Best Black Women's Erotica (10 page)

“What does he do now?” Mona asked, a little annoyed at her friend's nonchalant response to Fred's behavior.

“He, ah…he sculpts!” Veronica told Mona told about first meeting Fred and how he gave her a body scan from across the room. Dr. Durant had picked up on the attraction, introduced them, and left them alone to engage in polite conversation.

“Well, I could see that Fred wasn't listening to me. He was just kinda looking through me. And then he says, ‘Would you like to go out for breakfast with me?' I totally forgot what I was talking about and said ‘yes.' Then he says, ‘Saturday morning, seven o'clock. Dress for the outdoors. I'll pick you up.' He gives me an X-ray smile and leaves the party!

“I got pissed because he didn't even wait to hear my answer. How'd he know whether I was available, or wanted to get up that early on a Saturday morning, or dress for the
outdoors for breakfast? Well,
he's
an arrogant bastard, I thought. But I left the party wondering what ‘the outdoors' meant and what I'd wear. I went home and pulled out all my leather clothes.

“I didn't have to wake up early Saturday 'cause I couldn't sleep Friday night. The man mesmerized me! I was ready at five, he showed up at six, and we drove out here, into the woods, talking and laughing the whole way. When we get to this spot, he starts unloading all this shit from the trunk of his car: sleeping bags, fishing poles, a camp stove, even a fucking tent! There was enough gear to live in the woods for a week.

“Had I told him I would spend the night? No! So I give him a look and he says, ‘Could you lift something, please?' Next thing I know, we're putting up the tent. I put one sleeping bag on one side of the tent and one on the other side. You should have seen the look on his face. ‘Don't worry,' he tells me, ‘I won't fuck you unless you beg me!' ”

“No, he didn't?” Mona said.

“Yes, he did! I told him I didn't have to beg for any goddamn thing in this life or the next, and maybe he should consider sleeping outside since his head might be too swelled to get into the tent. The whole time he's smiling this Cheshire-cat smile and I'm wondering if he's a fucking psycho.”

“You're wondering if
he's
psycho?” Mona said in amazement. “I'm wondering if
you'd
gone over the edge. A man you've known for less than twenty-four hours asks you out to breakfast and you wind up in the woods putting up a tent and sleeping bags!”

“Well then he takes my hand and walks me out of the tent. He starts talking about how the birds love this time of the day so much that they sing. I don't know how to explain it, Mona. But when he picked up the fishing poles and started toward the lake, I followed him like a hungry puppy.” Veronica lowered her voice and glanced back at the screen
door. “We get to the lake and Fred says, ‘You'll have to take off your pants unless you plan to get that leather wet.' My panties were already so wet, I thought my period had started—after three years! ‘How could I have planned anything when you failed to mention that we'd be
catching
breakfast?' I said. He just smiled and took off his pants. He was wearing swimming trunks. I was wearing a thong! I took off my pants and waded out into the lake with him, thinking that if he didn't get more considerate soon, this would be the first and last date.

“Okay, so now we're both in about three feet of water with our poles dangling in the lake. ‘What exactly is it we're trying to catch?' I ask him. ‘Catfish,' he says. ‘Aren't catfish too slimy to be in clear water like this?' I ask. ‘Let me show you how to do it,' he says. He comes up behind me and nozzles his mushroom up against my butt. Now this is more like it, I think. He drops his pole in the water and he's massaging my tits until I'm so dizzy, I drop my pole. When I reach down to pick it up, he grabs me around the waist and works his thing into my coochie 'til my knees buckle.

“Then—just like that—he drops me face down into the water!”

“No!” Mona said.

“Yes!” Veronica said. “Then he picks up his pole and walks back to the shore, and without even looking back at me, he says, ‘I told you that you'd have to beg for it.' ”

“Shit!” squealed Mona.

