Crave All Lose All (33 page)

Bang—Bang!

Soul continued to hear, knowing that the police were relentless and were soon coming into the crib to fuck shit up. They managed to tear open three keys and flush shit down the toilet and wash away the powder into the sink and bathtub. Keisha was sweating and panicking, her fingers were covered in cocaine residue. Soul was on a mission and that was not to get caught, so he moved like the Flash and tore open the key of Ecstasy and tossed that shit into the toilet.

He suddenly remembered the
.9mm
on the table and went to go recover it. But when he got into the living room, he was too late. The steel door finally gave way after unrelenting pounding from the police and they rushed in—Glocks out and cocked and flashing badges and papers, and being clad in their blue flight vest that read
NYPD
.

“Get down…get down…get the fuck down!” they screamed, running through the place like a swarm of ants.

They piled up on Soul and forced him to the floor and restrained his arms around his back and handcuffed him quickly. Moments later they were
dragging Keisha from out the bathroom as she kicked and screamed and tried to fight the cops.

Within minutes, they were both in police custody and watching police ransack the entire apartment. The only thing left for them to seize was the loaded
.9mm
and the key of Ecstasy that Keisha wasn’t able to flush.

A Sgt looked at Soul with his beady eyes and said, “You going to jail muthafucka. You fuck with us, we fuck with you…get this nigger out of my sight and book him for gun possession and drugs.”

Soul sighed, knowing he had fucked up. But the only thing that was on his mind as the police carried him away in iron bracelets was,
what the fuck I’m gonna tell my girl, America?

Today is finally the day. I thought about this day for four long years, and now it’s finally arrived. I lingered in the shower, having the water cascade off my natural brown skin. My nipples were erect by just thinking about his touch, and the way his hands used to caress me night after night had between my thighs tingling and pulsating with excitement.

I wanted to become fresh for him again, and I kept myself pure for years just because I love him. My girlfriends thought that I was crazy, going without dick for so long. But when you’re in love with a man so strongly, then why allow for another man’s penetration when I was longing for only one to push himself into me. I didn’t want to corrupt what belong to him. Just the thought of him coming back to me soon was sexual satisfying for me. But don’t get me wrong, I love sex, but if it wasn’t with Omar, then I was cool and remained celibate until his return.

Omar captured my heart the very first time we met. He was from the streets, no doubt, but he had such a strong aura about him, that I was able to look past that and accept him for who he was. He took my virginity soon afterwards, and from then on. I wanted to marry him.

They called him Soul on the streets, because the man had a future in
whatever he took part of. He could rhyme and play the piano and the guitar. His musical gifts were phenomenal. He could dance like no other before him. He could play ball just as good as the players out of Rucker’s park in Harlem, and he was a gentlemen. Despite his street reputation, my baby knew how to take care of me in the bedroom and out. And I was able to talk to him about anything.

But Omar wasn’t perfect, like every man on this planet, he had his flaws too. He loved the streets, and sometimes hustling and hanging with his homeboys got in the way of his talents.

He sold crack. He got into fights. He drank. And there was even a rumor floating around the hood that he cheated on me. But being his woman, I looked beyond his flaws and wanted us to be one. I wanted us to be together till the day we became old, gray, and wrinkle like crumpled paper. He was the only man that I became intimate with. He was my first, and I wanted him to be my last.

I met Omar when I was fifteen. He was seventeen at the time. He used to hang out with his boys in front of this corner bodega on Supthin and South Road. He did what majority of the youths his age did in the neighborhood, hustling and getting into trouble.

But he was cute. And he used to carry himself different from the rest of his friends. His style was different from his peers. His friends wore their pants low and sagging off their asses; Omar used to sport khakis and wore his jeans above his ass with a belt. Niggahs sported timberlands, which he did too, but every now and then, you would catch him in some loafers, soft bottom shoes, or even a suit and some wing tips. His niggahs sported cornrows and wild hair, Omar kept a low cropped style and took a trip to the barbershop once a week. His niggahs wore clad in big bulky chains and jewelry looking like they took advice from Mr. T and the only jewelry Omar sported was a thin gold chain and a small cross which his mama gave him.

He had caught me coming out of the bodega carrying groceries for my aunt. We had locked eyes for a short moment when I came out. But I remained silent and walked passed the same group of boys that lingered in front of the same store on a daily basis.

As I walked down the block, Omar came jogging up to me and said, “Hey hold up, youngin’.”

“Youngin’?” I had snapped. “Niggah, you ain’t that much older than me.”

He had chuckled, and then replied with, “Yo let me carry that for you.”

