He had a nice savings but was smart enough not to let Fancy or any other woman know. Desmond had saved one hundred dollars a week for several years without touching any of it. That money would help him get into law school one day. He shared a three-bedroom house in West Oakland that was always clean. Although Desmond barely saw his roommates, whether he was at home or away, he locked his bedroom door. And he kept his top shelf in the refrigerator stocked with the free sodas Tyronne gave him every weekend.
Desmond saved his money because he’d grown up poor. His mom and dad both worked hard to take care of him and his six siblings. Now that his folks were retired, they seldom went anywhere outside of Oakland. This year he’d planned to set aside extra cash so he could surprise his parents with a cruise to Alaska. He’d heard Alaska was beautiful and hoped one day to see for himself. Maybe he’d take Fancy to Alaska.
Desmond wondered whatever happened to the good old days. When a man was the king of his castle. Put food on the table. Kept a roof over his family’s head. And his word was word. That’s the kind of household he was raised in, back in Atlanta, Georgia. Moving to California was a shocker. California women weren’t prettier than Georgia women, though. Georgia had some of the sweetest peaches he’d ever seen or tasted. Maybe he should consider moving back and hooking up with his high school sweetheart, Trina, since she still called him every week. California females had too many issues.
They hated the white girls, claiming they were taking all the black men. Desmond couldn’t lie. White girls were more aggressive. But he liked them because they loved to have lots of fun and uninhibited sex. Desmond appreciated not having to impress white girls. They loved the real Desmond. They weren’t trying to fix him up, hook him up, or tear him down. But sometimes, most of the times, he’d rather be with a sistah. They had a special kind of sexiness he couldn’t explain, all their own. That was until the attitude kicked in, which was usually within the first five minutes. Maybe that was the appeal. Maybe sistahs’ attitudes made them sexy.
If Desmond tried to holla at a sistah, she might holla back. As long as the white girl wasn’t around. And as long as he wasn’t in the faded blue cover-up jumpsuit he wore to work. Or wasn’t riding his bike. Or wasn’t on foot. Or if he wasn’t standing at the bus stop. But that was okay with him because if she was at the bus stop, he didn’t want to get with her either.
After Desmond told women where he worked, it never failed. They’d ask with disbelief, “If you’re a mechanic, what are you doing riding the bus?” So a brotha can’t help save the earth and conserve on gas? One sistah, seemed like her ass should’ve conserved gas and stopped eating so many beans or whatever the hell she’d eaten that caused her to pollute the air surrounding his three feet of space. Desmond could’ve played it off the way she did, rambling on, pretending her fart didn’t stink, but why should he?
He said, “Damn, girl.” She smiled and gave herself credit, thinking that was a compliment. Desmond wrote 1(800) exh-aust, the number Californians used to report automobiles polluting the air, on the back of his homemade business card and handed it to her. “Count to ten before you get on the bus!” She was pissed but he wasn’t in the mood to put her emotions first. Women always expected that shit, too. Like a brotha didn’t have needs above his waistline. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a ride. His car was clean. A custom-designed 1964 Mustang. Royal blue exterior. Light blue leather interior. Chrome rims. A real beauty. Just like Fancy.
CHAPTER 4
Fancy rolled over and stared at Desmond. Waking up with him was not what she’d planned, so Fancy eased out of bed, sat at her vanity, and began journaling a list of resolutions. First and foremost to lose the five pounds she’d gained munching at holiday parties, by the end of January. It was so easy for five pounds to turn into ten and ten to turn into twenty. Fancy knew firsthand because she was the chubbiest microwave-queen latchkey kid in her third grade class. And now that she was a perfect size seven, Fancy refused to be fat like her mother. When Caroline took a seat in a chair, her stomach took a seat in her lap. That grossed Fancy out so bad she did one thousand sit-ups every day: five hundred in the morning and the same before she went to sleep.
Fancy stood and tilted her chin. She scanned between her perky titties, past her pierced belly button, over her clipper-trimmed bush, down to her pedicure, and smiled.
Sitting back on the stool, Fancy penciled in goal number two: call Caroline once a week. For real this year. Most of the time, Fancy wrote with a pencil because she believed the only things that were certain and untimely were broke ugly men begging her for a date and death.
