I called Caesar and Khalil to tell them to meet us at the poetry reading. They beat us there since we had train signal problems at the Nostrand Ave. stop. The subway was still the most reliable means of transportation in the City. It’s not the driving in New York that will drive you crazy, but rather the parking, or should I say the lack thereof? It forces you to pay for parking because the $18 it costs you to park for an hour doesn’t compare to the $100 ticket you will probably get.
I spotted Caesar across the park with his "sofa." They looked nice together and he was right, she was about a size 12, but she was eye-catching. She wore her hair in a flip, choosing to go away from that fat girl asymmetrical cut that makes them look old instead. She could easily slim down to a love seat (size 8) if she wanted to. But I had a feeling she was comfortable in her own skin and she was making my boy Caesar more comfortable in his.
He was decked out in one of his many Ozwald Boateng combinations, forest green jacket with rust slacks topped off this burnt orange silk ascot and hounds tooth fedora.
Caesar introduced Rain and I to Cheryl (Shurrrl). He told me in confidence that she might be Mrs. Jenkins. She’s not the type of girl I’m accustomed to him being with, but they say God don’t give us what we want necessarily; he gives us what we need. He’s seemed relaxed. He showed us a smile that we normally don’t get to see because of his usual “the best bitch is an unstable bitch” persona.
Khalil also showed up with a “friend” of his. It wasn't what we were expecting, but we love Khalil anyway. He introduced us to Blue. He was six-five with a baritone voice and looked like he should be playing defensive line for the Big Blue New York Giants. He didn't look gay at all, not that there's a specific look. I badly wanted to ask him how come every gay guy who comes out of the closet his voice goes up two octaves all of a sudden, unlike his. But I chilled. It would be inappropriate as well as embarrassing.
We quickly grabbed some seats on the grass. It was a summer night and you could see the stars flicker in the cloudless sky. We were just getting over a deluge of rain spanning a little over two weeks, so Brooklynites were itching to get out and stretch our legs without them getting soaking wet. A waitress came along and took our order, so we were finally set to hear some spoken word. Little did I know Rain had something in store for me.
The show started and after two or three urban poets, the emcee called Rain to the microphone. She attended regularly so everyone already knew her.
She rose and mischievously smiled at me.
“I’ll be back.”
Every time she looked at me I felt more and more peaceful inside. I couldn’t believe things were happening this fast, but it really wasn’t because I had been longing for this woman for almost a year. When she reached the stage she cordially hugged the emcee.
"Hi, everybody. What I'm going to do tonight is not very conventional and frankly I hope my friend doesn't mind." She pulled my notebook out from behind her back and asked me if I wouldn't mind her reading it aloud? I signaled that it was fine, then buried my head in my hands and waited for the worst to come.
"This beautiful man has some interesting thoughts and I think he should share them with the world. And since he won't, I will.
It's titled, ‘Letter to Mrs. Carter.’
Beloved...Mrs. Carter... Let me tell you what I think about love. Love is not something to be afraid of. Love has gotten a bad rap. Love is not a disease that you catch. I love LOVE. It’s what we're put on this earth for. Not to be alone. Not to struggle. Not to be loveless. I believe love is a conscious choice and we can choose love. Love is an action asking to be proactive. I can do all of the things that you're supposed to do when you love someone. Be consistent. Be affectionate. Be understanding. The operative word is BE. Be attentive, be concerned, be interested, be a friend. If I do all these things, then I will be loving you.”
I couldn’t believe the words I was hearing coming from her perfect lips were mine. She continued as I sat enthralled on the edge of my seat.
“I want to wake up with you more than I want to sleep with you. I want to wash your hair. I want to give you a warm towel when you step out of the shower. I want to rub your feet. Yuck! And I hate feet.” That was the truth. You could keep your socks on in bed with me and my feelings wouldn’t be hurt.
“But you'll be the first. Because I love you. I want to make love to you so bad that I can no longer articulate my feelings verbally. I'll have to express them. For once I'll be speechless. I want to make you cum! Over...and over...and over…and over again. For the first time in my life, I don't need another person. I want another person. And that person is you.”
I stood up and wandered toward the stage, lured like a moth to a flame.
"We'll be alike, yet different. Where I'm weak, you'll be strong," she continued. Then something magical happened and I began to recite my work verbatim from the text I had written, finishing her sentence.
"You antagonize me constantly, but it’s cute." I was now standing face to face with Rain, looking into her frosted blue eyes. An awe-stricken hush fell over the audience. My Rain stood teary-eyed falling in love with my words, with me. I spoke right to her soul and she dangled on every word with anticipation.
"I'll say yes to whatever you want to do, nine times out of ten. You'll understand that I'm the visible head of our family, but you run the family. If you're not happy, nobody's happy. I just want to love you. Choose love."
Caesar and Khalil ran up onto the stage like a couple of kids proud of their friend. The crowd was in a stunned silence, as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
"Now that's my boy. You almost brought the bitch up out of me," Caesar said.
Cautiously, I stepped back over to Rain. We ached for one another and it was unmistakably apparent. Then she took a step forward and kissed me. She tasted fresh like a ripe peach.
