Stacy made a face of ac cep tance and I knew I was suddenly off the hook. But I couldn’t help thinking she wasn’t all the way worthy of that card, especially the way she carried herself. No job. Living with her auntie (and me), and a whole lot of free time on her hands.
I guess the banks up here are more lenient? That, or she has an angel or something on her side.
I HAD other things to think about if I was gonna take this much-needed vacation by August. I had a short list of things to fix and clients to see. I’d have to get someone dependable to stand in, in case one of my regulars had an emergency. Not that there would be one, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry. I also planned on paying my bills forward for two months. That way, when I got back I wouldn’t be stressed to handle that. And it’s not like I’m stressin’, with over $70K in the bank— thanks in part to Pop’s insurance policy. However, I’m something of a workaholic. I just need to keep stackin’ paper like a squirrel or something.
In the meantime, using Pastor Bishop’s advice was already feeling good. He had asked why I didn’t take “a leap of faith” if I was really serious about making the relationship work. He had asked why I was treating Stacy like a Happy Meal and not a three-course dinner at a five-star restaurant. I thought the way he said it was funny, but later on it really made sense. The quickies in the car had to stop. The falling asleep after a long day’s work had to stop. As for my falling asleep, I’d just have to make adjustments on my workload— get up earlier or something— so that I could devote quality time (and energy) to my boo. My boo: that was another thing. I had to change my language from what might be looked upon as a teenage crush, and I had to start recognizing that this was my lady, especially if she was that. And I didn’t say anything to her about this, but there were a couple of times that Stacy just impulsively dropped to her knees and straight-up emptied me. That had to stop, too. I couldn’t look at my lover as a freak or a vixen. I had to get that out of my brain— literally. I had to think of her as my love first, and everything else would be coincidental to that.
“IT’S ME,” Stacy proclaimed over my shoulder in that singsong voice (the side of her I liked most). I was brushing my teeth at the time, nude and watching the mirror as she approached. It was at moments like these that I’d reflect, and for all the reasons I could recall, I was proud of my choice. At that moment Stacy was so innocent and predictable. I could see she just wanted love, like I did. I could see she was just a naked human being, like me, and she merely wanted the warmth of a trusted, caring man. I could see there in the mirror how (despite her flaws) she could easily fit in as the other half of me. However, who was I to haggle? Sure, all my faults were not open to the public or explained in rants, but nevertheless I knew I had them. After all, millionaire or miser, who among us is perfect?
Here in the mirror, I could also see through all the bullshit; all that thug shit she tried to throw at me during our squabbles. When she was angry or picking a fight (maybe while she was on or approaching her period), she transformed into more of the male side of herself— if that makes sense. She’d talk tough, her walk changed some, and her facial expression held solid as a rock. It was something of a transformation, the way she moved in and out of bliss, straight into some hostile rage, cursing in every other sentence. Mothafucka this, mothafucka that. Sometimes I’d just sit and listen to her just to see how far she’d go, how much she’d ramble until she ran out of things to say, or people to curse. But then there were these heavenly times when—
“yeah, it’s you, my love”
—she was so soft and pink, and manageable. She was a child wanting to be molded. She didn’t seem to have a care in the world beside me, her man.
STACY STOOD there behind me, holding me as I got rid of a mouthful of sloppy tooth scrub, and after a couple of rinses I turned to pull her into my embrace and took the opportunity to enter the “silly season” we always remembered from Barack Obama’s comment.
“Girl, you know it’s true… Ooo, ooo, ooo, I love youuuuuu.”
“Now that was gay,” she said in the voice of Riley, our favorite Boondocks character.
The nerve of her to go there while I had her in the most compromising position, able to tickle her until she—
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I take it back! I take it back!” She screamed bloody murder, but playfully so.
My teeth clenched, my face knotted up, and my strong GI Joe grip on her body was not letting up. I held on tight as Stacy tried every which way she could to get loose. With her naked in my arms, I felt like I had claimed the catch of the day and that she was the big fish flappin’ this way and that.
“I take it back! I take it baaaaaaaaaaack!”
“Okay. Jesus. You don’t hafta scream,” I eventually said. But I still had her in my arms. It had been so long since we’d been here— not necessarily naked together, but naked, at peace, and in sync with each other. Even if this feeling was a result of the conversation we had earlier at Uno. Even if a vacation was planned for the near future, and that the relationship between us was expected to move to the next level; still, this was what life was about. This was why I put long hours in and enjoyed short hours of my own. This was why I stacked paper and focused on doing the job right each and every time. This was the reason for all of that, and I didn’t even see it coming. I had just been preparing for it all along. And I’m so glad I did!
And now that I was a nose apart from Stacy, I could appreciate the scent of her exhales, and her freshly bathed body. Damn, how my senses so easily stirred in her presence. The touch of her fingertips (along with the sight of her beautiful face) was a sensation that stimulated my nerves and encouraged my deep breathing. All these signals inevitably inspired my skin to tingle and my dick to get hard. And if that wasn’t the signal to turn off the lights, to carry my baby out of the bathroom and to my bed, then water ain’t wet.
