Mocha Chocolate: Taste A Piece of Ecstasy

by Greene-Dowdell, Shani

  “I never knew my coochie could feel like this…” I felt his loving in my toes, and it snaked up my spine, tinkled across my bones and it exploded in my breasts. I screamed out his name when he thrust faster and harder into my love. We were drenched with sweat, the chair had a huge wet spot on it but we didn’t care. I looked right in his eyes—tears escaped. He wasn’t used to this feeling. He had a look of determination on his face. He wanted that goddamn touchdown. “Oh I can’t handle this feeling, baby,” he said. His legs trembled. Oh, no! I wrapped my legs around his sweaty waist and I put it on his ass. I whipped this pussy on him. He moaned so loud. “Oh, God baby girl, goddamn baby…this feels so good…!” He moved faster and faster. Sex filled the air. In a matter of minutes, he had become a master, taking control of the field…working his magic, bringing me up on the highest peak of the tallest mountain and pushing me off and I was falling, falling, slamming through clouds and grasping for a cliff that I couldn’t see.

  “I love you, I’ll die for you, I’ll die without you baby please don’t leave me like my mother had…please be there forever. I’ll kill a nigga if he tries to take you. I’ll murder him and do life without…” He pushed my legs back behind my head and he began pounding my oil base like pistons, it felt so good. He groaned and his ass jiggled. His nuts bounced like basketballs on my womanhood, it turned me on and the freak came out of me. He then put all his weight on me and I felt like I was suffocating, but I loved it. He nibbled on my ear…and his sweaty hips rotated like the dial on his grandfather clock across the room and I fell faster, feeling the explosions rocket through my body.

  Some feeling caught me off guard. I held my breath and begged Cleo to fuck me harder and faster, and he did, no questions asked, he was pounding my hole so fast I was hanging half way off the couch and he didn’t stop sexing me…oh God! My sugar walls vibrated, muscles contracted and I got extremely wet as I screamed out in delight, begging him to keep going. What was happening to me? I couldn’t describe what just happened…I had sex four times with different guys and I never felt this sensation.

  I almost had this feeling with the first guy I had sex with, when I lost my virginity. But he pounded me so hard it hurt; I felt it in my stomach. And I begged him to stop but he turned into a selfish monster and pounded me harder until my blood colored his white sheets and I bit his nose, drawing blood and he screamed in pain. When he pulled out of me I had grabbed my clothes and locked myself in his bathroom, washed myself off while he pounded on the door—“I’m going to kill you, bitch!”— And I climbed out his mother’s bathroom window and caught the bus home.

  The second guy, Daniel, was a total jerk. Didn’t know what he was doing. And in two minutes he came on my stomach and that was that. I was like, “Sex ain’t shit!”

  So I did it a third time. I was 15 years old and I sought out a 17 year old. Black ass Caliph. He was good, too. Star basketball player. But he was a forty-second brother. I learned then that some boys get in to get theirs so they can get out to get in another girl somewhere else and make their bullshit routine. Goddamn the woman! I learned then. So I finished myself off and after a few minutes I stopped because I didn’t want to do it to myself.

  And the forth time, Eddie. He just made me wish I wasn’t a woman. For one he was drunk, I had to drive him to his Mom’s house. Secondly he was loud, “I’m ‘bout to get me some pussy, I’m ‘bout to fuck the ex-Gangster’s daughter.” I should have run then. But I was so horny I stayed. He wanted the lights to stay off, like he wanted to pretend I was someone else. He was good, but once again, two minutes later—POW! BANG! BOOM! Game over. Batman couldn’t find his Robin. He rolled over and went to sleep, snoring all in my ear. I was too mad. And to add insult to goddamn insult, his mama came home from work early. She came into his room and turned the lights on. She told him to take out the garbage and when she saw us lying there naked she tried to resurrect Jesus by attempting to snatch Easter out my ass. She got her broom and chased me all over the room. I jumped over his bed, ran up the hall, pivoted and ran around her back into his room for my clothes. He sat on the bed, laughing, talking about, “Get her, Mama! Get her!” I took into account the pictures on the dresser, with his mama in all of them. The pink, purple and white colors in the room were trying to tell me something. It was then I realized we fucked in his mama’s bed! I felt dumb. No wonder the bitch wanted me dead.