“No shit,” said Veronica. “Now I'm coughing lake water, my suede top is ruined, my ego popped, and I'm steaming! I charged through the water after him and dove for his legs. I knocked him back on his ass and we both lay there brushing off dirt and leaves, glaring at each other. When he stood up over me, I thought, ‘Shit! He
is
a psycho!' He lifted me two feet in the air and put me down in front of a tree. I guess he
took my knocking him to the ground as begging, because he commenced to fuck me roy-al-ly.

“No!”

“Oh, yes! He grinded me slowly at first like he knew where the spark in my clit was going to hit and he was there to meet it! My ass became one with the tree. He licked my nipples until my head ding-donged, then went down on me, stopping along the way like he was wondering if he should go further. Girl, I merged with every ring in the tree all the way back to when it was a sapling! He caught all the small fires between my legs until they roared up in one big flame. I'm telling you, my brain was singing, ‘Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy BIRTHDAY, dear Veronica. Happy birthday to me!' The tree was moaning and singing along with me.”

Silence. Both women stared, not seeing, toward the warm oranges and reds of the setting sun on the lake's surface.

“And now?” Mona asked. “Did he keep it up after that first date?”

“See that tree?” Veronica nodded at the question-marked trunk of the big oak tree. “It used to be straight.”

“Dang.” Mona laughed. She raised her glass in a toast, as the laughter from the house announced that the men would soon return. “Here's to the curve.”

“To the curve…,” Veronica clinked her glass against Mona's, “…and to the big head and the little head.”

 

 

 

 

 

Sara stopped at her mailbox as she came in from tutoring her literacy student, Delilah. She and Delilah were the same age—fifty-one—and it amazed Sara that Delilah could've lived so long without really knowing how to read. Sara felt that she would not have the courage and stamina to take on such a task at their age. “You go, girl,” she thought.

When Sara got inside her home, took off her coat, and put her feet up, she thumbed through the mail. A letter, postmarked Philadelphia, stood out from the gas bill and the standard junk mail. Who, she thought, do I know in Philly?

Hey, girl. It's been way too long. I hope this is still a good address for you. The opening didn't clue Sara in, so she looked at the signature at the bottom of the third page: Your partner in seduction, Carolyn. A smile of recognition and a little bit more spread across Sara's face. She went back to the top of the letter.

I'm here in the so-called City of Brotherly Love, although I can't find a brother to love for the life of me! I sure do miss Oakland. Girl, you don't know how I wish I'd never left.
I was going through some of my things on my birthday and I suddenly remembered that movie
The Bridges of Madison County
. I didn't want my poor children to discover any shockers when it comes time for them to sort through the effects of their dear departed, saintly, and, I might add—except for them—virginal mother.

Sara laughed out loud. It was Carolyn Green. Leave it to her to make a joke out of their mortality.

True enough, guess what I found in an old shoebox? An old journal with an entry about
that
night and—are you ready?—
THE
garter belt! I must have laughed for the rest of the day, then I discreetly removed them to a place where they would never be found, but I could still get to them when I needed a good laugh.

Girl, do you realize that was seventeen years ago? Seventeen years! I simply refuse to believe it. But I'd written the date right there at the top of the page—September 7, 1984
,
like I was trying to make sure I would incriminate myself. I just had to touch base and rekindle the old memory cells for you. I may eventually forget my phone number, my address, who knows, maybe even my name. But I will never forget
that
night. Your partner in seduction, Carolyn.

Carolyn. Sara was laughing by the time she got to the end of the letter. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed her friend when Carolyn moved back east. Was it really seventeen years ago? It didn't seem like more than ten.

It was a Friday night, Sara recalled. Carolyn had called her to meet at a local watering hole for an end-of-the-week, in Carolyn's words, “Thank God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary Magdalene it's Friday” drink. They were in their thirties—fine, fit, single, and at that blissful stage in a woman's life when she knows she's got it together. Carolyn was the head-turner of the two—tall, slender, with a smooth copper brown complexion, high cheekbones, and exotic almond-shaped
eyes. She was wearing braids then, cascading down her long neck to her shoulders. That night she had on a lavender pantsuit and high heels to show off her height.

