. They search for a spot, then settle to their resting place in the crevices of her body.
Massages her aches,
“…all over your body, I want to be.”
Salve for her heat,
“…where I kiss the spots white powder missed.”
Accelerates her breath,
“…my tongue as your washcloth, wiping you clean.”
Makes her shake,
“…swallowing toes and fingers while inserting myself into you.”
She moans. She trembles. She squeezes wetness dry. She relaxes her thighs. She gets up to wipe off. She puts on fresh lace panties. They tickle.
The voice interrupts, “Baby, you know I’m mad at your bra for getting to palm a hand full of soft flesh. I’m jealous of your panties, smelling your scent all day long. Baby?”
“Yes,” she answers weakly from the shutter of the first mini-pulse that vibrates between vulva lips, with more to come.
“Pick up the phone, put it down there, let me kiss her good-bye.”
Trembling fingers lift the receiver. With one hand she places the phone down till it brushes the lace of her panties that lightly kisses her hairs. The other hand adjusts the volume until she hears a smack from puckered lips and the words, “Daddy’ll see you soon and when we finally meet I promise I’ll treat you right and do you good. Now let me speak to your mama.”
Hearing this, she brings the receiver to her mouth, listens for the same smack from puckered lips directed toward the ones she speaks with, says, “I’m going to be late, again.”
Hears the words, “But how do you feel?”
“Real good.”
“Alrighty, then. Have a good day, baby, I’ll talk to you tonight.”
Eleven P.M. The phone rings once, the second ring interrupted by, “What took you so long?”
“Anticipation is the root of desire. So what’cha wearing?”
She lies and says, “Nothing,” so that the voice can keep saying something. All the while removing her underwear as the voice talks.
“Did you think about me today?” in a tone silky-creamy, like sherbet.
“Yes.”
“How do I know?”
Propping herself up on one arm, extending the other to run her red nails up and down her thigh, says, “ ’Cause I went through four panty shields today an
d I’m not being visited by my red friend.”
A short breath, inhaled before she exhaled words, says, “Oh yeah? Why is that?”
And she starts with the meeting at ten A.M. and the smell of natural herbal deodorant mixing with the scent of Mambo or women, trickling through her blouse as she stood at the easel board, losing her train of thought, ’cause a breeze from the window made her think of a nose once nuzzling there, stopping to lick her lips, remembered that she was not alone in a room with a bed, a phone, and a voice, then smiled at the office full of ten men who watched her do her corporate thang and had them eating out of her hand before they signed on the dotted line for ten mil.
Excusing herself after the closing conquest, rushing to the bathroom. One pad down.
Inhale twice this time, unsteady words, “Damn, ba-by, you, ah, wore, ah, them out.”
“I’m not finished,” she continued. “My baby powder felt like your breathing on my stomach, whispering in my navel. The lotion that kept my body glowing, left residue of your finger imprints every place you touched me this morning, silky braille words tattooed on my body.”
Staccato short breaths, words matching their beat, “That’sit-, ba-by, you- know- what- I- like.”
Red nails slip between tight thighs and spread open wet lips, she finishes, “My bra was your two hands cupping my breasts, caressing my thoughts and their softness into erection all day. The cotton middle of my panties perspired, two, then three shields gone, ’cause your tongue brushed softly against my hairs, and your voice echoed secrets in its mouth that only you two knew about. And every time I got up to walk, lips and thighs met ‘wishful thinking’ yours, ’cause you are so greedy, kissing through the lace, straining to feel finger, touch tongue, know you. Needing to conduct meetings from behind my desk with legs crossed, ’cause standing up made me drip and I only had one shield left in case of an emergency….”
Red fingers push deep inside herself, “wishful thinking” hers, the distance between them narrowing. The voice in her ear vibrates along her neck….
“Yes, Mami, you know what to say, what else?”
“As I drove home, it started to rain. And I was back in the shower with a bar of soap, a rag, and you. Kisses dripping in my hair, on my face, down my back.” She hears her own voice purr, “Papi?”
“I’m with you, Mami.”
“A sudsy cloth cleansing sensitive neck and erect breasts, once-perfumed stomach, and scented fresh sacred spots.”
Deeper plunges, no longer “wishful thinking” hers, red fingers—hers, the voice—hers, the wetness—theirs, together.
“Rain became shower, clothes became towel, soap became tongue and hands, and I could not drive any more. I pulled into somebody else’s driveway, pressed the button to let my seat back, shifted the gear to park, pulled my skirt above my hips, spread my legs wide, pushed aside drenched panties and third shield, there would be no fourth, and I let you love me….”
“Say it again, baby,” the voice matching her rhythm.
“I let you love me.”
In a whispered command, “Say it like you mean it.”
“I let you lovvvvvve mmeeee!!”
Their trembles meet at the exhale of moans and heaved breaths.
“Yes, Mami, that’s it, I love you.”
There are no words, just bodies and escaped sighs separated by wire.
Funky Ride
Janeé Bolden
I’m high when I do it. When I put the CD in the disc player, select track eleven, and then hit REPEAT. Sound hits the ceiling and the floors, floods the walls, this gentle drip-drop beat suggesting something illicit and delicious. Outside these windows are urban noises, children playing, bottles breaking, alarms, sirens, ghetto blasters, and hi-fi car stereos. I’m not thinking about what’s outside, what’s out in that dark dotted by stars, headlights, and streetlamps. What I’m thinking about is inside, is you; is damned fine, dark chocolate and waiting to be pleased by me.