The one thing that I always heard from girlfriends was how great I kissed. And although I never really paid it much attention, with life moving forward the way it has, that “skill” has become more and more my anchor— something the rest of my body had to catch up with before it was too late. Hey, Mr. Tongue, meet my friends, the fingers. Fingers, you already know Mr. Left and Mr. Right from the Hand family. And, of course, all of you know my friend Foreplay. So everyone make yourselves at home. Get to know one another! I’m sure you all have so much in common! Oh! Look who came through the door! It’s Dick! Hey, Dick, I really need to introduce you to my new friend over here. He’s chillin’ in the corner, but he’s a very important cat. Dick, meet Patience.
STACY
With a certain finesse, Danté laid me down on the bed as he would a suit that he didn’t want to get wrinkled before the big day. He did this delicately, affectionately, and purposefully, as though this was about to be our first time together—and he maybe wanna make a good impression on me. But then that meant this couldn’t be another typical romp in the bed. And not that I was thinking that way, just that the way this was all going down felt so different. I could even feel myself constrained to keep with a certain tempo in a PG-17 kinda manner. I don’t know how to explain my body and my actions and how I was caught up in this total surrender, as though this time— more than any other— was the moment of all moments. The way he looked into my eyes. The way his fingers teased my skin. The kisses he planted. What was happening here was some other kind of agenda or procedure that must’ve been explored by every sexual scientist and every other sex therapist. Except, I never once studied, practiced, or took notes from any of those sources. So then, what was guiding this man to start at my toes? Aargh! I could’ve screamed! He was massaging and kissing and licking them all at once. And what in the world was encouraging him to touch and caress and care for my ankles, calves, the backs of my knees and thighs like he did? What was urging him to bury his face right there between my legs, the one place where he had never gone before? I was right there at the tipping point already! And I felt my abando
n and began to feel myself in harmony with whatever absolute intentions he had. He grabbed hold of my breasts like he didn’t wanna let go until they were one with his hands; until they were satisfied by his licking and nibbling. And what was it that eventually caused us to glue ourselves into the twisted knot we became, with our tongues, hands, and muscles realizing what was already so familiar?
Was this his curriculum? My eyes rolled back in my face at the thought.
Foreplay was but his freshman activity. Administration, orientation, and making himself at home with me, as if this was the first time we met. He explored the school, curious, fascinated, and necessary all at once. There were some challenges posed, and some mandatory things he had to adhere to, but nothing he couldn’t take on. He apparently knew he had to make the right choices and not move too fast, too aggressively, or get out of line. (Not yet, anyway.) But that was the easy task, since he had been here so many times, even if only in my dreams. As the hour progressed, Danté became a sophomore, indulging in pleasures with which he was already familiar. More than comfortable now, he revisited those areas that he’d already satisfied, and which seemed to also satisfy him. By the swelling between his legs, his intentions appeared to grow with a greater urgency. And naturally, the urge inside of me was wanton and inspired as well. To be honest here, I (his education) was permissive in every way. Without saying so, I wanted him to learn me, even if the friction belonged to both of us, along with the giving and taking and nervous breathing. Not to be mistaken, “educating” and “being educated” was what this was about, wasn’t it? And he was clearly striving and driven to be educated within the walls and halls of my institution, wasn’t he?
There was trouble near the end of Danté’s sophomore term, when I tested his staying power. Maybe I was going too far, considering the look on his face, as though he was finding it hard to breathe; or, at least his breathing was stifled. Maybe it was how I grabbed him and yanked at him within my own craving for him to fill me. My hunger for him was crazy! And I felt like he was on the verge, trying to hold back everything inside of him; a buildup that was just so great that I could feel it pulsating inside of me; like he was ready to explode with energy unexplained. But that was something of a frustration that, I guess, every student had to go through. Still, Danté didn’t complete his mission there. I could see that mind-over-matter look in his eyes. And then it was clear that he was in control and that he wouldn’t end this so soon. My God this felt so good. So amazing! There was more deep breathing between the two of us and I continued to enjoy the wet and wild and wonderful feelings I was going through. I could’ve cried out louder if not for the fact that I could hardly speak— too entrapped, too engaged, and right at the threshold of that point of no return. So, I merely sighed and cried and held on to him. I noticed he was doing some of the same.
“You okay?” I asked once he came up for air; once we both got a moment to breathe.
Danté said, “Oh-h-h-oh… I’m good. Reeeeal good.” Without regard for his response, I felt somewhat obliged to go down on him some more. Taking my pupil in and out of my classroom, schooling him through every angle and test I could think up. Inevitably, I pro cessed him for the next phase— the ju nior level of my passions.
By this time, subtlety was tossed by the wayside, and along with that his discipline. No longer could he merely be patient and wait for an assembly or a schedule as to when and where. Danté was a ju nior now! He had run the entire length of this blessed facility more times than anyone else— or so it appeared. His grades were strong and his confidence was stronger, and the world he had adopted was more accepting with a greater embrace of the man he was. He was on top of his lessons, pushing his way in, but still gently, until it was understood that he was here to give as well as take. And he seemed to be so sure of himself that all who had come before him came for the purpose of only taking. And obviously I was already familiar with this practice, and maybe that was familiar and satisfying in itself. But the giving apparently satisfied him. It provoked a lot of noise down the hallway, and also in the front office. But he didn’t concern himself. He simply came here to learn and to get the most out of this education pro cess.