When Sara walked into the bar, she spotted Carolyn in a seat at the outside corner. That was Carolyn's favorite perch, where she could see and be seen. Sara could tell Carolyn had just arrived; she could see and feel Carolyn's wake in the turned heads and agitated atmosphere that trails a stunning woman.

Sara didn't have that effect and she didn't want to. She enjoyed a more subtle attractiveness. She was medium height, medium light brown with dreamy dark brown eyes and an intriguing lopsided smile. Back then she was wearing her hair texturized-curly in one of those asymmetrical cuts that were all the rage in the mid-'80s. That night she still had on clothes from work, a charcoal brown suit with a skirt. She had a nice figure, but she dressed conservatively. It wasn't that she was a wallflower, not by a long shot. She just liked to be in control of who—make that whom—she attracted and when. Brothers often mistook her subdued appearance, thinking she was their long-lost virginal sweetheart. Boy did they get a rude awakening.

Carolyn moved her large leather purse from the stool next to her as Sara approached. They hugged and Sara sat down.

“Girl, I thought this week would never ever come to an end. The white people must have had a Klan convention last weekend because they were in high whiteness all week,” Carolyn said. She was the only—the onliest, as she said—sister at an advertising firm in downtown San Francisco.

“I know just how you feel,” Sara said. “But it was another sister I thought I was going to have to strangle this week. This lovely lady decided she was going to make some brownie points by trying to clown me.” Sara was a systems analyst for Alameda County's health department.

“So what did you do?”

“I haven't done it yet. But if this oh-so-lovely lady continues to mess with me, there's a booby trap waiting to blow up in her fat, cross-eyed, look-like-the-cat-drug-it-in face.”

“Whew, girl!” Carolyn gave her a high five and laughed. She got the bartender's attention and they ordered drinks. Carolyn was drinking Kir, as always. Sara ordered a margarita. The place was packed. They were lucky to have seats at the bar. They weren't the only ones celebrating the end of the week. And for this age group, every Friday was an excuse to go out on the prowl.

People were crammed everywhere—chairs crowded around small tables, bodies squeezed in around bar stools. The sound of dozens of conversations, growing more animated as alcohol slid down throats, pushed the music to the background. It was post-disco and Prince was playing. The lyrics set the stage for why everyone was there—“Delirious, I get delirious…” Cigarette smoke swirled up from the bar, hovering over the din of conversation.

Without a word to each other, Carolyn and Sara started a game they played whenever they went out for a drink: they counted the length of time it took for a brother to approach them. This time they got to nine–one thousand. When a man finally did walk up to them, Carolyn raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Maybe we better think about a makeover or check the number on the scales.” Nine–one thousand was too long for Carolyn to wait for attention.

“Good evening, ladies. Are you enjoying your Friday evening?” Sara immediately felt sorry for the brother. She always hoped they would avoid a lame introduction. Carolyn always teased her about expecting to hear the likes of James Baldwin or Ralph Ellison in a bar. But it was Carolyn who could be so cutting. And the brother wasn't half-bad, either. Nice chocolate brown, neatly cut hair, broad shoulders. But
he was wearing Hush Puppies. Sara spoke first to protect him from Carolyn's sharp tongue.

“Well, I guess we hope to. And are you enjoying yourself?”

“I am now,” he said.

That was too much for Carolyn, who thought, “Two strikes and you're out tonight.” She turned her back on the dude. If Sara wanted to waste her time with a lame dork wearing Hush Puppies, that was up to her. He had actually walked over to talk to Carolyn, as did 80 percent of the guys who approached the two, but he didn't mind shifting his attention to Sara. The guy used Carolyn's back as an excuse to move in between the two friends.

“And what's your name, pretty lady?” he asked.

“Jane,” Sara said. Her momentary maternal instinct to protect this guy was fading with her patience.

“Jane. That's a lovely name. Jane what?”

“Jane, to you.” She hadn't decided to go there quite yet, but the words flew out of Sara's mouth before she knew it. She saw Carolyn shoulders shake a little as she suppressed a laugh.