Best Black Women's Erotica (7 page)

Someone behind me stops to look over my shoulder, and her fingers inquire at my leg. I can feel her questions all the way up my thigh into my stomach. I almost jump into the room, and there is laughter behind me. I catch my breath, surprised at my confusion. This morning I was so sure of what I wanted, what I felt, but now… Excitement? Pleasure? Fear?

Didn't I want to be fucked from behind, anonymous?

A voice in my ear is saying, “Look forward, baby, or I'll leave.”

And,
“I know you're wet.”

And,
“When I remember how you look I'm going to think about parting your bush, how you
almost
reached behind to guide my hands. But I told you not to move.
Don't move.”

Hiking up skirt, pulling down panties, the snap of a glove, and a hand between my legs. Fucked in a doorway. Fingers up my cunt, feeling the space in my flesh, pushing deeper and rubbing 'til there's this cross between a sharpness and pleasure, my muscles filled with blood, taut, filling and pressing until I think I'm going to pee on the floor.

My mouth is filled with stars and they're burning their way through my vagina. They hurl through my chest and I can't breathe; sweat collects in the band of my skirt. They light up nerves, sending shocks to my clit and behind my eyelids. I hear myself salivate as she works her hand in further, I pant, my cunt pants for her and the feeling of stars.

I am high, nipples sharp from the sound of her inside me. I am straining against damp fabric, pores fucked alert, open, wanting to feel air on sweat-and-oil-steeped skin, as I brace myself in the doorway.

Bodies passing by us go quiet as another finger goes in my puckering ass, tilted to receive, and lips circle my neck, her tongue leaving a trail that ends with a mouth clamped on the back of my throat, kissing, sucking hard, until a half-moon appears. I wanna come bad, but I could stay here forever.

Can you fuck too much? Can you feel too good? Can you be so ripe that you keep bursting and swelling, bursting and swelling until a mouth bites you open again? Her teeth burn into my ass, she whips the hand out of my cunt and I feel the air leave my chest, my breasts suddenly get heavy and full. Her hand spanks my ass, my skin wet and hot, and enters me again like horses. I swear I'm gonna drop to my knees as the finger in my ass moves back and forth, teasing the rim of my anus. I feel myself coming, raging against the horses, grasping them, expelling-thrusting them out as they lunge, push further inside. She holds onto me. “That hand isn't going anywhere,” she says.

I feel come like hushed spurts, warm like blood, flowing out of me. I'm on my knees, my unconscious fingers take her horse hand, arching as I pull her out of me and rub her against my lips and clit. I feel like a dog, mouth open and bent over, writhing against her hand, I'm not thinking anymore, just doing what feels good. She doesn't pull away. I come again, air passes through my throat and I hear a sound like the last breath as you break the surface of water. Doubled over, breathing hard, I pull away from the finger in my ass and push her other hand from between my legs. I lick my juice from her glove, and pull the latex off. My tongue dives for the skin in between her fingers. This is how I will remember her, by her hands. She helps me up from behind, pulling up my panties stretched and tangled in my boots, her fingers spread wide feeling me up as she pulls my skirt down.

She bites my neck and says, “It's too bad you came so soon,” and rubs her pelvis against the crack of my behind. I can feel her packing. Well, I'm sorry, too.

“Next time,” she says, her hands firm on my hips, teasing, pressing into, circling against me, slowly. “It's underneath my black vinyl shorts, it peeks through a little cause they're short-shorts like the ones the reggae dancehall queens wear. Zippers up the sides. I only wear them here.”

“How do you know you're the only one?” I ask. She can't see me smile.

“Well, if I'm not, we'll find out soon enough,” she laughs, and bites the half-moon she left before. I listen to her walking away.

Boots, I guess, with heavy soles.