Third, was to find her a rich husband. Byron could become her new sponsor during their short-term engagement. Six months tops. Whew! Fancy tossed the gold lead-filled pen on the pad, then swiped her forehead with the back of her hand. That was enough commitments for the year.
Ding dong ding-dong. Ding dong ding-dong. The brass clock chimed, commanding her attention. Fancy glanced over, picking the sleep matter, mixed with leftover mascara, from the corners of her eyes. Seven o’clock. She glanced over her shoulder. Desmond drooled on her black silk pillowcase.
Fancy nudged his shoulder. “Dez, you need to get up, man. I’ve gotta go.” That meant Desmond had to go, too. Fancy never allowed a man to stay in her apartment while she was away. Her appointment with Mandy, her psychologist, was in three hours and her New Year’s lunch celebration with her girls, SaVoy and Tanya, was at noon.
“Damn, what time is it?” Desmond yawned and rolled onto his back while stretching his arms above his head.
Fancy squinted, then sang, “Hum, hum, hum, hum.” She stared at Desmond without speaking a word.
Desmond’s alluring eyes and broad smile softened her attitude, so Fancy gave him a half smile, kissed his dimple, and said, “Good morning, baby.”
Desmond tossed back the covers. Fancy’s eyes widened as Desmond’s hard-on broke through the opening of his cotton boxers.
“Umm. Umm.” Fancy cleared her throat, trying to conceal her approval. “Get up, Dez. For real. I gotta go.” Fancy saw Desmond in a different light as the sun rays beamed through the vertical blinds, flickering across his slightly darker nipples that stood perfectly round atop his mushroomed muscular chest.
Last night Desmond nestled his head into her breasts, reciting his love poems: If You Only Knew, Mirage, and One Day.
One day
In God’s time
I often pray
This vision in my mind
Will flourish within
My lifetime
Before I perish
I cherish
Each moment with you
Old and new
Funny and blue
True I pray
Every day
You’ll be mine
One Day
In God’s time
Desmond always ended each love poem with, “I love you, Fancy.”
Fancy gazed out over the lake, remembering how good she felt stroking Desmond’s hair until they fell asleep in one another’s arms. She felt safe. Secure. She realized she was now lying beside Desmond, running her fingers through his untamed hair. Chestnut brown. Curly. Soft. Naturally soft. She swirled it around and around, creating a spiral loop.
“Happy New Year, Fancy. And happy birthday, too. This is going to be our year, girl. I can feel it!” Desmond wrapped his arm about her waist. New Year’s Day had passed, right along with her birthday, but he was so upset about Byron. Fancy appreciated Desmond’s acknowledgments and the fact that he’d never mentioned her slamming his car door.
She frowned, hoping Desmond wasn’t about to break out into another one of his love poems. Fancy needed a strong, independent man. Not a man like Desmond who needed constant reassurance of her feelings. She stood, then grunted, “Umph! Umph! Umph!” Desmond’s dick was pointed toward the ceiling. Fancy’s toes dug into the carpet. As he stood and moved closer, her body trembled.
“I love you, Fancy.”
Turning her head sideways to avoid getting a second whiff of his morning breath, Fancy casually responded, “I know, Dez.”
The head of Desmond’s stiff dick eased between the gap in her thighs, slid along her pubic hairs, down along her shaft, and pressed hard against her clit. Fancy took a deep breath.
“I want you,” Desmond whispered in her ear, “to marry me. Be my wife.”
The air inside Fancy’s lungs escaped. She wasn’t trying to start any bad habits or send Desmond any mixed signals. It was two days before her period and Desmond’s dick was pulsating in synch with her throbbing pussy.
“Okay,” Fancy lied, because she wanted to have sex. “I’ll think about it if you apply and you are accepted into law school.” Maybe she could help Desmond get serious about his resolution.
“For real. Damn! So you’ll wear my ring.” Desmond raced over and removed a small black velvet box from his denim pocket. The velvet wasn’t rich and full. The sleek coating shone more than a pair of polyester pants that had been ironed on a cotton setting. Kneeling before her on one knee, he flipped the box open.
