Cheaters (29 page)

My left leg rose, rested over Stephan’s shoulder, and his face moved inside, that tongue leading the way, flicked in and

out of me. My moan came on strong. He nibbled, sucked, teased, kissed, blew on a spot that was as hot as a thousand suns. I was afraid the temple he was tongue-praising might singe his face.

He told me I tasted good.

I floated into the living room, lay on his blue carpet, felt the firmness from being on the floor, on my back.

His tongue was on my knees, then on the back of my knees, waking up a few nerves I never knew I had.

My toes. Oh, God, he was sucking my toes. Felt like my whole foot was in his mouth, then one toe at a time.

I was as juicy as a pear apple and twice as sweet.

His fingers were around my breasts, made my nipples ache with pleasure, and it felt like they were the size of a silver dollar.

Let the clothes fall where they may.

He wanted to crawl on top of me, wanted to weigh me down with what he had to offer. But I wanted to go beyond the missionary.

I tongued him, let him know, “It’s Sadie Hawkins Day.”

“Okay.”

“And one more thing.”

“What?”

I said, “Wrap that pickle up.”

“One sec.”

My hand was all over him, and let me tell you, I was pleased with the girth. I hoped he knew how to work it. After he put the sheath on, I doubled-checked to make sure it was on tight. Had to have a good barrier between us. I raised my hips, eased down, allowed him to creep inside my love. He felt so good living inside me, sharing life, stretching my walls. My giggles stopped and changed into a stream of charming murmurs.

I was riding him, chanting out my pleasure, telling him how good he was making me feel, controlling the penetration, enjoying my own twinges and driving him crazy. Then we were rocking on one of his kitchen chairs, facing each other.

He jerked.

I said, “What’s wrong?”

“Your nails. Not too deep, okay?”

“Sorry, partner.”

“Dig any deeper, I’ll need stitches.”

I loved that kind of groove; he was in me deep, but his thrusting was limited because we were so close. That made him move slow and sensual, made him have to let me take over.

We moved the party back to the carpeted floor. Then took the fun and games to his bedroom.

I stopped loving and kissing him long enough to say, “Open the blinds so some moonlight can shine through.”

“You like some light, huh?”

“I love light.”

I hated loving in the dark where I couldn’t see. When I was this turned on, I had to bathe myself in all of my senses.

His bed squeaked with our rhythm. Yes, yes, I loved a squeaky bed that echoed like a thousand mice. I loved to do my thing and make it sing a sultry song of sin and salvation.

A tri-fold mirror was on his dresser. I pulled his comforter back, turned sideways, reclined so I could watch him groove. He was watching me too. Watching and smiling. His body eased down on mine, but I slowed him down and reached for that divining rod of his. Had to make sure that condom was still on tight.

Then I held on, pulled him down, showed him the way.

My eyes went to the mirrors; I checked out my fluid movements that were making his fluids move. He massaged my butt, slapped it, made it sting so good. I saw him admiring me, and I gave up a devilish grin while I moved slow and easy. Stephan was so strong, so rigid, so powerful that I imagined that his orgasm would blow a big hole in my back.

I felt it. He was swelling. Growing. His eyes were shut tight. Breathing short. He was ready to burst like confetti. He was fighting it but losing the battle, about to spew his sweet and sourness inside the latex barrier between us. I had his wanna-be-cool ass going crazy. I wished he didn’t have a condom on, so I could feel the rush when it entered my body.

I lost it, “Oh my God…oh shit…oh goddamn…oh Stephan…”

It snuck up on me that time. I was drunk with the feeling,

on fire, walking through the door of that wonderful place. My vagina trembled, walls opened and closed, made sounds like it was gasping for air, sweet spasms making me feel as light as a feather.

I squealed, “Say my name.”

His back was arching, forehead damp, face glowing with the same sweet pain I was releasing. Paralyzed by pleasure.

I demanded, “Say my name.”

He held my hips and whispered, “Chanté.”

“Now spell it.”

He lit candles and we relaxed in the tub. Hot water and plenty of soap. He dipped his butt in the steam first, took up most of the room, and I sat between his legs, felt his penis sleeping on my back.

