He saw me watching him. Walked over to hold the cannoli to my lips. I bit into it. The sweet cream painted my tongue, giving my mouth pleasure. Demitri dipped his head, then kissed my lips. Before I knew it, he had lifted me up, then taken us both down to the floor. My thighs were open, welcoming him.
I didn’t know where the cannoli went, but I didn’t care, either. Not when Demitri had his hands and mouth on my breasts. Not when he was kissing my neck, face, eyes, mouth. Not when his tongue was traveling down to my love below. Right there, for all the stormy heavens to see, Demitri brought me to the happiest place on earth.
He came back up, used his fingers to wipe my wetness across my lips, then kissed me again. His dick was dangerously close, aimed at my pussy, with no protection.
I pulled away from the kiss, backed away from him just enough to keep him from slipping inside of me. I looked up at him and said, “Condom.”
Just like before, he showed me his hand. In it was a golden wrapped condom. The XL kind. He ripped the foil, slid it on smooth and easy. Before I could take my next breath, he flipped me on top of him. Held me to him with one arm as he guided himself home.
He fucked me good. Fucked me long. Sexed me hard. Topped me from the bottom. I rode him like I’d lost my mind. So happy that he knew how to stimulate me to the point that my walls relaxed enough to accept all his length and thickness. Most men didn’t know how to stimulate a woman so that she would be so relaxed, so open, so ready and willing that her body gave no resistance. Demitri did.
“Fuck me,” he demanded. The baritone in his voice low and sexy, giving me all the motivation I needed to do as he asked.
In that moment, I had control of his giant ass. He rocked his hips upward. Giving to me just as good as he was taking. In the few short days that he and I had explored intimacy, it had become clear to me that Demitri was into pleasing more than being pleased.
He whispered to me. Asked me if I was okay, knowing he was above average in the size department. Yes, it hurt, but it hurt so fucking good that I took it. I took all he had to give and then some. I nodded. Moaned. Sucked in my bottom lip while Demitri’s hands spanked my backside. He hit hard too. Hard enough for the stinging to intensify my pleasure.
“Feels . . . so . . . good,” I moaned.
“You like that?” he asked.
“Don’t stop. Stay right there,” I whispered.
He went harder, steadily rocking his hips. “Right there?” he asked.
Demitri had a handful of my braids. Pulling and yanking. That roughness making me fall under his spell even more. I was so into Demitri that the idea of Elliot standing in the shadows, watching us, never occurred to me.
Elliot
Morning found the three of us in bed. In the early morning, before the sun rose in the sky, I’d watched Demitri and Mona together. Mona’s body language had told me Demitri had her in the zone. It bothered me that he was able to own her so thoroughly in only a matter of days. For two years, I’d been living under the illusion that only I could control her pleasure that way.
For a few seconds, I’d had a mind to walk over to them. Snatch her off his dick by her braids. Throw her over the back of the couch and fuck her like a slut. I’d wanted to spank her ass to the point it was bruised, had red and purple abrasions.
I’d thought about grabbing Demitri, flipping him over, and forcing him to bite the pillow as I fucked him rough and hard. I’d wanted to teach them both a lesson about fucking without me. But I hadn’t done any of that. I’d put my pride and ego to the side. I’d told them that they could not do it when I wasn’t around. But I was around. So I couldn’t be mad at them for following the rules.
A week passed us by. We fell into a little routine. Wake up. Go to work. Get off work. Meet at Mona’s hotel. That went on until school was out for me. I thought about my son often. Couldn’t get his voice out of my head. I was anxious to see him. Talk to him. My parents had told me Nicole had met them at Dave & Buster’s so they could spend time with Jacques, but she hadn’t called me since the night Mona had talked me into calling her.
I was worried I had crossed the line and had made it so Nicole would never let me see or talk to him. But just as Mona and Demi had said, I had to start fighting back, or I’d miss out on the rest of Jacques’s life by waiting on Nicole.
