by Francis Ray
Mr. Thomas grinned like a Cheshire cat. He was about forty-five years old, six-foot-three, thick, solid build, tight, curly black hair—and white. But that just made the pot a little sweeter to Savannah, because she didn’t discriminate. And she loved the way Mr. Thomas salivated over her.
“Hmmph, I didn’t think so,” Savannah said as she bent down in front of him to pick up her bucket. Her fitted orange linen pants framed her round behind like a portrait. No matter what she wore, her butt was always the main attraction.
Mr. Thomas eyed Savannah from the curve of her behind to her neatly French-manicured feet. “You are the only teacher I know who can wear three-inch stilettos in a classroom all day,” Mr. Thomas said, his eyes glimmering. “You look especially beautiful today. You have a glow or something.”
Savannah sighed again, and gathered her bundle of thick black hair into a knot behind her head. “Thank you, Mr. Thomas. You have a glow, as usual,” she said, glancing below his belt. She counted the time to when the students would return from lunch. She sat on the edge of her wooden teacher’s desk and parted her lips. They were shiny with a fresh coat of burgundy lip gloss. She stared at him, but didn’t say anything. It had been a fantasy of hers to have an older white man’s face locked between her thighs. From what she heard, they were the best at giving head. And older, because she liked feeling young and delicious.
“Well,” Savannah finally said. Mr. Thomas seemed to wake up from his own fantasy. He wiped the corner of his mouth. “I’m about to eat my lunch. Talk later?”
“Can I feed you?” he asked, stepping closer to her. Savannah inhaled his Old Spice cologne as he came over, resting his brown-speckled hands on her bare shoulder. Her skin, still sensitive from Chyno, erupted in goose bumps and sent an electric shock inside her white cotton panties. She uncrossed her legs and Mr. Thomas situated his body between them. He outlined her ears with his lips, losing his nose in her hair. His expert tongue flicked the inside of her earlobes. She thought he was trying to show her he could handle his business down south, too. She leaned her neck to the side, exposing more of it, and unfastened the top button of her yellow cardigan sweater set. She didn’t touch him, but let him feel her. He circled her poking nipples with his finger. Savannah felt his bulge press against her panties. She leaned back as they rubbed up on each other like the kids did behind the steps after school. Mr. Thomas’s light tapping motion was enough to make Savannah marinate like a slow roast.
Then the bell rang, and she and Mr. Thomas hurriedly straightened themselves up. He went back to his side of the hall, and Savannah was left to wonder just what would have happened if there were more time. Nothing, she thought. Because Mr. Thomas was just a tease, and so was she—with him.
After two hours of lesson planning that afternoon, when she got home Savannah filled a flute with a flat champagne. It was the almost-empty bottle of Krug Rosé that Jacques had brought over three weeks ago. She kicked her bare feet up on the antique coffee table and took a noisy sip. Her eyes darted to her Man Jar on the wicker nightstand, which could be seen from the living room. She sauntered over to it, holding her drink. She took a final sip of champagne and sat down on the bed. She could still smell Chyno in the air. She opened a window and sat down again, staring at the jar. There was only one red sour stick in a bottle of plenty of yellows and blues. The red sour stick represented the last black man she had slept with. Parrish. She had deliberately left it in the jar for the memories. The rest of them got lost between him, her, and a night of kinky “good-bye sex,” when she used all his red sticks. He was leaving to move back to DC, where a new job at a law firm awaited him. That night, Parrish wrapped lengthy sour sticks around her toes, fingers, and breasts. Parrish broke one in half and inserted part of the sweet candy inside her, then sucked it out. The sugar-coated outside left speckles of sweetness on her skin. For Parrish, she tied several sour sticks around his hardness and nibbled each one off until it was finished. The best part was the sugary sweet taste it left on his foreskin, which was even sweeter mixed with his own juices. But now she missed not only Parrish, but that extra grip, thrust, or command that black men had in the bedroom. It was important to her to keep things balanced, and variety was her joie de vivre. Unlike her girlfriends, she didn’t believe her man had to be black, just available, working, and respectful. But she didn’t want a man right now anyway. Even at twenty-five, single for three years, she liked not having to watch a three-hour football game so some guy could realize how lucky he was to have her. When the champagne turned flat and her tickle had been pickled, it was time to call “next.”
