Nights Over Egypt (An Eye of the Storm Short) (2 page)

              “Dope, brother, as usual.  Seemed a lil personal though.”

             
“It was,” I point to her as she makes her way to the stage.

             
“I see.” Julius smiles, shakes his head, takes a sip of the dark drink that will mess with his mind soon.             

Truth be told, I don’t even think she knows my name. As I sit here, the midnight clear greets me in isolation and desperation, yearning for penetration as my right hand presses against the chocolate-coated staff that beats and pulsates in anticipation of her.  Julius has left the booth, which gives me time to fantasize. Gradually, my eyes open, and the animal inside of me has been awakened by that thing – Lust. The creature in me is begging for the gentleman in me to get the fuck out of the way so that I can hunt and capture my prey.

Staring at the purple colored bar in my Friday lion’s den, my eyes close once more, and I envision her beauty again. If I lose sight of her, even if only in my dreams, I’m afraid my heart would not only break;  the fear of not having something I crave more than life itself, will force me into psychosis.

             
Damn, I need her…

             
Her stride, how she glides, her walk, in rhythm to the Earth’s beat, she moves with fluidity…like if perfection could be transformed and placed in human form -perfectly planted on a man’s heart, walking, simply walking, and I am in awe.

             
From her toffee-colored, rich butter soft, butterscotch skin, to the flowing brown hair that shines and cascades, framing a face that the Gods took extra time to create, to her deep-pitted dimple in her right cheek, to her radiant smile, this woman has everything I’ve ever prayed for. I’ve only known of her physical existence for a short time, but she’s been in my soul, in my thoughts and dreams, a part of my nightly talks with God, for most of my adult life. I’ve found her.

Deliciousness dares me to deliberately devour all that is so divine about her. What I’d give to taste the tender goodness that sits between her thighs. If only for one night, I’d taste the tantalizing, tempting, treasure, that tickles my fancy, night after night.

Her name is Egypt.

Heaven and Hell

Her…

              His name is King. That much I do know.  He is a serious combination of both Heaven and Hell, good and evil, hot and ice cold, a towering inferno of rich dark chocolate adorned in frosty brown dreadlocks.

             
He’s so fly that he walks in slow motion-the confidence in his stride, that Denzel-like strut in his oh so sexy swagger convinces me that my immediate assumption may be right-his dick does effortlessly flow to his knees. My God.

             
Cocoa-dipped passion in male form. Whenever I see him, I try not to blink so that I won’t miss a goddamn thing.

             
He has to be around six foot three, and I know his body is hard as rocks. I can see it through his purple button-up.

             
To say that I want him would probably be the understatement of the year. I know what I like. I know what I want. And I definitely know what I need. I need him is a more accurate description of my true feelings.

             
I long for King at night, right before I lay my burdens down. My longing transcends into that galaxy of the unknown, in my sleep where my dreams reveal all of my life’s fears and desires, and he represents an equal part of both. Thoughts of him travel with me throughout my day, and I often take him to places he shouldn’t dare go. I’m ashamed of where’s he’s been in my world, on my list of life’s goals and priorities. In my dreams, he has yet to remain. He has effortlessly and deliberately become a permanent fixture in my fantasy and reality.

             
The two of them often collide.

             
Trying to pinpoint the time I first saw his delicious ass is hard, but I know he hasn’t left my heart since that first day. It was a day, just like today, where I go to find peace of mind, solace, an escape from the ordinary, and delve into rhythm and rhyme at “Nights,” in Newark.

             
“Nights…” a place where true talent reigns supreme. Soldiers of the pen gather to pay homage to one of the greatest gifts we have, the gift of the written word. A place where masterful spoken word tyrants come to duke it out on stage, trying to see whose word game is untouchable for the evening. None of these cats admit it’s a competition, but the audience can see the fire in each and every one of their eyes as they spit verse after verse, hoping that their crescendo escalates to the point of no return.

             
This is where King leads all, and those who know the truth, follow. His words, week after week, flow majestically from his sweet, dark chocolate lips, and pour fluidly from his mouth, and somehow goes straight to my heart, travels to my breasts, erects my nipples, lands on my clit, and beats the shit, hell and damn out of my pussy walls.

             
There have been many nights where I watched King spit fire. Many nights, I captured his flame and took it home with me. So hot…my panties were soaked with the remnants of my longing.

             
He’s just left the stage. Roars and applause from brothers and sisters alike. I can see his smile, his pride, its slight, he holds it in to remain humble, I can tell. I know my baby that well.

             
Delirium has officially set in. I welcome it. Means I’m on some path that leads to him, no matter how irrational.

             
I see him. That strut. I see that track star behind, tight, round, moving in sync with the momentum of his poetic victory. Walk that walk, money. I want to run up behind him, hug him with all that I own in my spirit, gently kiss the back of his neck, and delicately whisper in his ear, “Good job, baby.” I’d be showing these groupie-stank-ass-slut-bitches in here, who fawn over his delightful self, that he is mine…alone.

