by Francis Ray
Pleasantly surprised? Savannah thought there were no more surprises left. Clinton had showed her enough surprises in the bedroom to have his own “How to Please Your Woman in Bed” manual. Like last Saturday, when he showed her “the clitorator.” He flattened his pink tongue on Savannah’s clitoris and vibrated it, bringing her to a shivering orgasm. But as she thought back, the biggest surprise of all was that he liked to talk to her. They talked about everything from the latest movies to current events after sex. She felt relaxed and easygoing with him, and neither was in any rush to leave the other’s side.
At exactly eight P.M., the bell rang. Savannah slipped on her red, furry heels and sashayed her way to the door. She fastened her cheetah-print robe around her, leaving a little space for just enough cleavage to show.
When she opened the door, her eyes grew wide at what Clinton had on. He wore a two-piece khaki-colored linen suit and held a fresh bunch of roses. She couldn’t believe it. They were going out, not staying in.
She pulled her robe closed to cover her breasts. “Come in,” she said, taking the roses and holding her head down. “Thank you.”
Clinton grinned with his hand in his pocket. “Maybe I should have said something earlier. But I wanted it to be a surprise.”
She looked at his handsome, freshly shaven face and his brilliant smile and just couldn’t get mad. It sure was a surprise, she thought. And she felt cheap and silly for settling for just the sex, when he was obviously willing to give more. But it was what she was used to, she thought, and she could have settled for less.
“I’ll go get ready. Give me about fifteen minutes.” Savannah smiled and put the roses in a cheap vase she had in the kitchen. As she stood in her bedroom, she cried to herself. Was he taking her out on a date? She hadn’t been on a real date in over a year. What if he asked her about her past, her personal life, what would she say? she thought.
She rummaged through her closet for something suitable for the evening. She pulled out a white jeans skirt and a green camisole blouse with gold hoop earrings. But she kept her purple thong on, because she had a feeling it would come in handy later.
La Traviorta was a quaint Italian restaurant on Montague Street in Brooklyn. It was a picturesque, humid summer evening with warm, calm winds. They were seated at a table in the back, away from the hustle and bustle at the bar. Savannah didn’t feel completely out of place, as the restaurant was packed with other couples enjoying a relaxing evening together. The hardwood floors and hanging chandeliers gave it a touch of living room intimacy. She worried that she was underdressed, or that her bad table manners would show.
After the waiter took their orders and filled their glasses with a fine Italian red wine, Clinton zoned in on Savannah’s anxiety.
“Are you okay with the place? I picked it because I hoped we could take a walk by the Promenade later.”
Savannah guzzled down her wine, leaving some at the bottom of her glass. “Sure, this place is nice. I just can’t wait to get back home and eat my favorite meatballs.” She laughed, nudging her feet between his legs under the table.
“Come on, Savannah.” He gave a smile that reached his eyes. “I want us to do different things. I want to get to know you.”
“Like what? You know where I work, where I live; you know every inch of my body inside and out. What else is there? Please don’t get serious on me, Clinton.” Savannah sipped the last of her wine and bit down on her bottom lip.
“Well, isn’t there anything you want to know about me?”
Savannah looked inside herself, because she had tons of questions. But that would only make him want to ask her too.
“Talk to me,” he said. “I gotta be more than some good dick.” He laughed.
“You are, Clinton. That’s why I don’t want to mess anything up.”
“Why do you feel you would mess anything up? Savannah, you’re not a bad person. . . .” He caressed her chin. “Don’t be afraid to talk.”
“Do you have any kids?” Savannah asked him, swirling her wine in her glass. She sipped it slowly, knowing that she would need this and more to get through the evening.
“None that I know of.” Clinton chuckled. But when he got Savannah’s angry stare, he straightened up. “I don’t have any. But I want some. Preferably after I get married. Do you have any kids? Just because you live alone doesn’t mean you don’t have any.”
“I . . . I mean, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I would rather wait till I’m married too.”