Demitri and I were home. He was cooking . . . and cleaning. Mona was on the way to our place. We’d never allowed a woman into our home before. Actually, Demitri cooked only when he didn’t fill like ordering in or going to pick up food. That meant it was rare that he cooked. But when we’d invited Mona over, he’d gone to the store, grabbed the ingredients he needed for a traditional Grenadian meal: chicken stew, pumpkin mash, callaloo, and sorrel juice.
While he cooked, I went over what he had cleaned to make sure it had been done right. This would be the first time Mona was in my home. I had to be sure the first impression was the best one. Demitri had his shirt off. He was a Grenadian who believed in cleaning his chicken thoroughly before cooking it. Rinse, rinse, and take the skin off, and then rinse with lime juice. The house smelled like onions, garlic, red bell peppers, carrots, curry powder, basil, dill, and smoked paprika.
Vybz Kartel’s “Fever” played on the radio. I didn’t think either of us was paying attention to it. I walked into the kitchen, grabbed some of the sorrel juice.
“How long before she gets here?” I asked.
He glanced over at me. A piece of carrot was hanging from his mouth. “About ten minutes, she said.”
Yup. Mona and Demi had exchanged phone numbers. They had spoken pretty frequently over the past week. They’d gone from enemies to something I didn’t have a name for at the moment. Fuck buddies, maybe? For a man who hadn’t been with a woman in years, he was into Mona every chance she let him. Literally.
“She asked you to cook for her?”
He shook his head. “Nah, but she said she was hungry. Hadn’t eaten anything. Been locked in that damn hotel room all day, writing.”
“So you volunteered?”
He stopped stirring the chicken stew, then looked at me. “Yeah. Why?”
“Just asking.”
He nodded once. Picked up another piece of carrot and popped it into his mouth.
“You probably shouldn’t get too attached to her.”
He cut his eyes at me. Shook his head. “You mean like you did?”
I ignored the sarcasm. “You’re living a fantasy. The same one you accused me of.”
He didn’t say anything. Walked over to the sink to wash his hands. He turned to face me head-on as he dried his hands. “Jealous?” he asked.
His tone was straitlaced. No bullshit. He was challenging me. I laughed. In his own way, Demi was challenging me for my woman. Yeah, she was mine. I had claimed her as my own. No man had touched her since I’d come into her life. She’d made herself available solely to me and only me.
Demi smirked. Tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowed.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I told him. “That’s mine.”
It was time for Demi to laugh. “You think you own her. You don’t. You treat her like a possession.”
“And you’re treating her like she’s paying you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Turn around. Face the wall. We can make that happen.”
He was thinking about it. I could see it in his eyes. The way he gave me the once-over. In his eyes was a look I was familiar with. He hated to be challenged. It ate away at something in him. It was one of the bad traits his father had passed down to him. Demi always had to prove his manhood when he was tested.
“You’re jealous?” he challenged me. “Mad because another man can turn her head now? Isn’t this what you wanted?”
He had me there. I’d wanted it. Had damn near forced them into the position we were all in now. However, I felt a stab of jealousy every time Mona went to him so effortlessly. Her moans when he was inside of her wouldn’t stop playing in my head
.
“I didn’t mean for you to get carried away,” I answered.
“How am I getting carried away?”
“The talking, touching. Fucking. You let her play in your fucking hair. Massage your scalp.”
He chuckled. “I’m confused. Are you jealous because I’m fucking her or because she’s fucking me? Explain,” he demanded while folding his arms across his wide chest.
I couldn’t answer that question. Truth be told, it was probably both of those things. Sometimes I felt as if I was on the outside, looking in. Like they’d gotten so caught up in one another that they sometimes forgot I existed.
Demi asked, “Do you want me to back off?”
The way the sardonic smile was plastered on his face told me he’d asked that question only for fun. There was a hidden meaning that told me no matter what I said, he wouldn’t leave her alone. It was some crazy shit for me to ask the man I was in a relationship with to leave the woman I kept on the side alone. He knew that. That was why he had asked the question.