I want to treat you, so slowly I slip between your legs. Undressing you where before I have been too passive. I take a moment to indulge in the sight of you in shorts. You are naked from the waist up, a body that is neither young boy nor man, but something in between. There isn’t a hair on your chest. The nipples are chocolate-cherry colored, standing erect, waiting for me to kiss them. I slide my hands over your smooth shoulders and back, so hungry for you that even as I lick one nipple after the other I am making my way back up for your neck. Which is where you begin to dissolve.
See, I’m still fully dressed, and where you’ve let me take the lead so far, now things are different. You allowed me to move slowly, to let me follow the slow drag—so high, so horny—rhythm of this song. But now I touched your spot, I licked it, I sucked it, and you are open and ready. You don’t bother to unbutton my blouse. You yank, you pull, you tear. And even though that blouse cost good money, I’m not mad. I’m turned on. I am wet and you hardly even touched me.
The song keeps reminding me of my initial purpose. I’m here to ride you. You are here to be ridden. My skirt hits the floor, a puddle of fabric at the foot of the bed. My panties follow suit. And then I place my palms flat against your hips, rolling your shorts down, until they get tangled at your ankles. While you are bending over to free your legs I am leaning in to kiss you between your thighs. To the part of you that listens when I say, “I love you.” To the part that loves me back.
I close my eyes, find myself soaking in the lyrics, relaxed by the gentle melody, I’m high on this music and eager for sex. There isn’t anything I’d rather be doing, or anywhere I’d rather be, I think, enjoying the feeling of your penis gliding back and forth past the sensitive part of my lips. This slow stroking of my tongue against your cock, your cock stroking my mouth. My lips, my tongue receiving you and at the same time giving back, all of this is wrapped up in the rhythm of this song, in the rhythm of our bodies. These strokes are foreshadowing the lovemaking that is still to come. I pull forward and back again, daring you, enticing you, raising your excitement another notch. My tongue dancing to this funky lullaby, I open my eyes to watch you. Your eyes are closed and your mouth is open in a small soft oh. I brush my fingertips lightly up and down your arms and legs, stimulating the little nerves that I know lie beneath your skin.
You run your hands through my thick, curly hair, stopping to rub the back of my neck. Then you pull away. It’s my turn. You take my hand and we move to the bed.
“Lie down,” you command, pointing to the bed. Obediently I lie down, moving my ass closer and closer to the foot until you stop me by grabbing my ankles.
“Right there, baby,” you growl. “I gotcha.”
“Yes,” I whisper, anticipating your touch.
I lean my head back into the mattress, closing my eyes, letting the drunken beat invade my thoughts. The song is nearing its end for the third time, the baritone giving way to a woman’s high wails. The words nocturnal hymn come to mind. Night holy music. There is something sacred in this moment, in any moment when nothing feels as good as giving someone else as much pleasure as possible. It is the furthest thing from selfish. Giving. Receiving. Giving back again. Now it feels good to be getting. To have your tongue flicking my clit firmly like that little tinkering in the music. A light touch that is anything but delicate. There is tremendous power in your tongue. The song has started over but I am remembering that woman’s moans. I am feeling her joy now, the intensity building, the climax approaching. My love comes flooding down, rushing out, just like that song, out against your chin and the sheets. That is the signal.
You can’t wait to get inside. All along, that’s what we’ve both been waiting for. The sweetest moment is always just as you begin to enter, when we are both wondering what it’s going to feel like. How wet is it. How juicy. And as you sink into my pussy, my walls latch on as tightly as we both can bear. Sugar walls, you call them. And we have a million names for this moment. And a million names for my pussy. That fat rabbit. The golden glove.
Jamaica—cuz it’s the place you always cum to. And you always like to call it your pussy. To claim it. To declare ownership. You want me to say that my pussy belongs to you, just like I own your dick.
I was high on weed and Cuba libres when all this shit got started. This damned song over and over. And this is my favorite song, just like you are my favorite man, and sex is my favorite moment. And I start thinking tripped-out things while you’re up in this pussy. Things like how our fucking is another high. How one moment I’m so wrapped up in my pleasure, in my rapture, and the next moment I’m paranoid that it will all be over way too soon. Thinking how just like with Ecstasy, one minute I’m in hyper-heaven loving all the stimulus in the world and the next I am blissed out on relaxation. It seems a miracle that such a simple motion—in and out, circles along my sugar walls—and each touch makes me feel some sort of joy. Amazing that just as you are touching me, your nerves touch my nerves and they all set each other off. You got me feeling good and I got you feeling the same way.
My love will not dry up on you. This song won’t stop until we hit the button, and I will keep on riding until we are both too exhausted to move. And even then, after you’ve made those funny little noises that you make when you come…after you shudder against me, and I feel your liquid spurt…even after all of that, we still keep on going, relive that sex until we fall asleep. And even when we’re sleeping we have dreams about it. Sleeping, I still feel your teeth on my nipple. I still feel the satin-soft feel of your skin against my fingertips. You still feel my pussy clenching on your dick. Our lovemaking is like that.
I like how when we finally decide to stop, you lie on your back, bare-chested, that little bit of moonlight shining on your dark skin, and you watch me walk around the room naked. I like how your eyes follow me as I walk to each of the candles and blow them out. How when I hit the STOP button on the stereo your eyes are still following me, beckoning me back to the bed. Back to you, so that we can roll in balls around each other. So that you can wipe the tiny drops of your sweat from my shoulders.
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