Best Black Women's Erotica (2 page)

As a volunteer member of the Celibate Sista Brigade (CSB), the last thing I needed to be reading was yet another article on how to be the perfect lover. If there's one thing I've learned through all this it's when you're not getting any, sex is every-damn-where. You can't pick up a women's magazine or go to an internet site without reading all about the mysteries of Kama Sutra; the Catholic girl's guide to aural sex (say it to make him spray it); or the diary of some naughty-but-nice nymphomaniac. This at the same time my unused coochie was drying up and withering away like a pathetic little raisin in the sun.

Granted, wearing this illusory chastity belt was voluntary, and while I'd pleasantly surprised myself by my show of inner strength and self-regard, that didn't make my carnal urges any easier to endure. I'd had plenty of offers to end my drought since my breakup with Rodney—many by the man himself—but none that interested me. It's not hard to get laid if that's all you're looking for. In fact, with Rodney, and most men before him, that's all I got. For years I rode the baloney pony, knocked
boots, hit the skins, got boinked, fucked, and screwed—did everything with many fine-ass-well-hung-tongue-of-life-but-couldn't-commit brothers
but
make love. It took me years to realize that in most cases I was addicted to the dick, not the man.

Now I wanted to experience sex in a loving, committed relationship. I was holding out for L.O.V.E. Though I have to be honest—after twenty-eight months (that's 852 days
without
a man's touch), lust was kicking my behind. I know there are charity fucks and auld lang syne fucks, but was there such a thing as a medicinal fuck? If there wasn't already, there should be, and believe me, I needed my prescription filled like a Westchester County socialite down to her last Prozac.

Giving in to my masochistic tendencies, I read on. I skimmed through the art of giving a hand job (apparently the most important part is the “twist over the top”); moved on to the importance of stimulating your man's testicles (sucking is good; biting is bad); and got to the part of adding fine jewelry to your sexual toy chest (who knew that pearls give the “perfect tickling sensation when draped around his penis and played with”) before recognizing the familiar pull and tug of a turned-on clitoris. Immediately I slapped the cover closed and tossed the magazine aside.

The thought of pearls soaked in poontang juices and dangling around some beautiful, brown, rock-hard shaft was fueling my imagination and unmercifully teasing my body. I needed to get out of the bed, get to work, and take my mind off all things sexual.

“Make love not lust.” I repeated my slogan, forcing myself to get up and head toward the bathroom. After a quick shower I threw on my work clothes—a layer of coconut-smelling sunblock and a slamming turquoise bikini. Before pulling on my skirt I took a quick look-see in the mirror, morphing into my best Tyra Banks swimsuit pose, complete with smoldering eyes and seductive pout.

“Pia Jamison, girl, you still got it going on,” I congratulated myself. The glorious blue color played well against my mocha glazed skin. My breasts, pushed together by the strategically placed string tie between them, overflowed with tempting cleavage—just enough to be seductive, not enough to be raunchy. The scoop bottom sat below my navel, exposing my tiny dragon tattoo. I liked the way the high cut on my hips elongated my shapely legs and cupped my booty with a healthy heaping of Lycra love. The bathing suit cost me nearly $150, but it was worth it. I felt sexy and desirable. That's another thing I learned about celibacy. Even if you aren't givin' it up, it's important to look like you still might. You have to continue to feel attractive because the last thing you want is to be sitting at the singles bar of life sipping a no-sex cocktail with a low-self-esteem chaser.

I finished dressing and picked up my straw tote, packed with a Polaroid camera, film, sketch pad, a bottle of water, and my Hawaiian Tropic. I decided to throw in my Sony Discman with my favorite Will Downing CD,
Invitation Only,
then popped on my sunglasses and headed out the door. This was my last location check and the rest of the crew wasn't scheduled to arrive until tomorrow afternoon. I was anxious to finish up my phone calls and paperwork so I could grab a little “me” time before all hell broke loose on the work front. Apparently, I was going to need it. I had yet to meet or speak to the video's director, Grand Nelson, as he was a last-minute replacement. It seems that Keisha's manager (aka her mother) fell out with the original hire and demanded a new director for her little girl's new video. Word on the production grapevine was that Grand's résumé reel was an exercise in less-is-more. At this point he'd directed only two videos, but as Babyface Edmond's protégé, they were for none other than superstars Toni Braxton and TLC. Grand Nelson was now a hot commodity, but just in case he
was also a raving lunatic, I planned to feel as stress-free as possible before the shoot began.

