Black Silk (8 page)

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by Bernice L. McFadden

It begins beneath the broken sounds of conversation and an old Marvin Gaye song someone is playing for the third time on the
jukebox. There’s the dull sound of darts hitting the speckled corkboard at the back of the bar and the low hum of the Knicks
game on the television above my head.

“What ya having?” the bartender asks and leans forward on the arm with the hula-girl tattoo and the name SHONA below it. He
washes me in the gleaming green blue of his eyes, and I smile and respond, “Dewar’s on the rocks,” as I adjust myself on the
round hardness of the stool.

I sip and wait for the right one to come through the door. I watch from the safety of the bar mirror that sits behind the
rows of liquor bottles. I watch, sip, and wait.

I am on my second Dewar’s by the time the right one walks in. He is tall, lean, and as dark as the winter night that has ushered
him in. Our eyes dance and trip over the colorful tops of vodka, cognac, and chablis before finally finding each other in
the looking glass. The Knicks score two points above my head and he pulls up a stool beside me.

He nods to the bartender for his usual and blows warm air into the palms of his hand before finally saying hello and then
leaning back to snatch a glance at the game and allowing his eyes to drop down to see how much of my behind the stool was
unable to hold.

I’ve already decided to give myself to him even as the Knicks lose the game by two points and someone curses them from somewhere
off to my left.

He grins at me over the rim of his glass and then offers his name before he drinks from it. I don’t catch it the first time
and so I say, “Sorry?”

He leans in close to repeat it and I close my eyes against the heat of his mouth as it singes my earlobe and travels through
its corridors. I cross my legs so that my skirt can rise and he can see the thickness of my thigh and know that I am worth
having.

He notices and orders another drink. “Another for you?” he offers. I nod my head yes and unbutton the top of my blouse.

For a while there are no more words between us; not that any would matter. His touch is all that I need now because I know
his flesh will speak to me and tell me all that I need to know. As if reading my thoughts he lifts my hand and begins to runs
his fingers across my palm, marveling at the length of my lifeline while his eyes beg me to undo a second button.

Me, I just smile and think of the length of his cock as it tries to reach out to me from behind the gray wool of his pants.

His name, already spoken twice, is still just a wisp of air in my head. I forget even that when he begins to roll the tips
of my fingers between his own until I gasp and pull away.

I could take him right there, right up against the bar, but I don’t, I wait.

He smiles a bit before running his tongue across the full brown of his bottom lip. He says something that I don’t hear because
I’m concentrating on his hands; they’ve found my shoulders and the knot of frustration in my neck and I begin to melt beneath
the soft, steady kneading of his touch.

I’ve already decided to give myself to him even though he’s still working at trying to get me.

And I still can’t recall his name, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve lost myself in his eyelashes, which are long and curled
like a woman’s, and I’m wondering what it will be like to kiss his eyelids and run my tongue down the center of flesh between
his eyes.

There’s heat moving out from between my thighs and I’ve begun to take irregular breaths and my nipples are shamelessly pushing
out from beneath the thin silk of my blouse and I chance a glance at his eyes and I know he knows I’m ready for him. He motions
for the bartender to bring the bill.

“I’ll get that,” he says, and touches my hand as I reach for my purse. The bartender moves the white slip of paper across
the bar. It’s a sensual motion that makes me think of our bodies moving across bedsheets, and I finally give in and undo the
second button.

I need to get up and use the rest room, but my panties are so wet that they’re hanging nearly down to my knees and that’s
embarrassing enough, not to mention the sopping sound they’re sure to make when I start walking, so I just squeeze my thighs
tighter and imagine that he is between them.

We leave, arms linked, and hold each other like longtime lovers as we stand on the corner to hail a cab.

It’s exciting, being next to him in the dewy darkness of the taxi. His hand clasps hold of my thigh and moves across it in
long strokes that start at my knee and end at the place the elastic of my panties begins.

His pinkie finger curls around the hair there until I grab his face and kiss him hard on the mouth. We don’t speak, we just
breathe, and then he slips his finger beneath the material and finds the piece of me that is hard and throbbing.