 

 

 

 

 

I woke up having one of those mornings. The kind where instead of pressing the snooze button and praying for another five minutes of sleep, you simply turn the whole damn alarm off. Don't misunderstand, I wasn't in the habit of missing work. I showed up to both my jobs on time and ready to hustle. But on that particular morning, as I hugged my pillow to my chest and stared up into my bedroom ceiling, I knew there was just no way I could play receptionist all day, only to turn around and play waitress all night. So I called in sick. In my own gentle way, I told Boss Man Number One that he would have to make his own damn coffee for a change and answer his own damn phone calls. I told Boss Man Number Two that I had the flu. Did he really want to risk me passing out in the restaurant? Throwing up on somebody's food?

I didn't feel I was lying to either of them. I was sick. Sick of working so hard for so little. Sick of watching my days roll into each other without a single surprise, sick of feeling like my life had turned into nothing more than two simple phrases: How can I direct your call and May I take your order.

I didn't do much on my day off. Slept in past noon. Watched a few talk shows. I drove out to La Jolla for the hell of it and walked along the beach. You would've thought I had all the time in the world if you saw me. Just a woman staring out at the ocean. Just a woman taking a leisurely midday stroll. After my walk, I decided to browse through a few of the upscale boutiques that line the main boulevard, the kind where saleswomen with frozen blonde hair and ridged blue eyes follow your every move like you can't help but steal something. You are black, after all. But they were right to watch me, actually. I'm certainly no shoplifter, but I was tempted to take something. A silk bra. A gold bracelet. Some sort of souvenir from the world I'd always dreamed of living in.

Instead of shoplifting, I chose to use up a saleswoman's time by trying on expensive outfits I could never afford. One after another. A blouse made of silk organza. A pale blue satin skirt. A black cocktail dress with pearl inlays. Everything I put on made me feel like I was more than a waitress-slash-receptionist. More than a college dropout with a hundred and forty dollars in her checking account. More than a woman who hadn't had a single date in the past seven months. I didn't want to leave. I wanted to pretend that I lived in La Jolla and could afford something nice.

After the shops closed, I drove back to San Diego and caught a movie. After the movie I decided to treat myself to a drink. I figured why not celebrate my last few hours of illness? The closest bar was next to an out-of-business Laundromat and a ninety-nine-cent-Chinese-food restaurant. The neon sign over the bar flashed ANCERS. The
L
flicking on and off as though it were trying to stay alive.

The inside of the place was pretty much like you'd expect. Old barstools lined the bar. Cracked red vinyl booths sat along the opposite wall. There was a pool table and a dance floor big enough for two couples with a small disco
ball overhead. A jukebox sat in one corner and next to the jukebox, an old white man with stringy gray hair wobbled from foot to foot. You couldn't tell if he was dancing or about to pass out. The few other people in the place didn't look much better. Ten or so old people staring into their glasses and nodding their heads to the country musiccoming from the jukebox. If I'd had any sense I would've kept walking, but I told myself that if I was tired of doing the same thing day-in and day-out, I needed to try new things. Why not hang out with a bunch of broken-down white folks and listen to country music? Yee ha!

I was taking a sip from my Long Island iced tea when a woman who looked to be in her sixties came over.

“Hey, are you a Sagittarius?”

“No.”

“A Virgo?”

“No.”

The woman took a sip of her drink, thinking for a moment. She had long lavender nails and matching lavender eye shadow that reached from the inside of her nose to the far end of her eyebrows. She wore a gold leotard that dipped in the front so that it showed off two heaping mounds of wrinkled cleavage. Her big Texas-style hair climbed into the air like a small mountain made from hair spray and bobby pins.

“I read fortunes. Your name start with a
C?”

“No, an
L.
It's Leah.”

“What, honey? I can't hear you with this country shit they're playing.”

“Leee-ah.”

“My name is Doris Ann. I'm a Capricorn and I'm fifty-four years old.” She wiggled her shoulders so that her breasts shook. “I look pretty good, huh?” She pointed at the jukebox with one of her long nails. “I'm gonna play something just for you. Gotta quarter?”

I gave her a quarter and watched her saunter over to the jukebox. The Ojays came on a few seconds later and she shot her fist in the air. “That's better, huh?”She lifted her glass and I clinked mine to hers. “Hey, are you a teacher? I'm picking up on you being a teacher.”