I turned away from him. Went to answer the door. I opened it to find a smiling Mona there. She was dressed simply in a red sundress and casual white Keds sneakers. She had a bottle of wine in one hand and a Cheesecake Factory bag in the other, and I was I sure that bag contained a cheesecake.
“Hey, baby,” she greeted when I let her in.
She stood at the door, watching me as I watched her. I quirked a brow, staring down at her. Her smile faltered.
“What?” she asked.
“You went out today in that thin-ass dress?” I asked.
I had never been a man who thought he had the right to tell a woman what to wear, but Mona’s dress was so thin, I could see the outline of her body. She had on no bra. Her nipples peeked out at me. Smiled and fucking waved. Her ass jiggled is such a heavenly way that my dick jumped to life.
She looked down at her dress while holding her arms out, with the bags still in her hands. “Uh. Yeah. Why? Something wrong with it?”
“You damn skippy. I can see . . . everything.”
“You can see the outline of my shape at best. It’s hot as hell. My thighs are big. My nipples hurt because my hunt for red October is coming. I couldn’t wear a bra. Not today. And no matter what I wear, my ass, hips, and thighs aren’t going anywhere, caveman.”
I shook my head, then ran a hand down my face. “Samona, you know niggas in Atlanta have no manners. You at least got your pepper spray and Taser on you?”
She said, “Always.”
I grunted, still watching her.
“Damn, you fine,” Demitri said from behind me.
I scowled at him. He moved past me. Wrapped Mona in a hug, then kissed her neck. He kissed her fucking neck . . . while looking at me with a grin on his face. He was testing me. Seeing how far he could push before I snapped. I ignored him. For now.
Dinner was served a few minutes after Mona arrived. We talked about this. We talked about that. Demi mentioned something about a bald-headed man in a hoodie who kept staring him down while he was out earlier. Said the man didn’t scare him or anything. Was just being weird, the way dudes in Atlanta tended to be at times. We talked about the presidential election and what a clusterfuck it had boiled down to. Mona didn’t want to vote for Hillary but for damn sure wasn’t voting for Trump. Demi said he refused to vote altogether, which got Mona heated.
“I mean, I get we don’t have a lot of options, but—”
“Don’t give me that spiel about our ancestors marching for the right to vote,” he said, cutting her off. “I appreciate all they did and all they had to suffer, but nah. I’m sitting this one out.”
Mona shook her head and rolled her eyes. “You’re out of your mind if you think not voting is going to help in any way.”
“Well, I’ll just be out of my mind,” was his response.
The topic turned to the issues in the LGBTQIA community.
Demi said, “I swear, every fucking year those damn white folk add another letter to that shit.”
We laughed. Mona brought the conversation around to all the trans black women being killed. I agreed with her that something needed to be done about that. Some kind of initiative.
“Some of them have to take responsibility for their actions,” Demi said.
Mona gave him a blank look. I knew his thoughts on the matter. But I figured I’d let Mona find out on her own.
She asked him, “Are you victim blaming?”
He shook his head once. “Nah. I’m saying you can’t pretend to have a pussy to get a man to have sex with you, then be shocked that shit turns violent when he finds out otherwise. And even if you manage to buy a pussy, you can’t trick a man into laying with you, then expect a good outcome.”
“Excuse me?” Mona said.
“I got friends who are trans. They call it pussy stunting. Most of the time, trans women are killed for such things. All I’m saying is, if a nigga comes up to you and is interested, before y’all go on that first date, you should probably disclose the gender you were assigned at birth. Also, sex workers have to be careful who they take money from. They know most of these niggas out here got fragile-ass manhoods.”
“So, basically you’re saying they bring this kind of violence on themselves? If so, that’s fucking asinine. Because some trans women are killed just for existing. That’s like saying black men are asking for the fucking cops to shoot them for sagging and wearing hoodies,” Mona retorted.
Demi grunted. “No it ain’t. We were all born black. There ain’t ever had to be a study to determine that shit. When people look at me, they see a black man.”