The driver watches us in the rearview mirror as my hands grip the worn leather of the seat and I swallow to keep the groan
that’s pushing up from my throat.

We go to my place, and I slip the key in the lock and laugh to myself about how at ease I feel at allowing this stranger into
my house when I don’t even like to let the cable man in.

I drop my pocketbook to the floor and take his coat while he admires the painting that’s hanging over my fireplace. I see
the strength in his back and the pride in the broadness of his shoulders and I think that I might want this one for more than
just one night.

We move to the bedroom. I light a candle and turn the radio to a station that I know will play quiet songs of passion and
hope that when I remove my clothes he won’t notice the truth about my body. I hope that he is a gentleman and that he will
ignore that damned white tag that’s screaming MIRACLE BRA SIZE 34B! because I haven’t had it long enough to wash that reminder
away. I hope that he won’t look twice at the way my belly protrudes after I’ve removed my control-top pantyhose or make a
comment about the gray that’s begun to invade the black triangle between my legs.

The nearness of him and the alcohol have my head spinning and I try again to remember his name even as we peel our clothes
from our bodies and he climbs on top of me and begins kissing my neck and the side of my face.

Our tongues never dance and our lips barely brush because kissing is more intimate to me than sex so I won’t allow his tongue
in my mouth, but I will allow his dick in my body.

He eases up and I kiss his chest and suck a bit on his nipples. I wrap my arms around him and inhale his cologne. He eases
up some more until his heart is beating above my head and his penis is staring me right between the eyes. I know what that
means; I laugh out loud then but I don’t say:
If I didn’t allow your tongue in my mouth do you think I’m going let your dick in?

“Uh-uh,” I say and grab him by his shoulders and usher him back down until we are face-to-face again. He gives me a look that
says:
A brother’s gotta try.

His fingers find that wet space between my legs and they move in and out of me like a slow bow over violin strings and I create
music for him when my body shivers and explodes.

I watch him as he dons the condom he had plain as day in his wallet behind the fifty he used to pay for our drinks. I check
again with my free hand to make sure that it’s secure before I let him in.

His strokes are long, slow, and even, letting me know that he’s good at what he’s doing and doesn’t need me to guide him,
so I let go of his hips and allow my hands to stroke his face and play with the stubble on his chin.

His breathing quickens and he is whispering words of want in my ear and it’s then that I notice the clean space on his finger,
the one next to his pinkie.

I dry up somewhere between the fourteenth and fifteenth stroke because there is no love between us to keep me moist. My grip
on his shoulders slackens, and my mind and body lose interest.

“What, baby?” he breathes, and then pulls out so he can flip me over and take me from behind.

I flip even though what I really want to do is sit up and say get out, but it may be another six months before I drink Dewar’s
on the rocks again, so I oblige and I flip.

I think that it is easier for him in this position; he can look down on my ass and the curve of my spine and imagine that
I am anyone, even his wife. His strokes are short, fast, and almost violent as he slams into me. He doesn’t call my name when
he reaches his climax; he just pulls at my hair and grunts.

I don’t cum but I do push against him and grind slowly until his groans subside and I know I every drop of his seed has been
spent.

He kisses the back of my neck and the small of my back before pulling out of and rolling away from me, letting out a sigh
and dropping off to sleep.

I stare at the ceiling and wonder about love.

It’s nearing 4
A.M.
when he starts fidgeting and begins to slide even farther away from me until he can sit up and start fumbling through the
sheets for his boxer shorts.

I still can’t remember his name, but it doesn’t matter because there is a Mrs. who has the same. I pull the sheets up around
my body before flicking on the lamp on the nightstand. I watch him dress and hope that my staring doesn’t make him feel too
uncomfortable. He slips on his oxfords and straightens the seam in his pants before our eyes meet and he lies, “I’ll call
you later.”

I walk him to the door and he pecks me on my cheek and walks away without looking back once. He doesn’t have my number, I
don’t know his name, so I know later will never come.