Savannah stopped counting her sex partners at ten, and that was long ago. When a woman reached ten, she thought, she should start from one again. It was her way of erasing the dozens of men she had had the displeasure of hearing complain about their wives, girlfriends, kids, jobs, etc. The last time she had a boyfriend was the time she loved so hard, she almost died. Not physically, but spiritually. Everything that she had known to be good at that point had turned bad. Derrick. He left her permanently altered after a volatile three-year relationship in which he promised her bliss and marriage, only to leave and marry someone else. He’d been married for four years with two kids. It would have been three, because she was pregnant then for a short time. Savannah lay on her back, closed her eyes, and exhaled. Alone, because her father had kicked her out long before, Savannah had lived a life where she met men at clubs, moved in with them and a few weeks later, moved out. She even tried a stint at stripping while in college. That didn’t get her anywhere, except into a hell of a lot of trouble. But the sex . . . In bed at night, she still got wet at the memories of the ménage à trios, the hedonistic acts at the “locked-door” parties, and the quickies in the Red Lobster bathroom, where one guy had an urge to eat her following a dinner of oysters. How could she ever be satisfied with one man after all that?
If it weren’t for her father’s intervention she would still be swinging from a pole. Before his death, he got her a job at the school where he taught for sixteen years. She liked this new life, where she was in control and paying her own rent. Back then, she relied on men to call the shots and set the tone. The Man Jar helped her maintain control over her emotions and keep track of her men, and acted as a lovely condiment to sex, too. As a colored sour stick increased in number, she knew the relationship was coming to an end—no more surprises.
Savannah flashed open her eyes when the phone rang. She picked it up on the first ring.
“Hey, chica. Are you up for a margarita or are you tied up with one of your men?” Giselle said, her only friend left from her “wilder days.” She was married now.
“Girl, if you had called here a few nights ago, I may have been tied up—literally. Chyno was here. And I am still tired,” Savannah bragged.
“Well, it ain’t easy fucking two men at the same time!” Giselle laughed. “If I were single, I’d help you with that problem.”
Savannah had to laugh, too. “It’s not at the same time; I give my little girl time to breathe. Don’t get it twisted. I’m single, and I don’t need to explain myself.”
“Honey, ain’t nobody asking you to. I may be married, but I still like fucking. Except with Trey, all he like is getting head. And you know I get dizzy doing that.”
Savannah didn’t say much, but she thought Giselle married Trey for all the wrong reasons—like a ring and health benefits. She couldn’t see herself stuck like that ever, especially with a man who was all about getting his. “You gotta breathe through your nose. Stop acting like you hadn’t had more than enough practice before you got with him,” Savannah jibed, turning the TV to Jeopardy.
“Anyway,” Giselle huffed, moving away from a past they both didn’t like talking much about anymore. “So can you walk? Or are you just, like, totally handicapped by big-ass Chyno?”
“I am still sore, but it’s only out of bed when I feel the pain and tiredness. When we was sexing, I didn’t feel anything but good all over,�
�� Savannah said, twirling the phone cord around her thumb.
“Sounds like somebody has some details to share. How about we meet at SugarCane at about five P.M.?”
About a half hour later, Savannah and Giselle were sitting at the Caribbean restaurant’s bar nursing their first mango martini. The restaurant doors were open like a sidewalk café, and the sidewalk was already packed with an afternoon crowd waiting to get in.
“So what is up with you and Chyno? You’ve been seeing lots of him lately,” Giselle said, tossing a handful of braids over her shoulder.
They were seated next to a group of women who seemed desperately on the prowl to Savannah. That was just not her style.
“Yes, three times a week is a lot for me.” Savannah’s eyes smiled behind her bangs. “I think it’s the way he touches me—so soft and gentle, but lately he’s been getting rough, like he’s trying to stake his claim or something. He licked his cum off me, too.”
“Oh, no. That is sooo nasty.” Giselle grinned, fanning herself. One of the women next to them laughed like she had heard them.