  But I never had an orgasm. I never even heard of it. Until now. I thought men were the only ones who could cum. I thought God didn’t give us that ability because of Eve. I thought men lasted for two minutes. But Cleo shattered all of those myths! We were on our thirtieth minute and he was still going strong, slowing up, making love to me, kissing me, grabbing my breasts…then speeding up inside me, making me cum over and over on his dick.

  “Baby…I’m about to explode, oh my God!” His eyes were balls of paradise as he came inside of me as I was releasing orgasm number five. I was spent, drained and could barely move. His moan was so seductive. It turned me on the way he kept saying, “Baby, I love you. I love you. I love you. It feeeeels soooooooooooo gooooood. Baby, oh my God!” I felt him pumping his soldiers into me, pounding my pussy to oblivion…he sped up, not slowing down…He kissed my breasts…He wouldn’t stop. He was a runaway train. The look on his face I’d never forget. He was content and happy. We would continue love making for two more hours. My body felt beat up. All this from a virgin.

  We were avaricious. This would be our avant garde. I was a girl in love. I tried to breathe properly, but I couldn’t. That night we conceived our child. I felt it in my heart. I just felt it. I couldn’t explain it. Plus, that was around my time of the month – maybe the thought of a child was farfetched, but it wasn’t.

  Not once did I think of my anorexia nervosa years, when I was twelve to about the age of fourteen. If only I’d stayed that way. I wiped tears from my face. We were so sweaty and the room was so hot all the frames and glass were foggy.

  That brings me back to the current year. And here I sit, on the same couch Cleo lost his virginity on so many years ago, so many years ago. How do I let go the memories? How do I forget about a man who loved me unconditionally?

  Looking at Pluto, my dog, I felt alone. Wiping tears from my eyes. Now I was overweight. I didn’t love myself anymore. I let go life; even though I tried to convince myself I was sane. I was now eating another bag of chips, drinking soda after soda, about to go in the kitchen and take the pot roast out the oven and whip up some mashed potatoes, eat some bread sticks and make a salad. I knew people in the hood wondered how I wound up with Cleo’s house. I knew they thought we got married and I divorced him and took all his shit, like the average gold digger. I knew they thought because, back then, I had his baby in my womb the judge gave me everything. I knew how nosey people thought. I heard it all the time when I went outside. People hating me for destroying Cleo, when I didn’t. I loved him entirely too much. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t hurt my man. I cried, sobbing so hard that Pluto whimpered with me. I couldn’t breathe. My throat was constricted.

  My tears didn’t provide annuity. Yes, I wound up pregnant. Just like I thought the night I took his virginity. I knew I was when we first made love. I woke up, throwing up in my bed a month later. I knew then. Mama had gone through this with me. She told me what morning sickness was. My ex girlfriends had kids and they went through this. They told me that was one of the things they hated about pregnancy. I was two months when I tried to tell mama, but she was always busy. I had graduated from school and all. Scared to move from home, Cleo and I were going to college right here in Buffalo. Cleo and I were living together. We were set to be married in three months. We sent out invitations to bring both families together. He was excited about being a father. He couldn’t wait. He was happier than I was.

  Cleo and I made love four times a day. We never got tired of each other. We used toys, fruit and we had a very vivid imagination. We never used protection. He was fascinated with my body. He
took out the time to explore every nook and cranny. He always bought me flowers, catered to me, cooked for me, ran my bath…helped put my hair in rollers at night, wrote me poetry. I held his book of poetry in my hand. It was published. Two hundred poems. Love conquered Naomi, was the title. Put out by my baby. Best-seller. It hurt to hold this book. It really killed me inside.

