Best Black Women's Erotica Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  Do Me

  The Spice Woman

  Homecumming

  sex hall

  Five Hundred Dollars

  Two Heads Are Better Than One

  The Teddy Boys

  Bring On the Bombs: A Historical Interview

  Talkin’ Smack

  Lust at First Sight

  Courtship Rituals

  Lifestyles

  Mergers and Acquisitions

  That’s What Friends Are For

  The Erotic Adventures of Jim and Louella Parsons

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  Copyright Page

  “sex hall” by MR Daniel originally appeared in Best Lesbian Erotica 2001, edited by Tristan Taormino, Cleis Press, 2001. “That’s What Friends Are For” by Nilaja A. Montgomery originally appeared in Pillow Talk II, edited by Lesléa Newman, Alyson Publication, 2000.

  To my mother, Dr. Raye G. Richardson

  who continues to teach me how to love myself.

  And to my father, Dr. Julian Richardson—the greatest

  lover of Black women I have ever known—who

  taught me that I am lovable.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you Cleis Press—Frédérique, Felice and Don—for trusting me with this project. Thank you for your support, your expertise, your love and your patience.

  Thanks to The Marcus Books Reading Club for all the cheerleading, for your support and mostly for the friendship. You all are the best! Thanks also to my customers who have been so supportively enthusiastic about this book. I love and appreciate each and every one of you.

  To the staff of Marcus Book Stores—my family—for allowing me the time to work on this project. Thank you Karen, thank you Billy, thank you Tamiko, thank you “Face,” thank you Donald Ray Young, thank you Roxanne, thank you Nikki, thank you Carolyn, and thank you James.

  I am truly blessed to have my writer friends who have encouraged me, supported me, pushed me to write, shared their expertise, been my best friends and loved me unconditionally. Thank you Terry McMillan, Tina McElroy Ansa, E. Lynn Harris, Tananarive Due, Iyanla Vanzant, Paula Woods, and Felix Liddell.

  For keeping me grounded, I thank my grandchildren, Hank and D’Asia. You may now collect on all the personal time I owe you.

  For keeping me working when I whined and complained by telling me to “get back to the mine, Shine, there’ll be no strike today,” I owe my sanity to my mother Raye who supported, loved, cooked for me and taught me, from the cradle, the beauty of the written word. I am so very proud to be your daughter.

  And to Cherysse—for everything.

  Introduction

  Iyanla Vanzant

  I don’t know about you, but my body parts have names. My hands I call “Fric and Frac.” My legs are known as “Sticks and Bones.” My breasts I refer to as “Gussie and Gertie.” My behind is affectionately known as “Waelene.” The fact that she isn’t doesn’t really matter. Then there’s “Molly.” Every woman has a Molly. Sometimes she’s called “Puntang.” Others may call her “Bubbles.” When I first heard someone refer to her as “Vagina,” I had no idea who or what she was talking about.

  “You mean ‘Virginia,’ don’t you?”

  “No!” my classmate responded emphatically, “It’s called a vagina. V-a-g-i-n-a. That’s the proper name for it.”

  Rather impersonal, don’t you think? Then again, many women, particularly Black women, have a very impersonal relationship with their “M-o-l-l-y.” It’s a historical thang.

  My grandmother, coming from the South and growing up in the church like she did, only knew Molly to be a betrayer. Based on her experiences as a sharecropper’s daughter, Molly was someone who could be used against you. Her Molly, no doubt, was a source of sin and shame. Once she even told me that her mother, my great-grandmother, had been raped repeatedly by a group of lumberjacks. So brutal was the attack, my great-granny was unable to walk for weeks. The fact that she eventually went on to have six children was both blessing and curse. “She died,” Grandma said, “at the age of thirty-two from some dreaded disease down there.” She remembered her mother as a soft-spoken, kind-hearted woman who had died too early, leaving six children under the age of ten. To my grandma, Molly was a thief who had robbed her of a mother. In essence, Molly was a problem.

  My mother never talked to me about sex. She was a proud woman of Caribbean heritage who honestly believed that women were subservient to men. Women, and their body parts, had two main purposes: 1) to work hard; and 2) to serve and satisfy men. My mother never talked to me about the pleasures or the intricacies of an intimate sexual experience. She never told me that sexual activity was good for my health. Nor did she tell me about the beautiful experiences of sexual exploration—with self or with others. “Don’t worry about such things,” she said. “When you need to know, you will know.” In fact, to women of my mother’s generation, expressions of sexuality and the notion of a woman’s sexual identity were dirty. What momma did do was warn me. She warned me never to display Molly publicly. She warned me about all the trouble Molly could get me into if I allowed people to touch her or talk to her. She went so far as to warn me about sitting on men’s laps, telling me that I could catch something—like pregnancy. “That’s silly!” I thought. Still, I made it a point never to sit on men. Instead, I lay down with them.