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by TaRessa Stovall

There were three messages in a row from Marcus on my answering machine. He’d been calling nonstop for a couple of days, but
I hadn’t felt like being bothered. It always amazes me how men heat up when you ig ’em. I’d been experimenting with celibacy
for the past six months—a definite change of pace for yours truly—because love and/or lust tend to pull me off track, and
it was time to return to Nicola’s groove.

I rolled my eyes and started to erase Marcus’s messages, but something stopped me. Marcus and I had kicked it for a few months
back in the day. We’d enjoyed lethal chemistry, genuine affection, and more than a few sensual pleasures. Still, I’d had to
cut him loose.

See, Marcus is superlicious phyne. That’s his greatest asset and his biggest problem. No matter what part of the male anatomy
you prefer, his is state of the art. Chest: broad and rippling. Abs: sculpted for days. Arms: so buff you wanna grab the outsides
and be squeezed up inside them, too. Hands: broad based with long, thick fingers. Waist: nipped just enough to accentuate…
the booty! His is an African master-piece—the kind that makes your jaw drop and your hands itch to cup it. And thighs: for
days! I swear, Marcus’s twin pillars are like tree trunks I want to climb all up under, into, and in between.

Plus Marcus has the face to do the body justice: smooth cinnamon-toast skin, long-lashed eyes that crinkle all up when he
smiles, twin dimples, lusciously full lips, and pearly whites that make you want to swim laps inside his mouth. Not to mention
a voice so hot that even the most innocuous words become a seduction song.

As you can imagine, Marcus gets play 24/7 from every woman with vision correctable to 20/20. And he’s quite accustomed to
getting his way. Which, in my opinion, makes him a little lazy between the sheets. Don’t get me wrong; he’s amply endowed
and a good-bordering-on-great-lover when he wants to be. Trouble is that, like most men, he get a little complacent when he
figures your sweet stuff is a foregone conclusion. He knew the moves and executed them, but it started to feel like a formula,
and I need a steady diet of genuine enthusiasm and creative variety in a lover. So after a few months we parted ways, no hard
feelings, and would talk—just talk—from time to time. Marcus would always throw out something suggestive, just to see if I’d
bite, but until recently I had never been tempted to revisit that sensual playground.

It wasn’t about being scratch-my-itch cool-my-heat horny. I’ve enjoyed my fling with celibacy—it’s helped me appreciate the
sensual pleasures of everyday life. The sight, scent, and feel of a ripe piece of fruit can get me juicy. The tickle of wind
in my ear puckers my nipples into chocolate chips. But the planets were ready for me to make a change.

I don’t normally pay much attention to astrology besides occasionally checking my horoscope (Aries) to see whether it’s safe
to leave the house. Howsomever, my girl, Lisette, is all up into it and keeps me posted.

Years ago she did my chart and said, “Uh-oh! This explains it!”

“What?”

“Your Venus is in Scorpio, child.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Under normal circumstances, you’re hotter than a frying jalapeño. And when the planet Venus actually goes into Scorpio, honey,
hush!”

I didn’t pay her any mind, but after a few episodes of sexual overdrive, I learned to be alert. When the Goddess of Love and
the Scorpion in the sky hook up with my personal planets, I have dreams that bring me to orgasm; then I awaken and need another
climax just to get out of bed. The mere sensation of my silk lingerie against my pertinent parts is enough to send me over
the edge. Any delectable man I lock eyes with is in danger of becoming dinner and dessert. And if I’m seeing a brothah on
the regular, he may have to beg for a break or call 9-1-1.

I’d been feeling “it” for a few days. Sat through a business meeting with my lovebox humming while imagining the different
flavors of every man in the room. Went to the grocery store, heard Sade’s “Smooth Operator” over the sound system, and ended
up cha-cha-ing with the sweet brown-sugar tenderoni stocking the shelves. After our impromptu dance, I gave him a wink and
sashayed myself back to my car. Had an e-mail at work from Lisette saying, “Nicola—watch out. Venus went into Scorpio day
before yesterday.”