             
Wear that shirt, honey. Those denims are hugging you in all the right places…damn. I watch as brothers give him dap and respect and love. Disgusted, I see the ladies give him love too. The kind of love I want to give him. The kind of love he deserves and the kind of love I know he’s worthy of.

             
He spoke about a Savior in a way I’d never heard before. As my mind shifts in high gear to fantasy realm, I can only hope that he was referring to me. As with anything in real life, sometimes truth is indeed stranger than fiction and on some days makes fiction look as sane as Obama. However, with the way real life works, I know he couldn’t possibly have been referring to me. Not sure if the heavens would work so highly in my favor, all at the same time, to invoke some divine influence on the possible unofficial meeting of two kindred yet unfamiliar souls.

             
I remember him saying, “Let me make the erotic heaven of your lonely earth sing.               Precious savior. Delicious queen.” The way he puts words together is like magic and not everyone can do it.

             
Not everyone…but I sure can. I walk towards the stage, and my eyes follow King until he disappears as the spotlight greets me, makes me turn into another soul, one who is here to deliver lyrical enlightenment on a crowd of kings and queens who need to be uplifted and transported to a place unfamiliar and not yet known to them. I will do that. Encourage, enlighten, maybe even inspire, with a twist. Tonight, I’m not starring in the role of poor righteous teacher. I’m going to speak to my man, and pray that I don’t make a fool of myself. Hope beyond hope that he’s listening. I’m going to speak to King, as if, by the slightest chance, and the slimmest ray of hope that he did lay it out on the line for me just a short time ago.

             
I nod at the bass player and sit my drink on the stool next to me. I have no clue as to what I will say, but I know that the words will come to my spirit, and come to my mind and be delivered from the heart and soul as they should be. Understanding the power of words, I get what this moment means. My life depends on this very moment.

             
“My people. What’s good?”

             
“You girl,” a gentleman with a gap between his teeth yells from the front row.

             
“I like that, Papi.” I smile.

             
“I call this piece, “Denomination.”             

             
“I watch you as you sleep.

             
Too comfortable to face it.

             
That you make my life complete.

             
And I’ve yet to know your last name.

             
Wanna trace it.

             
I rebel.

             
While today is still today,

             
I need to choose well.

             
Ain’t picked up a bible in years.

             
Yet, I know your presence flows             

             
through the space of heavenly design.

             
Christen my condition with your tears.

             
The word revealed.

             
They will never again be hungry or thirsty.

             
They will never be scorched by the heat of the sun.

             
With your heavenly heat

             
Melt down the walls of my inhibition

             
And denominate me as your only one.

             
The lust of my flesh.

             
The lust of my eyes.

             
The pride of my life.

             
Won’t keep me from getting to heaven.

             
I’ll just proclaim that a King,

             
A man,

             
Who is worthy of the name,

             
Reigned down on me,

             
With the sacred fist of the righteous,

             
And made my world sane.

             
King.”

             
Butterflies threaten to take complete control of every inch of my body but I am not a punk and I won’t be bitching out of this situation. Red-faced and all, I said it, I now own it. Worst case scenario, he rejects me, even if he paid attention at all, life goes on and I tuck my stupid-ass tail between my legs and make it out the front door with the swiftness. Best case is that my love heard, received and digested everything I said to him and he’ll take me home soon to meet his Mama.

             
A girl can dream.

             
As I exit the stage, many of the weekly visitors and familiar faces greet me with joy and love and excitement and I take it all in, although the only thing on my mind is him. As I walk down the stairs, I feel all of the fullness of my breasts as they bounce, my nipples harden in anticipation of him. I don’t see him anywhere.

             
Making my way to the bar, I sit on an empty stool and speak to Renee, a long-time friend and bartender here at “Nights.”

             
She smiles. “Honey, that was good and different for you.”             

             
“Thank you, darling.”             

             
“Your usual?”

             
“Yes, Ma, you know me so well. Brandy Alexander.”

             
“You got it.”

             
I watch Renee as she makes her way to the other side of the bar. She knows I prefer to drink out of glasses with a pencil thin rim, so she pulls out the finest for her girl.

             
I feel him.

             
He’s here.

             
His presence is domineering.

             
I glance to my right, and my peripheral captures his silhouette. King. King. King. Damn. King. Heart rate climbing. Breathe easy. Exhale. It’s going to be alright, baby girl. Lord, have mercy. Okay. Make sure your tits are sitting up straight. Arch your back, bitch. Man up. Put your big girl panties on. 

             
He takes the stool next to me. I don’t look in his direction. His cologne has the power to make me drop to my knees.

             
“What it is, Renee?” He questions the bartender as he sits.