By the time the cab dropped me at Krell House, a private property that SunFire Productions had rented for the shoot, it was a little before eleven. With an awesome view of the Caribbean Sea and an isolated stretch of private beach, this incredible villa was an outstanding location. The owners were away and the beach was empty so I took a moment to witness the splendor of nature without the rude insertion of man. The color play of pale blue sky against sparkling aquamarine water and silky white sand was breathtaking. The bounce of the sunlight off the sea was perfect, as was the nearby cluster of graceful divi-divi trees standing like sculptures shaped by the breath of the island's refreshing trade winds. The Aruba Tourist Center boasted year-round sunshine, so hopefully conditions would be just as wonderful for the actual shoot. I took Polaroids from several angles so that Grand would have various options to work with when he arrived on Thursday to block the final shots. Wanting to be as thorough as possible, I also took the time to sketch out several ideas that were in the spirit of the storyboards but took in the realities of this landscape.

My work completed, I decided to mosey up the beach and take advantage of the solitude with a bit of topless sunbathing. I found a secluded niche tucked away in the rocks and claimed it as my own.

“Now
this
is the life,” I whispered into the breeze as I disrobed down to my swimsuit bottoms and removed the beach essentials from my bag. I pushed my sunglasses onto the top of my head and applied a second coat of Hawaiian Tropic to my exposed shoulders, chest, and stomach. With Will Downing's sexy voice singing “If She Knew” in my ear, I stretched out into the warm sand and let the sun toast my nearly bare body. The combination of slippery oil on hot naked skin mixed with Will's lusty baritone voice let those
pesky horn dogs loose, and released the sexy NC-17 movie stowed in my head.

From the central casting office in my mind emerged an impeccable male specimen zealous and eager to service my every physical need. His name was unknown, but his face and body were quite familiar to me. He was a sexy musician and my passionate costar, and within seconds I was transported onto the set of my long-running erotic fantasy.

 

 

Off in the distance, the sound of an appreciative voice saying “Oh, shit” interrupted my fantasy and forced my eyes open. I quickly sat up and glanced around, but as far as I could see, the beach was still empty. Convinced I had simply heard my own thoughts, I stretched my body from fingers to feet, savoring the delicious sensations as my heartbeat and breath returned to normal. If I smoked, I would have lit up a cigarette; instead I opted for a quick nap.

When I awoke, feeling refreshed and momentarily satisfied, it was after three o'clock. I quickly got dressed, packed my bag, and decided to walk the mile or so from the villa back to the Marriott. The afternoon sun was bright and strong. I reached for my sunglasses only to find them missing. I stopped and rummaged through my tote, but still came up empty-handed. Damn—that was the second pair I'd lost in six months.

By the time I got back to my room I was starving and still horny. Sex-lite will do that to you. It's like being on a low-carbohydrate diet and eating a bagel. You scoop out the good, doughy part and eat the crusty shell. While your stomach thinks it's getting bread, your palate is only partially fulfilled. The vagina, just like the mouth, knows the difference between gourmet sex and the diet plate.

I finished documenting the Polaroids and jotted down more notes before taking my second shower of the day. I slid into a slinky orange sundress and a pair of silver high-heel sandals. After adding a generous spritz of my favorite Issey Miyake cologne, I headed downstairs to the hotel restaurant for an early dinner.

I approached the gentleman at the podium and requested a table for one. I followed him through the restaurant, happily acknowledging the appreciative eyes turning in my direction.

As I passed his table, one particularly fine brother with a bald head laid a smile on me that could only be described as sunshine personified. I grinned back, making friendly eye contact, but kept on walking when I noticed a woman's handbag next to the plate across from him.

Sitting two tables away was another hot-looking brother, wearing dreadlocks and funky square black frames, eating alone while deeply engrossed in the latest Easy Rawlins adventure. As I passed him my perfume must have tapped him on the shoulder because out of the corner of my eye I noticed his attention turn from his moving tale to mine.

Go Pia, go Pia
I sang silently, enjoying the mini whirl of attention. The host led me to a small table on the perimeter of the room. He pulled the table out as I slid gracefully onto the upholstered bench. Before departing, he handed me a menu and introduced me to my waiter, Duane. Duane took my drink order and left me to peruse the menu. Feeling eyes on me, I looked up and saw an attractive white gentleman smiling in my direction. I smiled back and he raised his wineglass in a silent toast. Apparently my mojo was in overdrive.

Duane returned shortly with my Cosmopolitan and a glass of champagne.

“I didn't order this,” I informed him, pointing to the flute.

“A gentleman asked that this be sent to you with his compliments.”