My belief is that there is only one first kiss and you can never duplicate it. The excitement, the nervousness, the awkwardness of when to dive in could never be replicated. I noticed that I would always be in the middle of some stupid sentence to mask my nervousness, then out of nowhere I would interrupt the sentence and dive in for the kiss.
This kiss lived up to its potential. She used just enough tongue, as she sweetly probed my mouth and sparred with my overzealous tongue. She kissed like a dream and I was hoping there was more where that came from…
Nice, Dapper Carter!
…And there was! A light rain beat against the radiator through the open window as the curtains blew lightly from the breeze. I sat on the edge of the bed while Rain stood in front of me. She took the lead, aggressively removing the white V-neck tee she was wearing, revealing her perky mosquito bite ta-ta’s. All that remained were the black boy shorts she was wearing that clinged to her racetrack curves.
I stared at my love intently before hesitantly, reaching out to touch her, not wanting to disturb the perfect vision before me. I handled Rain gently like a porcelain figurine. I rubbed my hands tenderly over her shoulders, upper back, and smooth hips, I also made sure to pay attention to her arms and backs of her legs not just the traditional arousal regions of the female anatomy. She shuddered with expectation. The anticipation was driving us both crazy. Eventually I grew tiresome of the foreplay, so I wedged my thumbs into the elastic band of her boy shorts and removed them from her hips, sliding them over her scrumptious booty, around her silky thighs and off her ankles in one sweeping move.
Without hesitation, she climbed onto the edge of the bed and mounted me. I slipped inside her impassioned womb easily , like she had been expecting me. She claimed that she had, all of her life. We fit like a hand in a glove with my girth and her tightness. She gasped at first, but it quickly turned into an impish grin as she seductively bit her bottom lip and winked at me.
“Nice. Dapper Carter,” she whispered. Then she picked up the pace, going from a slow grind to a power drill, bouncing perfectly on my lap. I laid hands on every inch of her perfect bo
dy. I even found a nasty scar on her lower back.
“Where did you get this scar from?”
“Jamil Hawkins’ punk ass in fifth grade pushed me into a pole. I kicked his butt for it though.” She was a tough Brooklyn chick under that sugary exterior and I liked it. I was always known as a pretty boy with an edge and she was equally a pretty girl with an edge. Occasionally, I would dig my nubby fingernails into the groove of her back and she would growl. We kissed passionately with every deep stroke, careful not to disengage the centripetal energy between us.
“You are so fucking wet.” She was sloppy wet too.
“The sloppier the better,” she maintained, stating that she liked the sound of her pussy sloshing with each stab of my dagger and I wasn’t going to argue with her. I thought I was fucking dreaming.
She was mischievous, and playful, but she also knew when to be submissive. I stood up with her still attached to my joystick and pinned her against the wall.
“You like that?” I taunted.
“Uh-huh,” she groaned. I rhythmically impaled her for several minutes, making sure to put my best foot forward and leave an impression in her mind as well as well as in the bottom of her pussy. She cried with pleasure. The only bright spot about feeling the need to please women was that I was good at it.
“You sure you can hold me up this long?”
“You’re a lightweight. I deal with chicks wayyy bigger than your little ass.”
Rain couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred twenty five pounds, but like all women she always felt like she needed to lose five pounds. I flung her onto the bed, careful not to slip out of her vice-like thighs and in one continuous motion I started to do what I do best— missionary style… bumping uglies.
I loved looking into her eyes with each heartfelt thrust. I couldn't help but wonder to myself embarrassingly if I were in love. Was this how it really felt to make love? She whispered my name over and over, which was driving me up the wall with passion. I didn’t care about being called “Daddy” or “Baby.” I wanted her to say my name and remind me how much she enjoyed me being inside of her. And she did just that.
“It’s your pussy, baby,” she called out. Rain reminded me over and over how it was “my pussy now.” Whatever. I appreciated the pledge, but things change and nothing was written in blood. It seemed like women were programmed at birth to say two things that most men can’t resist. Her first word is usually “Daddy” and her first sentence is “It’s your pussy, Daddy.” Weak-ass mothafuckas responded to that type of shit, but I was beyond it.
Nonetheless, I enjoyed the ego boost and not to mention I was relieved that Rain’s language was just as filthy as mine. Rain and I we went through six condoms in three hours. I had been taking ginseng regularly and eating right, so my libido was through the roof and I was drilling holes these days.
Beloved made sure to let me know how much she appreciated me taking her advice in the supermarket. It was a win/win situation for both of us.
When she first jumped on board after terminating our foreplay, it caught me so off guard that I wasn’t able to jimmy up. Needless to say, I withdrew my panting penis before climaxing. But even if I wasn’t fast enough, I rationalized to myself that if Rain got pregnant, it wasn’t the worst thing that could ever happen to me. That was stupid, I know. After six orgasms, the last of which being mutual and simultaneous profession of our newfound love, Rain flopped into the oversized pillows quivering.
“That was incredible!” She praised. I sat up on the edge of the bed and sat there quietly. “What's the matter?”
"I can't say."