“But there are those in the community whom people can see who are queer and/or gay.”
“They don’t look at me and see a bisexual black man. The police are afraid of me because I’m black, not because I choose to be same-gender loving at times.”
“So now you’re saying you chose your sexuality?”
He looked at her and nodded. “I did. Sexuality is fluid. I can’t speak for others, but I chose my sexuality. Shit didn’t choose me. Some of us were born that way. I wasn’t one of those people.”
Mona got ready to say something, but Demi cut her off again. “And you know what else? I hate that people think that just because my sexuality falls into one of those damn letters, I have to think and feel the same way as the rest of the community does. I don’t. Gay Christians confuse me too. Shit’s like an oxymoron. Like when they say God made me this way. It confuses me for many reasons.”
Mona ate a bite of her cheesecake before asking, “How so?”
Demi had a serious look on his face. “You mean to tell me the God you serve knew what he was doing when he made you gay, but when it came to assigning your sex, he got confused? The fuck kind of God you serving?”
“I think some in the gay community turned to saying that because people were calling them mistakes and abominations.”
“I don’t have to prove that my sexuality is a natural fucking occurrence to anyone, gay, straight, or otherwise. Also, I ain’t got to prove homosexuality was in Africa way back when. I don’t have to fucking look to homosexual behavior in animals to prove my sexuality is natural, either. Why do we have to prove ourselves to such lengths? Doesn’t matter if homosexuality was in Egypt or any other African country way back when. It’s here now.”
I tried to hide a knowing smile. Mona was the wrong one to have a social debate with. She’d call a person to task and have them reconsider their stance on things. However, Demitri never backed down. Always stood strong in his convictions. So when Mona picked up her wineglass and turned her full attention to him, I knew shit was about to get real.
“Now, that last little bit I can agree with. I also hate to hear that those in the community are trying to prove their sexuality is natural by turning to animals. It has always rubbed me the wrong way. But back to the assumption that trans women are bringing death upon themselves—”
Demi said, “I never said th
at. Those words never left my mouth.”
“You implied it. It’s just like saying a woman is asking to be raped by the clothes she’s wearing.”
“Listen, no man has a right to touch a woman without explicit consent. A woman who chooses to wear a short skirt or tight clothing is not tricking a man into having sex with them. There are a lot of men out there now who have no problem being with trans women, but some of those women are so fucking obsessed with getting so-called straight men to be with them in any capacity that they think it’s cute to lead a man on until he finds out otherwise. It isn’t. I work closely with a lot of trans women in the area. I do volunteer work for a charity because there are a lot of young boys, gay boys, who are being preyed upon,” he said.
Demi went on. “And they’re being preyed upon by older men in the gay community, who should be taking the time to teach them the proper way to survive. They have to turn to the sex trade in order to survive. They place themselves in a lot of dangerous situations. Some end up hurt. Some end up dead. Some I can save. Some I can’t. I tell them the shit they don’t want to hear. I’ve even had older trans women preying on young teenage boys who are struggling to understand their sexuality. This shit ain’t black and white. And while most of us sit at home and talk about it on social media, I’m actually in the street, doing something about it. So while social justice warriors want to coddle them, I won’t. You cannot trick a man into thinking you were assigned a woman at birth. It is dangerous and can cost trans women their lives.”
I knew Mona, and normally, she would have been down my throat by now. But just like me, she could see that Demi was coming from a place of experience and past personal pain. The passion in his voice could rub some people the wrong way. It often did. They assumed, because of the way he spoke, that he was trying to change their minds or force his views on them. He wasn’t.
Demi kept going. “I’m out there when I’m not working. I go by the well-known working areas. I pass out bags of condoms, dental dams. I provide information on housing and even set up safe houses in the area. If one of them gets into any trouble, I have friends in the area who will open up their home to them. Like, say, for instance, if a trick gets violent, they have places they can hide. I do this shit for real. I lived the life of a low-end male whore, and then I lived the life of a high-end escort. I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”
Bi-Sensual Page 21