There was a dance. And, like many of the other school activities, this was meant to provide a form of release; a chance to become familiar with a bigger picture, and that it’s not all black-and-white, cut-and-dried. This was leisure and harmony between two people who could move together and find a synchronicity unlike in the classroom. This was also a license for Danté to become more active and demanding all at once. He could really dance! He could gyrate and thrust and drive and bounce up and down, and I appreciated him in my cries and my joyful noise. When he pushed, I gladly received, and I embraced him evermore with a want for as much as he could give me. And yet, that would be premature just now, since his agenda would be to become a se nior and to officially graduate.
And that’s what this was all about, reaching the highest level of satisfaction. For Danté was overcome with achievement— the entrepreneur that he is. Only, in this case, it was the achievement of love fulfilled. There was a purpose in his eyes, to give. To receive was coincidental. As for me, I wanted more than an A-student in my classroom. I wanted Danté to be the honors student that shined above and beyond anything in my history. I expected him to show me that education had a whole different meaning after he graduated. And the diploma on the wall would be the ultimate achievement, the reason why we came together in the first place.
And hopefully he had his eyes set on that (even if they were closed). Everything about this time together and our movements spelled out harmony, and that we were meant to be. This felt nothing like any man I had ever laid with. It was even different than when he and I had made love in the past months. My sounds were endorsements of what Danté meant in my life. And the feelings I experienced were convictions that I was right all along. And that feeling further encouraged me to take more of him, and how he pressed on, muscling into my body with thorough and sometimes possessive mea sures. My cries were at times loud and hoarse, a combination of pleas ure and pain as one— pain, for the long, challenging road that I braved to get to this point, and plea sure, in the pure carnal enjoyment Danté delivered.
“Oh, Danté. Oh, Danté! Oh, Danté!!!” And that was all she wrote. You coulda stuck a fork in me, ‘cuz I was done. The warm juices inside of me flowed. The friction between us suddenly got slippery and hot and wetter— if there’s such a thing. That, and my fingernails clawing into his sweaty back. That, and my trembling, and hyperventilating in his ear.
“Don’t you leave me, Danté? Pleease don’t leave meee.” I could feel myself losing it over and over again. One, two, and three orgasms. This was the deepest submission I’d ever felt. And I couldn’t even control the words that were coming out of my mouth.
DANTÉ
Wow. It sort of threw a damper on such a completely incredible encounter together.
“Don’t you leave me, Danté? Pleease don’t leave meee.” The words poured out like some woman’s final dying statement. They were without power, and so desperate.
But I wasn’t gonna let it get to me. I pushed it way back in my mind and held on tight. We held each other, mumbling back and forth our testimonies and commitments. We kissed and caressed and molded into each other’s embrace, until very early in the morning, when I found us stuck together, again with our own brand of glue.
[FIVE]
THE FIRST WEEK of August couldn’t have come soon enough. I took care of all the last-minute odds and ends, clients on my list, and bills paid forward. Whew! You’d think I was goin’ to the islands or on a cruise or something. Just headin’ down south, for goodness’ sakes. But just as much as I was going down to speculate on things, I also needed a vacation. Long hours, stress, and a crazy-ass girlfriend will do that to you every time.
IT WAS more economical for us to drive, so we took my Blazer, loaded up with some snacks, and headed for 95 south. Somewhere along the way,
I-95 would turn into I-85, and (according to Google maps) it would be a straight shot right into Lawrenceville, Georgia, where Stacy’s mom lived. It was a cinch to follow. Our problem wouldn’t be the trip as much as it was our time spent together on the trip. From the moment we left, Stacy was that other person. And I didn’t realize it until I jumped in the driver’s seat.
“Did you mail those letters I—oh, I didn’t realize you were on the phone,” I said, hating how Stacy wore that damn earpiece as if it were another organ on her body. And, listening in, I realized the phone call she was on was just setting things off real nice— arguing about her cellphone bill and why it was so high. So high, in fact, that they had disconnected her ser vice the night before without warning. Shit, I guess I’d be mad, too, if Sprint cut me off without my knowing. And couldn’t they check her credit to see that she just got approved for $100 grand? I mean, credibility should definitely be there. I say that now, but at the time I didn’t try to understand. I just knew that everything seemed so peaceful the night before! Furthermore, even while she’s on the phone, she stops to say:
“Stop on One hundred thirty-sixth Street.”
My face twisted, because that wasn’t part of any agenda that I was familiar with. In response, her hand muffling the receiver, she said, “We’re having company for the trip.”
Whoa. Really.
And, real quickly, I’m putting two plus two together. Stacy’s brother was living down in Atlanta. Her brother’s children (that would be her nieces) were living up in Harlem. One of his daughters had a newborn, while the other was clearly working on her first baby. Either that, or she was just—
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