“Umph. Umph.” Cupping her hand over her mouth, Fancy choked. That little bitty ass stone could hardly be considered a diamond. Some jeweler must have discovered a way to fuse two granules of sugar together and make them sparkle. Then that loser must have used the world’s smallest tweezers to set it in sterling silver. Fancy turned and walked away, shaking her head in disbelief.
“I need to take a shower.” Desmond had fucked up her hormones and he’d blown his first real chance to lick Miss Kitty. Fancy was all ready to wrap those lips men loved so much around Desmond’s bulging head.
She removed a white washcloth and matching bath towel from the linen closet, sighed heavily, and said, “Just forget about it. I gotta go.”
Fancy watched Desmond flop onto the bed, facedown. His ass sat higher than Tim Brown’s of the Raiders. The silky dark hairs outlining the crack of Desmond’s cheeks were so sexy Miss Kitty had become sad that she wasn’t getting any dick. Fancy needed to cool off so she took a cold shower while listening to Jaheim’s CD. What was Desmond thinking about when he bought that box of Cracker Jacks? Truly no reputable jeweler would make such a thing.
Fancy dried herself off. When she entered the bedroom, Desmond jumped up and said, “Some guy named Byron just called.”
Shit! Why hadn’t she turned off the ringer? Fancy bit her bottom lip, then asked, “What did you tell him?”
“That you were biz-zy.” Desmond smiled, swinging his dick. Perhaps so Fancy could see what he insinuated was occupying her time or what she was missing. The definition in his abs leading down toward his crotch disappeared behind his dark pubic forest.
Fancy grabbed the handset, scrolled her caller ID, then sat on the foot of her bed and hit the dial button. “Hey, Byron. It’s me, Fancy. You called?” She impatiently waited for a response. “Hello?”
“Yeah, who was that who answered your phone?” Byron questioned, then said, “I thought you lived alone.”
“I do. That was just Dez,” Fancy said, laughing. “He’s just a friend. So, what’s up?”
“I called to see if you’re free next Friday night. Say around six,” Byron said.
Available? Yes. Free? Never. Honey, Fancy worked to get paid. The only people who worked for free were volunteers. And Fancy Taylor wasn’t volunteering Miss Kitty for no damn body. “Maybe I’m available. What’d you have in mind?” She casually responded, trying not to sound anxious.
“My company is hosting a fund-raiser. You looked so beautiful the other night when we met. I’d love to have you on my arm.”
“Hold on. Let me check my calendar.” Fancy moved the phone away from her ear and counted to fifteen. She watched Desmond disappear into the bathroom. “I did have a commitment but I can clear my calendar.” That meant she’d have to reschedule her date with Steven, but Byron was an investment, so she’d squeeze him in.
“Great, I’ll have my driver phone you on Monday to get your particulars. See you Friday. Oh, yeah. Wear something provocative. And don’t bring any of your friends.” Byron hung up the phone.
Obviously he didn’t know Fancy very well. She always dressed provocative. When Fancy placed the handset on the base, Desmond walked out of the bathroom, then stood before her dripping wet. She couldn’t determine which hung lower, his jaw or his now limp dick.
“Who was dude?” Desmond questioned, as if he were the man of her house.
“Oh, he’s just a friend.” Fancy shook her head and said, “You don’t know him. Dez, where are your clothes? I told you—”
Desmond wedged his tongue between Fancy’s lips, then said, “Better not be that loser from New Year’s Eve.” Desmond picked up Fancy like she weighed thirty-five pounds instead of one hundred and thirty-five pounds and sat her on his lap as he took her seat on the edge of the bed. He hugged her waist, burying his face in her breasts. The heat exhaling from his nostrils warmed Fancy’s breasts. They sat in silence as Desmond’s chest rapidly rose and fell with each breath. Fancy positioned her hands on the side of his head, guiding his lips a short distance over to her protruding nipple.
Desmond bit, sucked, then mumbled with his mouth full, “Fancy, what do you want from me?”
Fancy’s body shivered with anticipated pleasure. This was not the appropriate time for questioning. So she softly said, “Dez, you’re the only true male friend I have. I don’t want us to ruin our friendship by getting too serious.” Desmond really was her only reliable male friend. “Besides, it’s impolite to speak with your mouth full.”
