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DICK-MATIZED, The Memoir, Part One
DICK-MATIZED, The Memoir, Part Two
DICK-MATIZED, The Memoir, Part Three
DICK-MATIZED, The Memoir, Part Four
DICK-MATIZED, The Memoir, Part Five
“I Spent The Night” Fever
A few months after we became lovers, Big D invited me over to talk about a book he wanted to write.
“I’ll order Chinese food,” he said casually, “and chill some champagne.”
He greeted me with a big, enthusiastic hug. The champagne was indeed chilled. The food did arrive. Actual planning had gone into the evening. He talked and he talked—about his concept for a book based on his theories (which I cannot share without giving away his identity). I was interested in what he had to say but it did occur to me, and not for the first or last time, that he had little interest in my thoughts or opinions—on anything. He wanted an appreciative listener who would fuck (or suck) him after the lecture.
As it often would, his conversation turned to race.
“Racism is every white person’s problem,” he said. “They are responsible for racism and it is up to white people to put an end to racism.”
They? Like you haven’t noticed what color I am? And really? Is every black person responsible for the crime rate in predominantly black neighborhoods. I thought it, but didn’t ask, not then—though later I would challenge him on matters of race, in part, because I would get very tired of the slavery excuse. Can African Americans examine any issue without harking back to slavery/Jim Crow? Will there never be a moving on—though our president has spoken up for that? Big D was an educated, intelligent, very well employed man—and yet he thought O.J. Simpson was innocent. Flip the races in that crime, make the victim black and the perpetrator white—and what would he believe?
“America must apologize for the original sin of slavery and offer reparations,” he said, standing up, taking my hand and pulling me off the sofa.
As he led me to the bedroom, I wondered what the interplay of our skin tones really meant to him. Did he see our entwined limbs as aesthetically pleasing—or a political statement? Did watching his cock thrust into my pussy or my mouth make him feel like he was paying back the white man?
He unzipped his pants—and it sprang forth. The source of my obsession and delight. His cock. That big black hard proud amazing black cock.
I knelt before it and sucked but stopped before he could come in my mouth. Pushing him back against the bed, I mounted him. As I rode him, I fondled my clit. He held my hips, thrusting up against me. I came looking into his eyes. He rolled me over and came himself, his eyes also looking intensely into mine.
Afterward, we held each other. He asked me to rub his head.
“This is a little piece of heaven,” he said.
We talked about being children in East St. Louis on opposite sides of the city, not knowing of one another's existence. I rubbed his head. In a little while, he took my hand and placed it around his cock. The shaft grew hard to my touch; the head swelled above, calling to my lips. I knelt between his legs and gave him a blow job that sent him into a loud, delirious orgasm. We held one another and talked and made love one more time.
Yes, we made love that night—and fell asleep in one another’s arms. When we woke, we were both running late. He made coffee; I took a quick shower in his ultra masculine taupe colored marble bath. When I kissed him good-bye, I felt as close to him and as happy with him as I ever would.
I was so into him (his dick?) at that moment, I felt feverish.
Later I met my friend C for lunch in Soho. I was late because I had forgotten how to get downtown. Looking at me, she laughed and said, “Oh, you have it bad. You look dizzy and distracted.”
We ordered champagne and talked about dicks—and I believe we invented the word dick-matized. I’d never heard it before. Looking back on that day, I most regret the loss of C’s friendship in the coming year, not the loss of Big D.
Un-dick-matized. A word I later invented alone.
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