Best Black Women's Erotica Page 8

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

  The Teddy Boys

  B.P. Jones

  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.

  “Jane Tooyu. That’s lovely, too. Is that Asian or what?” That was too much for Sara.

  “Do you mind, we’re waiting for our big, football-playing husbands,” Sara said, trying to end the torture.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Very sorry. I should have known two foxes like you weren’t available.” He walked over to the very next single woman
sitting at the bar.

  “Maybe we need to find a new watering hole,” Carolyn said, turning back toward Sara, “Mrs. Tooyu.”

  Just then, Sara spotted two guys who ran with one of her ex-boyfriends. Well, ex-boyfriend was stretching it—ex–bed partner was more accurate. She quickly scanned the place to see if he was there, too. But they seemed to be a duo tonight. Either they had seen her and waited for her to see them or had noticed her at the same time. They headed her way.

  Sara nudged Carolyn discreetly. “Mmmm,” Carolyn said when she saw the two. Ahmed and Peter weren’t what you’d call fine, exactly. Ahmed was the more handsome of the two—taller, with a nice build. Peter was shorter and muscular, moving toward chunky. They weren’t fine, but they knew how to dress—finely textured shirts and tailored slacks. They were smooth.

  “Mmmm,” Carolyn repeated.

  “I know them,” Sara cautioned, “and as far as I know, they like white girls—young white girls.”

  “Well, maybe they have a taste for some chocolate and taffy tonight,” Carolyn said.

  Ahmed and Peter gave Sara a warm hug. “It’s been a long time,” Peter said, lingering in the hug a little longer than Sara had expected. The scent of his cologne drifted up from her chest into her nose. It was fresh and spicy. She liked it.

  Sara introduced Carolyn, who held her hand out to shake Ahmed’s hand. He took it and put his other hand over it, squeezing it gently. The evening had new promise.

  “So what have you been up to since our paths last crossed?” Peter asked Sara. It was a straightforward question, but something about the way he said it made it deliciously suggestive. Sara imagined herself lying on her back at a crossroads, naked, her legs open. The earth was soft and she could feel the sun on her crotch, the rays lapping at her vulva, warming her lips, and gently encouraging her legs to open. She thrust her hips up rhythmically, fucking the sun’s warmth.

  Whoa. Where in the world did that come from? Sara felt a slight twinge down below. A little wake-up call. Hello, I’m here. When was the last time you got some good loving? She looked at Peter and remembered when they had first met. It was at a house party. They had danced together for maybe three songs before she’d met his friend whom she later started dating—or fucking. Peter was a fun dancer and there had been a strong attraction between them. The idea had crossed her mind more than once: what if they had started seeing each other? Tonight wasn’t the first time she’d wondered if he fucked like he danced.

  The conversation moved easily among the four, and then between the two they recognized as couples, and back to the four. It wasn’t the deepest discussion Sara had ever had, it wasn’t Baldwin or Ellison, but it was pleasant, light and frothy like the ice-cream sodas she had recently discovered a taste for.

  “Do you think Prince is gay?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t care,” Carolyn jumped in. “He is a bad little somebody. If he’s gay, he sure knows how to get a woman’s juices flowing.”

  Sara looked at Carolyn’s glass. That last comment approached the raunchy. There was no more Kir in her glass. Sara saw Ahmed motion to the bartender for another one.

  “Oh, really,” Ahmed said. “Would that be orange juice or apple?” They all laughed, but Sara thought she should redirect the conversation before Carolyn took herself farther down the road of raunch.

  “It is interesting how he makes androgyny so appealing,” she said.

  Carolyn wrinkled her nose, thinking, “Now we’re going to have a dissertation on androgyny.” Sometimes Sara could mess up a dream that was just about to get wet.

  “Androgyny turns you on?” Peter asked.

  “Well, I mean I think he has that effect generally.” Sara backed up a little in the face of Peter’s directness. But she didn’t want to sound like she was dodging his question, either. “Yes, I guess it does turn me on in some way,” she said.

  “What about it has that effect?” Peter pressed. He leaned in a tad closer to Sara and she got another whiff of his cologne.

  “I don’t know. I never thought about it. Let me think.” Sara envisioned Prince with his eyes exotically lined in dark eyeliner, and the way he danced, kind of squirmy but with serious funk. She raised her eyebrows and smiled.

  “A penny—or more—for your thoughts. What made you smile so yummily?” Peter asked.

  “I was thinking of how Prince moves,” Sara replied.

  “You mean like this?” Peter did a perfect imitation of Prince. Sara realized it was that same quality that had attracted her to Peter’s dancing. He had that androgynous hit himself.

  “Say, you want to go someplace and dance later?” asked Ahmed.

  “Sure. Let’s do it and get the juices flowing,” Carolyn said.

  They decided to order one more round. Carolyn excused herself and got up to go to the bathroom. She gave Sara an intent look that said “Come with me.”