Before Desmond could say another word Fancy stuffed as much of her breast as she could into his warm mouth. First the right titty, then the left one. Fancy was so wet the moisture saturated her inner thighs.
Desmond must have felt it too because he picked her up and laid her atop the sheets and worked his mouth from her toes to her clit, up to her lips and back down to Miss Kitty. His tongue wiggled down her shaft. Fancy tried opening her legs but he immediately closed them. Desmond buried his face in Fancy’s crotch, inhaled deeply, then began thrusting and flicking his tongue between her pubic hairs to the tip of her clit. Fancy trembled. Her entire body tingled. Just when she was about to cum, Desmond spread her legs and began fucking Fancy so good her eyes widened, then rolled backward and started watering. Her hips joined in his motion.
“Bring her all the way to me and don’t move. Let me control this girl,” Desmond whispered as he sat on his heels of his feet. The back of Fancy’s head rested on the mattress like the bottom of a seesaw while Desmond leveled her hips with his.
Fancy shouted, “Damn you! Damn you! Please, Dez. Stop. Damn you. Stop! Please!” But Desmond ignored her pleas.
Fancy came again and again. Desmond switched positions, kissing, licking, and sucking Miss Kitty. Fancy’s juices flowed continuously. After her fourth orgasm or so she started crying and couldn’t stop.
Fancy wasn’t sure she wanted Desmond to stop but she knew she couldn’t take much more. Just when she thought he was through, he rolled her over flat onto her stomach and entered her from behind.
“Dammit! Dez.” How did he know that was her favorite position?
First Desmond moved slow. Then fast. Then slow again. And then faster. Fancy came so hard she screamed, “Oooooooooo!” in between yelling, “Yes! Fuck me, Daddy!” several times. If her neighbors weren’t awake, they must have been now. After she tapered her yelling, Desmond French kissed the back of her neck, eased his hands underneath her body, and softly caressed her breasts. She felt his erection subsiding but he didn’t pull out.
Fancy decided it was time for her to get on top when she heard, Ding dong ding-dong. Ding dong ding-dong.
“Shit!” Miss Kitty ejected Desmond’s slippery dick. Fancy pushed him back and jumped out the bed, stumbling toward the clock. She had exactly forty-two minutes to shower, get dressed, and make it to Mandy’s office in Berkeley. Desmond was the firs
t man to really make love to every part of her body, and although she felt herself falling in love with him, Desmond would never know the truth.
CHAPTER 5
Barely making it to Mandy’s in time for her morning appointment, Fancy parked at a meter on University Avenue. Jamming a plastic coin into the slot, she tied a Safeway grocery bag over the meter, pulled out her black marker, and wrote BROKEN in bold letters.
“Hi, Miss Diva,” the receptionist said. “Go on in. Mandy’s ready for you.”
Fancy took her usual seat on the blue leather sofa and placed her mink coat beside her. Mandy swiveled in her high-back chair to face Fancy. Mandy’s auburn hair was short and tapered to her head. The neatly trimmed edges reflected her orderly demeanor. Fancy wondered if Mandy had issues, too. Maybe she saw a psychologist on her day off. The tinted frameless eyeglasses which Mandy seldom looked through, always over, were classy but Fancy hated how her small round eyes pierced straight through her each time Mandy asked a question. She spoke soft and deliberate, pronouncing every syllable.
“So, what’re your resolutions for this year? Prioritize them for me, Fancy.” Mandy didn’t waste any of Fancy’s minutes with small talk or personal greetings.
Mandy remained silent. Before Fancy spoke, Mandy’s Mont Blanc pen scrolled along the legal size pad.
Fancy quickly juggled the list in her head. She exhaled and began speaking. “Finding the right man is first. Since I already look good, I can make losing five pounds my second priority.... And last is Caroline ’cause she probably don’t want me bothering her no way.”
Mandy’s slender hips hardly covered the leather seat. Her waist and breasts were disproportionately larger than her hips, but overall, Mandy was a small woman. Five foot one inch at best. Maybe one hundred pounds.
He's Just A Friend Page 4