PART FOUR: THE SECOND TIME WE HAD SEX
A few days after meeting Big D, I had a date with a djembe drummer, a hot little man from Mali. He appeared to have zero body fat. The result of vigorous drumming—and/or coke, crack, heroin? When the band hit the first notes of “Soweto,” the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. (If you don’t know African jazz, you must discover it—and maybe with “Soweto.”) I wanted to lick his biceps. He smiled at me.
On break, he came to my table, signaled the waitress to bring me another wine and said, “You are beautiful lady. I want to know you.”
Thus began another one of those “inappropriate” flirtations that worry some of my friends, especially the men, outrage a few African American women—and give casual observers the idea that I have more sex partners than I do. But I had no intention of going to bed with the boy when I consented, after months of his begging and many glasses of wine sent to my table, to one date. I knew he had a very big cock from the occasional embraces I’d allowed him in the dark corners of the bar’s tiny back yard where drugs are bought and sold and consumed; and I wasn’t adverse to feeling it sheathed in clothing pressing against my body once more.
But sex with a young African man who appeared to be using? Too risky.
He was waiting outside the jazz bar when I got out of the cab. We went inside, were given seats at the bar, in deference to his status as a musician, and a round of comped drinks. Within 10 minutes, Big D was standing behind me, pretending to ignore me as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He was dancing attention on me, even if only I knew that he was. Intoxicating.
When Djembe Boy went on stage to sit in for another drummer, Big D whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
“My place, this time,” I said.
I gave him the address. Djembe Boy was already calling my cell as the cab sped off. Glancing out the back window, I saw Big D get into another cab.
“I like it,” he said, giving the apartment a quick appraisal and me a rudimentary embrace. I could feel his energy, his hard erection, even in the briefness of contact.
“Cognac?” I asked.
I poured two snifters of Pierre Ferrand’s best, handed him one and led him to the bedroom where the queen-sized bed was piled with pillows. Gauzy and bejeweled Indian fabrics hung from the bed posts. He put his glass down on a night table and took me in his arms, the first time he really held me outside the grasping and grabbing of sex. Rubbing my back with one hand, he stroked my face and neck with the other. I unbuttoned his crisp white shirt and nuzzled his chest. This felt nice. Would we be lovers?
We kissed for a while in that standing embrace. I finished unbuttoning his shirt. He took a sip from his cognac. I pulled the cashmere sweater over my head, dropped the skirt to my feet and stepped out of it. Again, he took my breasts out of the cups and man-handled them. I liked it.
“Leave your stockings on," he said. "I like that."
We melted together, this time with a little more skill and confidence. He quickly brought me to the first orgasm with his hand and then held me while I caressed his dick. I lowered my mouth to it and teasingly circled the head with the moistened tip of my tongue. He shivered. I buried my nose in his pubic hair and inhaled his scent. He smelled vaguely of sandalwood and spice. The skin covering his shaft was luxurious, like a blend of heavy silk and velvet, a weave impossible to afford. Beneath the plush fabric, he was as hard as an eighteen year-old boy.
“I lost my cell phone,” he said afterward, leaning back against the pillows, one hand behind his head. “It had a photo of an ex-lover captured at the point of orgasm as she was riding me. We both masturbated to that image. She warned me, ‘Don’t lose that phone.’”
“Do I need to know that?” I asked crossly. I don't like to hear about other women, so I parted his legs, knelt between them and began my intense dialogue with the dick.
Not until he was getting dressed to leave did I realize we hadn’t fucked.
“So, how did you know my name?” I asked.
“You’re a white woman who hangs out in a Harlem jazz bar.”He laughed, but not in a mean way. “Everybody knows your name—and who you are—and what you do.”
“I thought I was blending in,” I said.
“Give me your number,” he said before he left. He would put it in his new cell phone, which he also lost a few weeks later, but by then he remembered it.
NEXT WEEK: I INTRODUCE BIG D TO SOME NEW PORN
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