“It’s not nasty, but it’s his way of saying that I belong to him. It’s like some primal territorial thing. Some men make you call their name; others”—Savannah adjusted the shoulder strap to her orange, thigh-high summer dress—“like to lick their own cum off your skin.”
“So I guess he’s getting kicked to the curb,” Giselle said, rolling her eyes. Giselle playfully winked at the bartender and he winked back.
“I’m thinking about it. He’s already called me twice. Next thing I know, he’ll be popping up unannounced. Trying to make the situation all his, like he’s in control of it. This is my party and I’m kicking folks out,” Savannah said, as a waft of air blew her dress past her thighs. She parted her legs, enjoying the summer breeze.
“Is that why you still use that silly jar?” Giselle grimaced.
“It’s not silly. It helps me keep count of all the men I’m with and keep my emotions in check. It’s not easy separating love from sex. I don’t trust myself to keep how I feel under wraps, so the jar is kind of like my overseer, making sure things don’t get out of control.”
“But how?”
“When I meet a guy, I give him a color and put a stick in for each time we have sex. As the jar fills up, I get to see which color is getting too prominent. That is usually the guy whose time has come to go. We may be having too much sex, and the timing is always right.”
“Right?”
“Yeah, because by then I start feeling somewhat attached. I notice when they don’t call, and I’m not supposed to.”
“So what happens with the other sticks? Let’s say there’s a guy in there who ain’t been getting none?”
“I don’t have that problem! The jar usually fills up. Two packs of sour sticks, which is about ten, usually does it.”
Giselle squinted her eyes as if she were finally getting it. “I just hope you are not holding yourself back from a good man. Chyno really likes you, but you can do better,” Giselle said, with the wisdom of a married woman.
“That is what I mean. I’m always keeping my options open. If Chyno could stay like he was, or be like Jacques . . . He and I can be in bed for hours . . .” Savannah said, swaying her body back and forth to the reggae music. Again Savannah caught one of the women next to them listening.
“Really?” Giselle said, as the next round of mango martinis and a platter of coconut shrimp were laid in front of them.
“I can lie with Jacques for hours while he sucks on my toes, plays with my hair, licks me from my nipples to my pussy and back again. I’m like a big old chocolate smorgasbord to him. And sometimes we don’t even get to the sex.”
Giselle just nodded with her straw hanging from her open mouth.
Savannah took that as sign to go on, but this time she was more discreet. “Like last time he nibbled on my ass, licked the inside, and turned my cheeks red. You would have sworn I was hiding gold up in there.” Savannah picked up a shrimp from the plate. “And you know I like my booty played with, because it’s the short route to the pussy. And when he clapped both my cheeks together, I just got all moist from the vibration to my—”
“Okay, okay,” Giselle said, holding her hand up. “I officially hate you. Last time Trey went that far down, he was looking for the remote.”
Savannah and Giselle both cracked up.
“That’s why I can’t be bothered with that one-man, marriage thing. I need more.” Savannah frowned, sipping her martini.
“You need stability. . . .” Giselle whirled around in her chair to get a better look at the front door.
“And you need some dick,” Savannah teased Giselle. “Did I tell you Jacques is coming into town tomorrow night? He’s having a car take me to his hotel suite at the W and he will be my man toy for the evening. Oh, what are you and Trey doing tomorrow night?”
“Spades,” Giselle said flatly, biting into a shrimp.
“I rest my case,” Savannah said, as they both clinked their glasses.
Savannah was just about to tell Giselle about Mr. Thomas when Giselle suddenly became distracted.
Standing at the entrance of the restaurant was a vision of chocolate-brown man in loose-fitting black slacks and a short-sleeved gray shirt that did nothing to cover up a set of bulging arms. He scanned the room before walking toward the bar.
Savannah gave him the once over. The group of women next to her exploded in whispers about him. He was at least six-two, with a well-kept mustache and goatee. His entrance exuded a quiet strength. He pulled up a stool at the end and straddled his long legs around it. With his elbows parked on the bar, he signaled to the bartender with a nod.