"Here we go again. Sure you can."
"No, I can't. You're going to laugh."
"No, I won't. I promise. So spit it out,” she snapped mildly agitated.
I turned around, teary eyed. "I think that was the first time I ever made love."
Her face scrunched up like she wanted to laugh. She thought better of it, though. "You're serious?"
"As a heart attack."
"Wow! I guess I will take that as a compliment."
She began to rub my back in that big sister sort of way and finally the silliness of the situation became too much for both of us and we burst out laughing.
"Girl, you might have to go. I don't know if I can handle that shit you got between your legs. Is that Haagen-Dazs?”
"You sure you don't like Ben & Jerry's?" she teased.
"I don't like Ben or Jerry. Trust me." A sonorous groan escaped from deep down in my belly. “I’m not gay!”
"I knowww. No gay man could do what you did with your tongue to my clit.” It was called “doing the alphabet”. I would trace each letter of the alphabet with my tongue as I taunted her clitoris. She was going crazy by time I got to the letter K. “You're a different type of man, and it’s good to see a brotha in touch with his feminine side. It's refreshing."
"Not every woman seems to share your sentiment. I've decided that if being a man means being emotionally unavailable, then I don't want to be a man." That sounded so corny to me, but not to her. Then I decided to get serious on her. Usually that doesn't work at this stage, but my gut told me Rain was different. I deserved her.
"So where do we go from here?"
"I don't know. Can't we just enjoy each other and let things happen?"
She was using my own shit against me. That's okay, though, because I was willing to do whatever it took to be with Rain, including going slow.
"Of course, we can. But first I've got a question for you. A woman goes to her mother's funeral and meets what she thinks to be the man of her dreams and falls in love instantly. However, she leaves the funeral and fails to get his phone number and fears she will never see him again. So she goes home and kills her sister. Why did she kill her sister?"
She answered without hesitation. "Because she was hoping to see the guy at the funeral again. Duhhh!"
I was finally relieved. She was the first person I ever met beside myself to pass the psychopath test. The test was administered to prisoners, and not by coincidence most of them knew the answer right off the bat. If you know the answer to the riddle, it is determined that you think like a psychopath; hence, why prisoners know the answer.
“You got it right without even thinking hard. You're a little bit crazy, aren't you?”
“Just a little,” she said, laughing it off. And she was just freaky enough to keep me interested but not turn me off.
"I want you to know that I'll never hurt you. I'll never let you down. I promise."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," she warned.
"I don't."
Rain looked me straight in the eye, pulled no punches. "Can you do everything you say you can?"
Every mistake, every one-night stand, every meaningless lie led me to this moment. I responded with the most certainty than ever and answered with a resounding, "Yes I can."
"I'm going to hold you to that. But we have a little business we need to take care of."
"Oh, God! Don't tell me you’re a prostitute, too?" I shuddered.
“No, don’t be silly.” She instantly processed the information I just inadvertently divulged. “Too?”
“Long story. Anyway, as you were saying?”
You said you've been divorced for two years, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to need to see your divorce papers."
I laughed. She didn't.
"You’re serious?"
"As a heart attack. A girl has to protect herself."
Whatever she needed. I got up and began fumbling through my junk drawer of papers.
"I'm also going to need to see proof of an HIV test, your driver's license, birth certificate, and social security card. I need to make sure you are who you say you are. As a matter of fact what's your momma's maiden name?"
Friday Is Better
So things were going promisingly between Rain and me. She was everything I had ever hoped for in a woman and more. My friends sa
y I met the right woman and she changed my life. They're wrong. I changed my life, and then I met the right woman.
Case in point, I was waiting for the bus to go to downtown Brooklyn when a hood rat chick covered with tattoos and wearing long men’s basketball shorts, a Mohawk, Air Jordan’s, and rocking a wife beater stepped to me. My other vice when it comes to women. I know I can have any woman I want, not to mention I have the woman of my dreams, but something about fuckin’ with hood rats still fascinated me. Probably because they didn’t give me any play when I was younger citing that I was a square.
She couldn't have been more than twenty-four, but you know the story. The older we get the younger they get. I wondered if I would ever reach that point, especially since I've always liked older women. Doesn’t everybody want a new car? Nevertheless, I dug her style and found her look extremely erotic.
“Excuse me,” she said, interrupting my cell phone conversation with my new sweetie, Rain. I put Rain on hold for a moment to oblige the young lady.
“Yes.”
“I was wondering if I could take you to dinner?”
“Let me call you back.” I told Rain when I decided to engage this fresh, spring water in conversation.
“Take me to dinner, huh?”
“Of course. This is the twenty-first century and women do it all the time.”
“Not the women I date.”
“Then you’re dating the wrong women. You are fine! I’ll take you to dinner then home for dessert. You like whipped cream?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“So what day is good for you? Friday or Saturday?
I had to give her props for using my own shit against me.
“Friday is better.” I declared.
Caesar always told me never drive a car without a spare tire. This brings us to Dapper Carter’s seventh rule: The only thing better than pussy is NEW pussy!
But not this time! There is an exception to every rule.
Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating Page 15