He was born in Mississippi. Came out here when he was in elementary school. Lived in South Central before moving to Baldwin Hills. Was teased about his accent, which has evolved into a smooth Cali-fied tone. No middle name. Uncircumcised. Favorite color, blue. Hates coconut. Two brothers. A sister. Loves his mother. His daddy is dead. His stepdaddy owns three barber shops in L.A.: one on Crenshaw, one on Slauson, and one on La Brea. His other brothers went into the family’s barber business. He didn’t. His tone made me think that he refused to.

I said, “My momma gives my daddy baths every now and then.”

“Sounds old-fashioned.”

“Yep. She’s from the old school. She believes in taking care of her man. Cooks dinner every day.”

“Your mother submissive?”

“No. Extremely loving. Well organized. Momma handles all the money, so without her Daddy wouldn’t have a dime. She runs the house.” I laughed. So did the naked man whose flesh was rubbing against mine. He was a little harder. I moved against him, felt him move, slip and slide against me.

I asked, “You have more condoms, or is that it?”

“I might be able to find another one. Maybe two.”

“Two? Aren’t we assumptive.”

“Just ambitious.”

“Ambition’s good.”

I wanted him inside me again. Needed to be moved back to that special place where nothing mattered but the feeling of contentment. A place of no resentment.

I jumped back a subject and asked, “Why, are you one of those men who think a woman is supposed to submit to a man?”

“Everybody has to be submissive in some kind of way. A man and a woman have to be submissive to each other.”

He dropped water on my back, massaged my neck, made me moan.

I asked, “What does being submissive to each other mean?”

“Compromise. Team work.”

I rubbed my back up against his penis, made it squish between us. Those fleshy things fascinate me. One minute it looked like a bloated worm, the next it was a gladiator’s weapon. He was growing, then it softened again. He massaged my back, my neck. My hands were kneading his calves, his thighs, feeling every part of him I could feel. It felt so comfortable, so uninhibited, like we’d loved a million times before.

I leaned forward long enough to drain a few inches of water, then ran more hot water into the tub. “I heard that if a woman doesn’t take care of her man, that if he has a hard penis, his heart will be hard. And if she keeps him soft, his heart will be soft. You think that’s true?”

He paused. “Nope.”

I thought about all the love I’d given Craig. All the days. All the nights. How I drove forty miles from Diamond Bar to Moreno Valley a zillion times, about how I had empathy for his economic plight and dug deep into my bank account to keep him satisfied. I just knew I was going to end up marrying him.

What a fool believes.

And still I wanted to feel like it was my fault.

In a disillusioned voice I said, “Me neither. I don’t think it’s true. Not in the real world. A woman can make love to a man until he’s drier than Arizona, and it won’t matter.”

“Not if he don’t love her.”

I said, “People in love mess around.”

“Okay, respect. If he don’t respect her, or if he doesn’t love her, it’s just another piece of ass.”

“Piece of ass. Ouch. That’s cold-blooded and sexist.”

“How?”

“A woman has a million qualities, and she’s reduced to being a piece of ass.”

“If you step into a man’s locker room, don’t expect the truth to be sugar-coated.”

“Just another one of your sexist statements.”

“You asked, I told you the truth.”

“Is that what this is? Another piece of ass?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I could reach back and rip your penis off your body.”

He kissed my neck, his tongue so warm, pulled my hair back and licked my ear, stilled that pissed-off feeling that was trying to rise up from my darkened soul.

I said, “So, all that matters is if a sista looks good.”

“A woman looking good ain’t never made a man stay.”

“I know that.”

“If he don’t like you, he just don’t like you.”

“Why would he bother to hang around?”

“Sex. Money.”

“That’s fucked.”

“Women do it all the time. It’s called equal rights.”

We laughed, playfully splashed water on each other.

Love. That thing that was like the wind. You could feel it, but you couldn’t hold it, so you couldn’t control it. It teased you, made you want it, made you hunger to be satisfied.

That was what Craig had stolen from me. My right to love. Had sipped my honey and moved on when the flavor of my sweetness no longer suited his taste. Had left this hollow feeling in that place. I hated him for allowing me to feel like that.