  He used to read the Bible to me. Every morning when we woke up he read ten verses. Before bed time, ten more verses. He memorized scripture. He admired the book of Job. Because of what Job lost. He felt he could relate. His grandmother died two weeks after my fifth month of pregnancy. We gave her a good funeral, so many people showed up. My dad wound up with terminal cancer and he died painfully because he refused Chemo. “I’m a gangster,” he said, despite me and mama fighting him tooth and nail so he could get medical help. We buried him a month later. My mother flipped out so bad she was put in a mental institution. She stopped functioning. Cleo helped me deal with my depression. I almost lost my baby four times because I was in so much pain about my parents.

  Cleo was right there. Cleo made going to church fun. A learning experience. The church loved us. Such memorable days. Before his grandma died she said I looked like his Mama, Jayne, her daughter…her only child. Even Marguerite, his grandmother, a very strong, smart woman who was blind at that point, graduated from Bethune Cookman College. In 1914 she was born on a cotton field in Alabama to slaves. Her parents escaped and relocated in Buffalo, New York where they found work through a prominent white family and they never looked back on their gruesome past.

  I loved grandma. She was my rock. My own mother was my rock, my salvation, until daddy died. Grandma showed me all the family photos. It was scary. I looked just like Cleo’s mother when she was a little girl. Spitting image almost. I shuddered. Jayne was an angel, six feet tall and had the body and beauty of a model. I saw her baby pictures, so cute. Ages 1-10 revealed a life of happiness for Jayne. When she was fifteen she won her first poetry contest. I have the photo now, looking at it at the dining room table. I cherished these photos. When Grandma showed me Cleo’s baby pictures, I fell in love with him even more. He was a wild child, always eager to please mom and grandma. He loved football. He excelled, even playing optimist. Trophies lined his mother’s shelves. They still do. I polished them everyday. He loved watching football on TV. All around Cleo’s Mama’s house, and even now, were big-smiling photos, afro photos; my mama-takes-me-all-over-town photos; Disney world photos…a-week-in-California photos; my-daddy-was-in-four-pictures-with-me-before-he-abandoned-mama-and-me-and-made-another-family photos.

  I kissed Cleo’s high school graduation picture, falling into a deep depression. Cleo was murdered by a prejudiced white man. It hurt me to think about it. I had to go on living after his dreadful funeral, forced to survive without my pride and joy. It hurt so much that I forgot I was pregnant, and lost my baby. I started bleeding one night in the shower…bleeding badly. I was so withdrawn into myself, trying to make peace with Cleo’s death, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe without him. He was my life support, my strength, and my reason for living.

  With Cleo on my mind, fresh tears fell down my face. I picked up the telephone, the phone book open beside me. I pondered calling the number I had circled in red. I hung up the phone and snatched it up countless times, silently praying to God for an answer. But one didn’t come to me.

  The hell with it. I owed this phone call to myself. I slowly, my fingers shaking, dialed the number. The phone rings. A nice lady answers. Said a few words.

  I tried to smile when I said, “My name is Naomi. I need some help. I don’t love myself.”

  And the lady said, “Can you come in today? Do you know the address? We treat you like family here. I know Dr. Franz would love to speak with you. She’s a refutable psychiatrist. She’s very polite. Would you like to come in today? Maybe we can help you love yourself.”

  It wasn’t the end of my problems. But, I hope to God, it was a start because I hadn’t had a time as sweet as the night I had it all.

  Larry Wilson, Jr. is an accomplished author of several books, The King of Erotica I: the Throne and The King of Erotica II: the Crown. Tired of the issues that a sexually liberated man faces with the publishing industry, Larry took control of his image and his writing and self-published his first book. That book sold over 2,500 copies online in just five months. Larry accomplished this feat by leveraging his talent and reputation that he had built in gay market. In his books Larry addresses his bisexuality, sexuality, the black church and sexuality in the black family. The books are fictional; however, Larry does expose the exploitation that he personally experienced and that exist in the black environment today.