“So where did you grow up? What did you do before teaching?” he asked.
“I grew up in Brooklyn,” Savannah said, as she pretended to be interested in the couple across from her who were locked in an animated conversation. She didn’t want to give Clinton any eye contact. Maybe he’d take the hint, she thought.
But he stayed quiet and just looked at her, as if he were waiting for more. He looked willing to hear anything she was ready to dish out, she thought. And there was just something about him that she trusted, that made her feel safe. She took another swig of wine.
“Clinton, I didn’t grow up with a regular childhood, I turned my life around. I used to dance, drink, and do things that I can’t stand to talk about. So please don’t make me. I just thought you should at least know that much,” she said as she closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see his expression. It might make her want to take back her words.
His fingers intertwined with hers, and he squeezed them hard enough that an indescribable energy emanated from them. It was a warm, soothing feeling that made her eyes well up. He brought both her hands to his mouth and kissed them.
Midway through their dinner of shrimp ravioli for Savannah and chicken breasts wrapped in proscuitto for him, she realized how special a man Clinton was. She thought his demeanor would change, or he would have berated her with more questions or, worse yet, judged her. It was still the same between them, but only time would tell.
“Sorry that I was a little unprepared earlier this evening, but I am glad we had a chance to do this,” Savannah said, inhaling his subtle Drakkar cologne as they strolled down the Brooklyn Promenade.
“How would I look not taking you out? I mean, what turns me on most is a woman who can keep me interested in and out of bed. I wanna see what you’re working with besides what your mama gave you,” he said, smiling at her with dreamy eyes.
“Oh, okay.” Savannah lightheartedly cut her eyes at him. “Good to see there’s more than one head on you, too.”
Clinton playfully grabbed her from behind and swayed her from side to side. “Always got a comeback. But I like a little spice on my plate.”
“Be careful what you ask for. Spice burns.” Savannah laughed again. She was having a good time playing around with Clinton. It was refreshing to be with a man who wasn’t too sensitive or intimidated by her snappy remarks, she thought.
“Tell me, how is a fine firefighting brother like you single?” Savannah asked as she and Clinton walked hand in hand. “Because as long as I lived in that building I never saw you. I know you had to be holed up with someone, somewhere.”
“I have been—in a fire station with fat Italian dudes farting all night,” Clinton said, shaking his head. “But seriously, my last situation was, like, two years ago. That ended because I cheated, honestly. She wasn’t the woman for me. And I wasn’t the man for her,” he said, as they both stopped to look at the city lights across the twinkling night water.
“You cheated?” Savannah grimaced. She knew she wasn’t one to judge, because she had cheated in the past, too. But Clinton just didn’t seem like the type, and those were the ones she had to be careful of.
“We had an off-and-on relationship. Sometimes I didn’t know if we were on or not. And she . . . Well, let’s say she wasn’t a saint herself. It took me a while to trust women after that.”
“So she cheated on you, too?”
“Yeah, actually, she cheated first. It just wasn’t someplace that I wanted to be,” Clinton said, turning to fac
e Savannah. “I want to be here with you, for however long you keep me.” He flashed a grin.
Savannah’s stomach bubbled with anticipation. She reached up and planted a wet, long kiss on Clinton’s waiting lips. Several couples passed and looked on as their lips locked. Savannah felt as if she were in a scene from a movie.
“Come here,” Clinton said, taking her hand. “Let’s find a spot just for us.”
They walked all the way down to the end of the Promenade, where an enclosed circle with benches awaited them. Behind the water fountain was an area covered by trees and leaves. Savannah couldn’t wait for what Clinton might have in mind.
There was another couple seated in the area on a small bench to the left of them.
They ducked behind the water fountain, and Savannah leaned over a park bench. The cool night breeze sent a shiver up her thighs as she hiked up her skirt. Clinton positioned himself behind her and gently pulled her panties down to her knees.