  Molly had a name, but she and I were not actually connected. She was not connected to my hands, my legs, my breasts, or my heart. Somehow, grandma’s stories and momma’s stories had infiltrated my head. There was a slight disconnect between Molly and the rest of my body. Many times, Molly caused me pain and shame. I got caught doing things with Molly that momma had warned me not to do. Many times, Molly made alliances that caused my heart grief. It always seemed that the people she liked didn’t like her back. After Molly had fostered the birth of three children, she lost her youthfulness, her playfulness. Her response time was slower. Some of her associates even commented on her size. They couldn’t get close to her, they said. She was not as affectionate as they thought she should be. Molly did her best, but, I finally realized, she had changed. She had matured. She was run-down, not feeling good about herself. We had a talk, Molly and I. That’s when I decided to change her name to “Mabel.” It seemed to more appropriately describe her state of being. Stately. Soft spoken. Useful, but somewhat removed from the fullness of her nature.

  As women, so many of us are deprived of a healthy respect of and connection to our sexuality. For some, it is shrouded in so much shame by so many convoluted messages that we actually become detached from our sexual identities. We like sex, but we can’t talk about it. We engage in sex, but we are, at times, afraid to enjoy it. When we do enjoy the act, and our partners, we are often subjected to ridicule and heartbreak. It can get confusing and tiring. How can something so good be bad for you? How can something that feels so good cause so much pain? It’s a question that we still ask ourselves today. Fortunately, however, we are talking more about it.

  As women, we are exploring our sexuality and exhibiting our sexual identity from a more integrated perspective. We’ve got our heads involved now. We are thinking about what we are doing. We’ve got our hearts involved now. We are not allowing feelings to drive us or deprive us. We are talking more now, about our Mollys and Mabels. We are sharing and comparing notes on how to care for this part of ourselves. How to preserve this aspect of our beings and bodies. How to satisfy our needs as an expression of, and with respect for, who we are as women. We no longer hide our sexuality. Ins
tead, we are exploring and defining it, privately and publicly. We are no longer willing to accept our sexual identity as a “dependent appendage.” We no longer limit sexuality to our body parts. We are discovering our sexual nature to be a source of creativity. A wellspring of our health, and a source of pleasure for which we are now willing to accept full responsibility in manifestng. Mabel has come into her fullness. She is now known in a very private arena as “Peaches and Cream.” She is not just a “Lunchable,” she’s a full course meal!

  As you move through the pages of this book, do not just read the words; feel them. Undoubtedly, they will trigger your own memories of some stories you’ve been told that you may want to rewrite. The stories you will read here may evoke uncomfortable feelings that you may need to come to grips with on your own journey to a deeper understanding and greater appreciation of our sexual identity and nature. From a more practical aspect, you may want to consider that the fullness of sexual expression as orgasm drains your lymph nodes. In women, lymph nodes are actively involved in several forms of cancer. You may not be aware that the enzymes released throughout your body at the height of sexual arousal lubricate your skin. You may find it interesting that the same number of calories you burn with one good, thirty-second orgasm, would take twenty minutes to burn on a treadmill. If that’s not enough to convince you that erotic activity and thoughts are good for you, how about the plain old truth that it’s pleasurable! It’s fun! Most of all, it’s private. For all the years of service to others, don’t you and Molly or Mabel or Peaches—or V-a-g-i-n-a—deserve to have a little fun? Why not relax and enjoy? You’ll feel a lot better.

  Do Me

  Lori Bryant-Woolridge

  There is nothing worse than to be awakened from a great sleep for no apparent reason. I lay there in the dark, refusing to open my eyes, hoping like hell that my mind and body would take the hint and go back to sleep. After thirty-five minutes and countless tosses and turns, I gave up, sat up, switched on the bedside lamp, and tried to get my bearings straight.

  I was here in Aruba, a four-hour plane ride from my cozy little New York apartment, finishing up preproduction chores for the new music video by Keisha, the latest rage in the young, uni-moniker (think Aaliyah, Monica, Brandy), R & B chart busters. My job as a producer at SunFire Productions was to help make these nymphet divas (and their male counterparts) as saleable as possible. It was a tough job, but one I still adored after nearly eight years.

  I glanced over at the clock and noted with a groan that it was only 6:47 a.m. I was supposed to check out Malmock Beach in the late-morning light, which gave me at least another three hours of sleep—if only my mind would cooperate with my travel-weary body. But it was soon clear that it wouldn’t, so I reached over and grabbed the stack of magazines I’d brought with me.

  I quickly breezed through the always-entertaining Jet before taking on Essence, where I learned that it was indeed possible to love both God and sex. Thank goodness for that bit of heartening news. Several pages apart was a lovely pictorial of bridal gowns that promised to “satisfy the soul.” Seemed to me that there was nothing a wedding dress could do for my soul that God and/or sex couldn’t do better. Then again, being thirty-six years old and single, I wouldn’t know.

  Moving on, I picked up the latest Elle and flipped through eighty pages of advertisements before finding anything to read. Uninterested in the return of the ’70s style rock ’n’ roll T-shirts, I gave up and reached for Marie Claire. The magazine fell open to a very interesting article indeed—“Sexual Secrets You Are Entitled to Know.”

  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 vide
o. 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.