  “Oh, me too,” Sara said. Carolyn wondered how Sara had managed to grow up Black and female and not realize that women always go to the bathroom together. Carolyn peed for a long time. Sara was already at the sink washing her hands when the toilet flushed.

  “Well, I think I might do this guy,” Carolyn said, still getting herself together in the stall.

  “Oh, really. That’s a shock,” Sara said.

  “Why so sarcastic, Sister Sara? Why not? The brother is smooth, nice-looking, and I’m assuming because you know him that he’s not some kind of sadistic psycho. Besides, I’m horny as hell.”

  “He’s not a psycho, at least not that I know of. But from what I do know about blood, a condom is definite requisite.”

  “Bien sur.” Carolyn always used French phrases when she was tipsy. With her index and middle fingers, she flipped a telltale small, square package out of her handbag a little too hard. The condom pack flew into the sink.

  “Are you sure you haven’t had a little too much to drink?”

  “No. And so what? What is ‘a little too much to drink’?”

  “Well, maybe that’s why you’re so anxious to drop your drawers.”

  Sara and Carolyn were standing right next to each other, but they didn’t look at each other; they talked to their reflections in the mirror.

  “And so what if I am? I wish you’d get off your mother-superior trip. Of course I want to fuck him because I’m a little tipsy. Why do you think I got a little tipsy?”

  Sara knew she sometimes seemed square to her friend, but Carolyn’s comment stung. Carolyn could see she’d been too sharp.

  “Oh, come on, Auntie Harriet. You know that’s why I keep you around. To control my wild ass. If it weren’t for you, I might be swinging from a chandelier buck naked.” Carolyn pulled her friend to her in a big hug. Sara accepted the apology. They retouched their lipstick and Carolyn put another layer of mascara on her long, sweeping lashes.

  “They’re probably talking about the same thing,” Sara laughed.

  “Probably,” Carolyn agreed.

  “So if you want to do Ahmed, what are Peter and I supposed to do?” Sara asked with exaggerated innocence.

  Carolyn turned away from the mirror toward her friend. “Well, now, the way Mr. Androgynous was all up on your ass, you might just think of doing the same thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Girl, I saw that little routine. ‘Do you think Prince is gay? Does androgyny turn you on?’ I saw your little hiney squirming around on that barstool,” Carolyn laughed. “If I didn’t want to do Ahmed, I might be interested in a little Adventure in Androgyny my damn self. If you weren’t interested, that is.”

  “Maybe next time,” Sara said as she pushed open the bathroom door.

  “So, did you two have a nice chat?” Peter asked. “Or exactly what is it you ladies do in the bathroom together for so long?” He widened his eyes.

  “Nothing, talk, what do you mean?” Sara asked. She squeezed between him and the stool to sit down. He didn’t move to give her any room and her right breast brushed again
st him.

  “Mmmm,” Peter said. “Can I come next time?” Obviously, the two guys had the same conversation and Peter was the one designated to push the topic—the designated dick, if you will. Sara liked it. It kept that little twinge going that had started with her sun-fucking fantasy. When was the last time she had gotten some good love? She let him lean into her body as she sat on the stool, his crotch pressing perceptibly against her. She could feel his dick thickening on her hip and she leaned in ever so slightly, putting more pressure on his dick. It responded accordingly. Her boldness almost made her giggle.

  The foursome continued their conversation, moving ever so subtly against each other. Sara opened her legs a little and arched her back, pushing down so she could feel the wood of the barstool against her pussy. Whenever she adjusted her body or reached for her drink, she rubbed down into the stool. Her panties were getting moist. The fact that she had to curb her movements and rub only periodically made it that much hotter. Peter and Sara didn’t look at each other while he fucked her hip and she fucked the stool.

  Sara was completely absorbed in their little barstool dance. She didn’t know what she was saying and she didn’t know what anyone else was saying, either. She tried to fake participation in the conversation by occasionally saying “yes.” But she had no idea what she was saying yes to. Carolyn and Ahmed might have said, “Are you an ignorant slut?” and she would’ve given a little distracted smile and said, “Yes.” She could tell Peter was amused by it all.

  It was so delicious, she couldn’t stand it. “Excuse me,” she said, sliding off the stool to get another rub of the coochie and another push on his dick. She couldn’t wait for any girlie bonding trip to the bathroom; she didn’t even take her purse. She walked quickly to the bathroom and went into the last stall. She leaned into the corner, lifted her skirt, and pulled her panties up between her buttocks, and hard against her vulva. She began rubbing her pussy with one hand while tugging on her panties with the other. It didn’t even take thirty seconds for her to come. She leaned against the wall and caught her breath, slowly pulling her panties out of her cracks. “Whew, that was good,” she said out loud. She decided not to wipe herself; she wanted to sit in the come juice and let it ripen into a nice rich pussy funk that might get licked off later if things continued to progress. She flushed the toilet, smoothed her skirt, and walked back out to the bar.