“Arch your back, baby,” he whispered in her ear. She poked her behind out and hiked up a leg on a bench. Clinton humped her gently and massaged her pulsating pussy until his fingers were damp with moisture.
“Stick it in,” Savannah moaned, feeling scandalous.
Clinton spread Savannah’s ass cheeks and entered her with an urgent but gentle force. Keeping her hands against the park bench for resistance, Savannah bit her tongue to keep down her sounds of pleasure. Clinton pumped inside her as he nibbled the back of her neck.
“You like this, baby? Tell me you like it,” he said as his pace picked up.
“Yes, I love it—harder, please, make it hurt.” Savannah’s eyes rolled back and she swallowed her joy. Clinton got rougher and faster, holding her head down. Her knees began to shake and buckled beneath her. Her hands were raw and red from holding on to the bench, but she wasn’t letting go. Within minutes she and Clinton came together, then pulled up their clothes and fell down into each other’s arms onto the bench.
The next morning Clinton had an idea for them to go to the Barbecue Food Fest at Madison Square Park. She thought they would discuss what had happened the night before, but she caught herself. That was just one way that Clinton made her feel different, made her care about how he saw her. With a man like Clinton, she thought maybe the Man Jar had seen its last days. But she’d rather wait.
They stood in line under the hot, summer sun for a Kentucky-style barbecue beef brisket. Savannah playfully massaging his shoulders. She looked at the cooks slicing the juicy mound of beef to shreds and couldn’t wait to sink her teeth in.
Clinton eagerly placed their orders for barbecue and beer. They walked to a shaded spot under a tree that seemed to be waiting just for them. Clinton pulled a green-and-white-checkered tablecloth from his backpack. “I bet you didn’t think a man could be prepared for these sorts of things,” he said, unfolding it.
Savannah grabbed the other end as they settled it down on the green grass. “Right. I don’t know too many men who walk around with tablecloths in their backpack. But I like it. You don’t have to try to seduce me anymore, Clinton. You already got me in bed.”
“Now, why do you have to be so cynical about everything? Can’t I just be doing this to be nice and useful, or did you want to sit that pretty ass on some dog waste?” He sat down and patted the space next to him.
“True. Well, this is nice,” Savannah said, cuddling into his embrace.
She rested her body against his as they both ate their pieces of barbecue, feeding each other from time to time. Some sauce was on Clinton’s lip, and she tackled him to the ground, her body on top of his, and licked his lips clean. No one seemed to notice as they rolled around on the grass, even rolling under an empty stand for Texas-style barbecue shrimp. She felt carefree, as if it were just the two of them. She thought that if being in love was like this, she was more than ready.
Couples strolled the perimeter of the park for the next delicious bite as they listened to the jazz band playing on the other side of the park. Clinton snapped his fingers to the beat of Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue.” Savannah had several of Miles’s CDs and that song was her favorite of all. The rise and fall of the tempos reminded her of her up-and-down life, just like a seesaw. Kids played with one another on the grass, including one who nearly knocked over Clinton’s food. This made Savannah upset, because the boy’s parents didn’t even apologize for him, but Clinton played it cool and laughed it off.
“I gotta ask you something,” Clinton said, lying on his back, looking up at the clear, turquoise sky.
Savannah lay on her back as well, staring at two serene gray birds on the branch looking out at the bevy of excitement before them.
“Will you come with me to my sister’s baby shower tomorrow? We don’t have to stay all day.” He wiped some barbecue sauce from Savannah’s lips.
She covered her mouth as she chewed. Again, something unexpected. “Yeah, I guess I can.”
Clinton gulped down his beer as they both clapped at the wonderfully orchestrated jazz band.
Savannah somehow felt that they were both just going with the flow, something she wasn’t used to. However, his invitation was a good sign that they were heading upstream and not downstream. And she just had to leave it at that—for now.
After they finished their beef brisket, they ventured off to a small café in the Village for dessert and homemade root-beer floats. They sat for hours until closing as they joked about their day and their gluttonous appetites for food and sex. Savannah had such a good time with Clinton that she found herself content with just being in the relationship, other than trying to define it.