Stephan stopped sucking on my flesh, but kept rubbing his hot hands over me. “Where did you hear that?”

I snapped out of my trance. “Hear what?”

“Soft penis, soft heart.”

“My momma told me that.”

With every word it seemed like Stephan was filling that hollow space. Some of it at least. But I knew all of this

was temporary. A dusk-to-dawn cure. We touched, talked, cleansed each other.

Stephan microwaved the barbecue that Rebecca had given me before we went to Shelly’s. He put my treats on a portable table, and we crashed on his bed: windows open, ceiling fans on, Bobby Lyle jamming on his CD player. Stephan relaxed in front of me. I pigged out and wondered what he thought of me now.

I said, “Eating this late is gonna make me fat. I’ll wake up in the morning with a Nell Carter booty.”

He said, “Barbecue sauce is on your mouth.”

“You sure you saw Karen tonight?” I licked my lips, traced my tongue around the edges. “I get it?”

“I could be wrong. And nope, you didn’t get it.”

He leaned over and licked the corners of my lips. Ran his tongue around my mouth, then let it linger inside. I put my food to the side, then straddled Stephan. If he hadn’t had his sweats on, he would’ve slipped up inside me. Drops of barbecue were on my fingers, and I smeared that flavor on the side of his face, then licked it off.

I said, too serious, “Tell me that you’re different.”

“I can’t. And you can’t tell me you’re different either.”

“You and your girlfriend get back together?”

“Kind of late to be asking that.”

“Never too late. You seeing somebody?”

He paused. “Nobody special.”

I tried not to sound deflated. “I see. Mr. Evasive.”

I took my tray into the kitchen and rinsed off the plate and silverware, then put the dishes inside the dishwasher. I put some space between us so I could think. While I was all to myself having a moment, Stephan walked through the living room and stepped out on his patio. He was staring at the sky like he was searching for answers.

I said, “Stephan?”

“Yeah?”

“I asked you if you had a girlfriend. You’re supposed to ask me if I have a boyfriend. That’s how it works.”

“I know how it works. And I will.”

“When?”

“When I want to know.”

That meant he didn’t give a fuck. That feeling we had a

few minutes ago was already gone. I didn’t know if I should feel insulted and squirt pepper spray in all of his underwear, or just remind myself that this was the norm in my life anyway.

I wrapped my arms around myself and watched him for a moment.

“What’re you doing out there?” I asked.

“Thinking.”

“You want me to leave now?”

He didn’t answer. I went out and stood next to him. Leaned my body against his and asked, “You ever been in love?”

“Yeah. No. Maybe. Not sure.”

“That’s evasive.”

“I know I’ve been in possession.”

“In possession?”

“You know. You get so used to having somebody in your life, so comfortable with what they have to offer, that no matter how lacking, or how jacked up it is, you don’t want to let it go.”

We watched the stars in the sky for a few minutes.

Stephan pulled me close. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

I almost smiled. But that blush was crushed when images of Craig, Michael, Thaiheed, trampled through my mind.

I answered. “Negative.”

Stephan said, “You hesitated.”

“So did you.”

“Who was the brotha who was all up on you at the club?”

It dawned on me why he was tight-lipped. I said, “Jealous?”

He moved a little, but didn’t give me any real reply.

He was resentful. I smiled on the inside.

Then his phone rang. He rushed into the bedroom. I felt a lot more deflated. A little pissed off. That was why I followed him, stood right up under him, and kissed on his neck, got closer than close so I could hear what the hell was going on at midnight.

“I’m sorry, Momma,” he said, then kissed my neck. “You had gone off way down the street when I was leaving. Momma, stop fussing. Go to bed.”

Stephan laughed, told her he loved her, then said good-bye.

We crawled back into his bed.

I kissed his lips. “What’re you thinking?”

He said, “Kismet.”

“Good answer.”

I kissed him again. Somewhere inside that kiss I decided that after I left here, whenever I left here, I wasn’t going to call Stephan Mitchell anymore. That was my final decision as I teased my tongue down to his navel, then decided to take this moment to the highest and kissed around the tip of his penis. I made love to that part of him until my jaws ached and the corners of my mouth glistened with splendid traces of him.