“Who is that?” Savannah asked, her eyes dropping down to the tent shape between his legs. There was a slight bulge gathered to the left of his thigh.
“That is what we all want to know, honey. I was with some girls from my job, and we’ve spotted him here a few times—alone. He must be the new face in the ’hood. I heard he’s a fireman. . . .”
But Savannah wasn’t listening to her friend when she heard the brother order a gin and tonic. His voice had a deep, authoritative tone to it. As he spoke the muscles in his jaw moved, and his juicy lips curved up when he smiled at Savannah. When the women next to her saw that, they sucked their teeth.
“Girl, did you see that look he gave you?” Giselle nudged Savannah. “You gotta bottle up whatever you have and sell it.”
“He could hose me down anytime.” Savannah waved at him innocently. “Preferably with his tongue.” And he gracefully nodded, holding her gaze. He was a man of few words, but his body language was saying plenty, and Savannah was all ears.
A bouquet of white roses greeted Savannah when she arrived at school the next morning. Savannah didn’t even have to read the card to know who sent it.
I still want to feed you.
—Mr. Thomas
Savannah thought his brief one-liners were cute and got her imagination working, but she didn’t need the drama of dating someone at her job. She cut up the note, just like the many others she had received from him, and threw it in the trash. The last thing she wanted was a nosy student starting rumors. She didn’t mind being Mr. Thomas’s secret fantasy, as long as it was kept secret.
Later in the morning, while the children drew and painted paper sunflowers, she thought about the fireman. What she wouldn’t do to at least find out where he lived. She already knew she was going to fuck him; it was just a matter of when.
“Ms. Avery, do you like my sunflower?” asked Tiahnna, a tiny Puerto Rican girl.
“It’s purple. It looks stupid!” shouted the boy behind her.
Tiahnna covered her face with the drawing, embarrassed, as some of the kids laughed.
Savannah knelt down beside Tiahnna’s desk and the whole class silenced. She showed Tiahnna’s sunflower to the class. The kids looked up and at one another.
“I didn’t say all the sunflowers had to b
e yellow. Are all roses red?”
“Noooo, Ms. Avery,” the class said in unison.
“How boring would it be if everything were the same color? So before you put your markers away, add something to those flowers to make them stand out!”
The kids went back to work, trying to make their flowers unique.
“Thanks, Tiahnna,” Savannah said, and handed her paper back to her, as a few kids gathered around the girl with a new appreciation for her work of art. Savannah took special interest in this moment because when she was a student she had also been the different one. She had been embarrassed when she developed more quickly than the other girls. It was her fifth-grade teacher who’d helped her define herself as extraordinary, and since then she had never been anything plain.
Chalk and streaks of Magic Marker stained Savannah’s pink tank top. She couldn’t wait to get out of her clothes and into something slinky and sexy to meet Jacques for the evening. She took her time getting ready. She didn’t want any distractions and erased two “hook up for the weekend” messages from Chyno. If she had it her way, she didn’t plan to leave Jacques’s suite until sunrise. She soaked her feet in a milk-and-honey footbath for fifteen minutes while she watched Jeopardy. Then she took a forty-five-minute shower in which she scrubbed her skin with an olive-and-sugar exfoliant, shaved her bikini area until it was a small patch of hair above her budding clit, and ran a bath with baby oil to soak her body for ten minutes. Afterward her skin looked good enough to eat off of, and that was exactly what she had planned.
There was a nearly finished bottle of Hanae Mori sitting on her vanity dresser next to her pewter jewelry box. She sprayed some on her chest and behind her thighs. A delicate set of red lace thong panties and bra waited on the bed to adorn her body. She slipped into those carefully, making sure not to snag the intricate lace patterns. She didn’t go through all this preparation because Jacques was so important. She just enjoyed any chance she had to make herself feel special and sexy. If she took her teacher ’tude home with her, she thought she’d end up looking like those shriveled-up lunch ladies at the school. She smiled to herself about Mr. Thomas. She was more seduced by his desire for her than she was by him. He wasn’t someone she had romantic feelings for, but his advances were a boost to her tattered self-esteem. There were still bits and pieces of her past life with men that chipped away at her every so often.