Savannah and Clinton made love several times until the wee hours of the next morning. When she woke up in Clinton’s bed, she heard the crackle of bacon on the stove and smelled fresh coffee brewing. She wanted to go back to sleep, afraid waking up would disturb all the good vibes she was feeling. But before she could think about that too hard, Clinton walked into the room with two trays of lightly toasted bread, fried eggs, and crispy bacon.
As they ate in quiet contemplation of their day ahead, she thought about yesterday. That was the most she had ever done with a guy in one day out of bed. Going to a man’s family gathering was something she hadn’t done either. She wondered how Clinton’s family would be—if they were snobby, down-to-earth, fat, skinny, tall, short. She hoped, how ever they were, that they would just like her. She needed them to accept her and make her feel included. Besides, Giselle was never much for having female friends. The thought of actually making some new ones excited her, even if it was just for the day.
Clinton dressed in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a white buttondown shirt. Still lounging around in his oversize navy-blue FDNY T-shirt, Savannah admired the way he took his time fastening each button with care and examining himself from side to side. He was a man of style and distinction, she thought. The special attention he gave her body, he gave to himself, and she respected that.
“Are you gonna keep staring at a brother all morning?” Clinton said, kneeling down by her side of the bed. He planted a wet one on her lips.
She dragged her body up from the bed. “Is this your sister’s first child?”
“It’s her second kid, from some dude no one in the family has met. As much as I tried to tell my sisters about the men out here, they still put all their trust in them. They get knocked up and let down. I feel for them,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment, then opening them.
“Everybody makes mistakes, Clinton. I’m sure your sisters probably thought they had someone good while it was going on.”
“I guess, but they’re my little sisters, and I feel somewhat responsible, you know. But I didn’t meet any of those guys, because they never came around. If they did, they probably would have thought twice when they saw a big brother like me watching ’em.”
“But they are grown. I’m sure you are a still a good example to them of what a good man is. Sometimes we women know something ain’t the best
for us and we still go through with it. Like Chaka Khan said, ‘be it right or be it wrong.’ ”
“True. God knows, I certainly was in some messed-up situations because it was giving me something to do,” Clinton said. “She had her first child a few years ago when she was twenty-three. You both are practically the same age. I just wish she were as smart as you are when it comes to men.” He kissed her forehead.
“Me, smart?” Savannah huffed. “I never thought of it that way. But you may be right,” she playfully boasted.
“I’m sure you and she will have lots to talk about,” Clinton said as he dabbed on some cologne.
But Savannah wasn’t so sure about that.
Clinton’s sister Tiffany lived with their mother in a small two-bedroom apartment on Flatbush Avenue. When they both arrived, the apartment was decorated exquisitely, with green and pink baby decorations hanging from every corner. Even the cake frosting was pink, with green marzipan flowers. The paper tablecloth had the baby’s name written all over it: Dejá Tiffany Daniels.
“Oh, hello!” Ms. Daniels said when she opened the door and her arms. “So you finally get around to coming to see your people.”
“What’sup, Mommy,” Clinton said, giving her a big bear hug. “This is Savannah, my girlfriend.”
Savannah’s mouth tightened.
“Hello, dear,” Clinton’s mother said, looking into Savannah’s wide-open eyes.
“Oh, hi, Ms. Daniels. Nice to meet you,” Savannah said, offering her hand.
Savannah had learned to tell a person’s sincerity by the type of handshake she received. Ms. Daniels’s was weak and light. Her touch felt as though she were afraid of contracting the flu or something, Savannah thought.
Ms. Daniels ushered them both into the kitchen, where foil-covered pans of food lay around ready to be served. The comforting scent of fresh bread baking filled Savannah’s nose and boosted her appetite.
“Here you go, babies. This is some freshly squeezed limeade. It’s so hot out there, I know you must be parched,” she said, handing over two cool glasses to Clinton.