I was reluctant. “Why?”

“Because it would be the polite thing to do, and besides, you’re too small to be carrying that big of a bag.”

“I’ve been doing fine for half a block without your help. Did I look like I was struggling?”

He smiled and then said, “Yo, you got some mouth on you. How old are you anyway?”

“Old enough,” I had said.

“Damn, you kinda feisty. I like that,” he had countered.

“Whateva!” I said, and began walking away from him.

But Omar was persistent. He then said, “Being a man, I’m not going to let you carry these bags to your crib by yourself. My mama raised me better than that.”

“Oh, she did, huh,” I had said. “And did your mama teach you about harassment too?”

“Harassment? Yo, why you tryin’ come at me like that, shorti, when I’m just tryin’ to help you out?”

I had given off a grim stare.

“You don’t trust me, I don’t look like a nice guy to you?” he had said. He gave me a warm smile. His smile was so contagious that I couldn’t contain mines any longer.

“See, there’s a smile I was lookin’ for,” he had said.

“Shut up,” I had said jokingly.

He proceeded to remove the bags from my grip and we walked side by side to my home. I was attracted to him. He was tall, about six-feet. He was slim, but was outlined with a six pack and well defined arms. I remembered that day he sported some jean shorts, a wife-beater, and he had the brand new red and white Jordan’s on.

“So what’s your name, beautiful?” he had asked me. His eyes were a dark onyx, and his lips were full like the rest of him.

I remembered not wanting to tell him my full name because I was
embarrassed. My mother before she passed named me
America
. I know it sounds patriotic, but I dreaded the first day of school when the teacher would call out the names on her list. When they would get to America, I could see the look on their faces, perplexed as if they weren’t reading it right.

“America?” teachers would call out incredulously. And all the kids would laugh. The first week of school, my name would be the butt of every kids joke. But that was the only thing they could joke about on me. I was cute, and despite my name, the boys loved me, and some of the girls took a liking to me.

I had looked at Omar and said, “My name is America, okay?” I was waiting for him to laugh like all the previous ones who had heard my name before him. But surprisingly, he didn’t laugh. He looked me square in my face and said, “I like that, America…it’s different. God bless America,” he had said.

I smiled. We got to my crib and he lingered around after I took the groceries in to my aunt. We talked for hours and from that day on, Omar and I became inseparable. He became my heart. We would spend days together, talking, laughing, and just being us.

Every day without him, it felt like part of me was missing. I thought about him everyday since his incarceration. I went to visit him often, trying to keep his mind at ease and remind him what he had waiting for him when he got out. I couldn’t wait to nestle in his arms again. I yearned for his touch, and to feel his breath against mines. I hungered for our souls to entwined, and for him to devour me like a strong appetite.

He’s been on my mind so much that with every passing thought of him, my pussy would throb uncontrollably, and my panties would get saturated with juices escaping from my lips.

I tried to cool off in the shower, but it got no better for me. I was horny. I was so fuckin’ horny that there was an ache in my body that just wouldn’t leave. I was like this because I knew that in less than twenty-four hours, my baby would be home and with me again, loving every curve, shape and inch of me until my pussy puts him to sleep.

Four fucking years of waiting, and being faithful to my boo, I was ready to explode. I lost count of how many times I masturbated alone in the dark, either with toys I had purchased over the years, or with my own free
hands—thinking about Omar grinding and gyrating between my legs. I lost count of how many sleepless nights I had thinking about Omar with a pillow clutched in between my thighs as I fondled my own breasts. I lost count of the long cold showers I had to take because being horny and alone without my man around was sometimes too unbearable to think about. During the days and evenings, I would pour my heart and soul into songs or poems I’ve written, some so emotional that after I would repeat them from my own lips, tears would form in my eyes and a sadness would overcome me.

I removed the shower head from above my head, placed one leg up on the cast iron porcelain tub and neared the shower head to my animated kitty cat. I set the water speed just right for pleasure and moaned as I felt every bit of the water rushing against my pussy. I moved my other hand in between my thighs and started masturbating by moving my fingertips in a circular motion against my clit. With the sensation of the water smacking against my lips and my own fingertips against my clit, I cried out feeling the full effects.

“Aaaaaahhh…..Aaaaaahhh
…..Aaaaaahhh….Aaaaaahhh…oh shit…oh shit…Mmmmmm….Mmmmmm. I missed you baby. I missed you so much,” I cried out as I came. I had Omar so deep in my mind that if felt like he was right next to me.

Tonight was finally my night. There would be no more pretending, because he was coming home after four grueling long years of abstinence, just to keep what was his pure and tight.