I had to laugh. She was a lousy fortune-teller. “No, I'm a waitress. A waitress and a receptionist.”

“Get outta here. I'm a waitress too. A waitress and a fortune-teller. I've been waitin' tables since I was sixteen! Ain't that somethin'? Forty years of bustin' my ass and askin' people what they want to eat. I make good money telling fortunes. I can't ever tell what's going to happen to me, though. Ain't that somethin'?”

I looked her over then. Saw myself forty years later. A black version of Doris Ann. Old. Lonely. Still waiting tables and trying to tell my own fortune.

I downed my drink and asked for another.

Doris Ann and I were swapping waitressing stories, trying to outdo each other with our all-time-worst experiences when she tapped my arm. “Look what we got here,” she said, nodding her head toward the entrance.

A man stood in the doorway. While I couldn't tell if he was Puerto Rican or what, his dark brown skin definitely gave off the fact that he had some African blood running through his veins. He was much older than me, not my taste at all, but I liked how his chest muscles stretched against his leather jacket. I liked the way he looked over his cigarette at everyone in the bar like they were beneath him. And I was all too happy to see some color in the place.

Doris Ann started her fortune-telling routine as soon as he found a seat at the bar. “Hey, buddy, your name start with a M?”

“Excuse me?”

Doris Ann turned to me, her eyes big. “Hear that, Leah? Our new friend here has an accent. Where you from, huh?”

“I'm from America.”

“How can you be from America if you have an accent? You from Mexico or somethin'?”

The man and I rolled our eyes at the same time and I smiled. He was good-looking for an older man. Nice lips, even caramel-brown skin, and although his hair was buried under a layer of gel, it was thick and jet black. He had wrinkles around his eyes and forehead, but he had a build like a boxer's and gave off the impression that he could kick some serious ass if he wanted to.

After ordering his drink and lighting a cigarette, he asked if he could buy Doris Ann and me another round.

“Ooh, we've finally got us a gentleman in this dump,” Doris Ann said. “I always say foreigners are nicer.”

After the bartender served our drinks, the man moved over two seats and introduced himself. “I'm George.”

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. I'm Leah.”

Doris Ann lifted her shot of tequila. “I'm Doris Ann! Cheers, everybody!”

I rested my elbow on the bar. I could feel a nice buzz coming on and didn't really care if I was leaning in too close. “You don't look like a George at all.”

“That's because his name starts with an M,” Doris Ann said with a belch. “I can feel it.”

“I'll prove I'm telling the truth.” He was about to open his wallet when I playfully snatched it away. I paused when I realized how heavy it felt. Before he could stop me, I opened the side of the wallet and took a peek at the bills. There were a few fifties but the rest of the bills were hundreds. One after the other after the other.

I leaned in closer and folded my hands next to my cheek. “What the hell did you do, rob a bank?”

“I thought you were interested in my name.”

I opened the wallet again and looked at the driver's license. Jorge Morales. I smiled over at Doris Ann. “He's telling the truth. Sort of.”

I handed over his wallet with a smirk. “What did you do to make all that money, George?”

“That's a secret.”

“Come on, you can tell me.”

Doris Ann took a step toward us, her head wobbling a bit. “I have a feeling that money is dirty. I can feel it.”

I raised my eyebrows at George. “Is she right?”

He shrugged slightly, lifting his shoulder as if to dismiss the subject.

A man dressed in brown corduroy pants and a beige corduroy jacket came over and asked Doris Ann if she wanted to dance.

“Hot damn! 'Bout time somebody noticed me around here.” She took the man's hand and they headed off to the tiny dance floor.

I turned to George. “So where'd you get all the money? You don't have to be so secretive. I won't tell.”

George studied me carefully, gazing at my hair and face. “How old are you, Leah?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six.” He shook his head as though my age was bad news. “You are lovely, Miss Leah. But you probably have men telling you that all the time.”