Authors: Lindsay Blanc
Chapter 6
“You are such a slut!” cried Lucy at our coffee date.
“Shhhh! God, Lucy, people can hear you!”
“What! You’re suddenly a private person? You suddenly want to live a quiet, unassuming life after you spent all of last night swapping fluids with some guy you just met?”
She was teasing, mostly. Lucy had always given me a hard time for being a prude, so I knew her criticism was just masking approval.
“C’mon,” I said. “For years you’re telling me I need to get laid, and when I finally do, you’re suddenly the morality police?”
“No way. I’m proud of you girl. I just wish I met the guy first. Anyway, I mean ‘slut’ in a good way. You do have to tell me all the dirty details though.”
“Well, he just came into the shop to look around. I thought he was a cop because, you know, well-dressed white guy in the hood.”
“White guy, huh?” she said, clearly holding her tongue.
“Yeah, why?”
“Oh, no reason.” She always made me work to get her to talk straight. “It’s just that white guys only have a few reasons to be going after black girls, especially if this guy is wealthy. How much money would you say this guy has?”
“I really have no idea. He had a really nice car and took us to a nice restaurant, that’s all.”
“Alison, come on. I know you’ve thought about it. How much money do you think he has, considering the car, the clothes, the restaurant, whatever. Ballpark it.”
I was almost ashamed to admit that I had thought about it. I hated to be looked at as a gold-digger, but a well-off man was attractive. “I guess, maybe a million? He carried himself like a millionaire, not that I’ve met many.”
“No, you said this guy was well-dressed, right? Does that mean suit and tie?”
“More like shirt and slacks,” I said.
“See? I think this guy has more. The really wealthy guys don’t advertise. They don’t have to. What kind of car?”
“You know I don’t know anything about cars, Lucy. I know it was a Rolls, though.”
“A-ha. Fancy but not too fancy. This guy must be loaded. A millionaire shows off, but a billionaire? They know they got money. They are more understated. It’s confusing, I know.” Lucy loved playing expert. “Anyway, as I was saying, white guys go for black girls for only a few reasons.”
“He said he liked me because I was a book-lover like him. And Lucy, I’m plenty attractive. Can’t that be enough?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “You’re smoking hot. I mean psychologically, though. On a deeper level, he wants something else.”
“And what is that?” I was getting annoyed. And despite myself, I was also beginning to worry that she might be on to something.
“Number one is least troubling. He might be a fetishist. He might be into the idea of a sister as an exotic beauty from a far-away land, ready to teach him all of her interesting sexual ways. He might love nappy hair and a fat ass. He might, in short, have a taste for chocolate. Do you know if he’s ever dated black before?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling a little disheartened. “We didn’t talk about that stuff.”
“That’s right. I forgot, he couldn’t talk with you sticking your pussy in his mouth all night.”
“Hey!”
“Hey yourself, you insatiable sex-monger,” she said, laughing. “Anyway, on to number two. Number two is white guilt. This one makes me roll my eyes. He thinks that he can prove he’s not racist by fucking a black chick. He can walk with you on his arm, showing all the other sisters that he’s not a bad guy. Maybe his ancestors owned slaves, but he is doing his part to make reparations.”
“I really don’t think that’s it,” I said, not knowing if I believed myself.
“Who knows? Not me. Number three!” she continued. “He has a savior complex. This rich, white motherfucker sees you as a poor, black woman, damaged by the system, and he sees his opportunity to play Good Samaritan. He can save you from yourself. He can save you from the cycle of oppression, since you can’t save yourself.”
I didn’t even know how to reply to that one. I felt hurt, and her confidence made me worried that she might know what she’s talking about.
“Finally, and worst-of-all, this guy might have a master-slave complex. Instead of trying to erase a history of slavery like the white-guilt guy, he’s trying to bring it back, mostly in the bedroom. It’s kind of like those guys who are only into Asian women. They like those girls because someone taught them that Asian women are naturally subservient to men, that their culture tells them to bow to men and meet their every need. Master-slave guys are like that. The big difference is that they know black women are strong and resilient, often moreso than the white guy himself, and he is intimidated and wants to
make
her subservient.”
“Where did you learn all this? It sounds a little farfetched.” I was trying to convince myself as much as her.
“I learned from
life
, sister. You think I’ve never fucked a white dude?”
“Yeah, but haven’t all of your white guys been johns? Haven’t they been paying you?”
“What difference does that make?” she said, offended and more convinced than ever. “Johns aren’t like guys you date. They’re honest. They don’t have to be polite or worry that you’ll dump them. They’ll tell you what’s really going on, and I’m telling you, they all fall into those categories. Every one of them.”
I tried to tell myself she didn’t know what she was talking about, but I couldn’t focus for the rest of our girl-date. She was laughing and talking about her life, but it was all distant noise to me. I couldn’t bear to think that this wonderful man could have ulterior motives.
Chapter 7
James picked me up for another date two nights after my conversation with Lucy. Despite my attempts to act natural, I knew that I seemed distant and cold.
“Is everything OK?” he asked. “You’ve been looking at that menu for a long time. We can go somewhere else if you don’t see anything you like.”
“No,” I said. “I’m fine.” I hated that kind of response. I didn’t want to be the type of woman a man had to grill for information, but I was still figuring out what exactly my thoughts and feelings were. “Have you ever had a black girlfriend before?” I finally asked.
He seemed to relax, which surprised me since I felt like I was asking an uncomfortable question. “Is that it?” he asked, smiling. “Is that what’s bothering you? I thought you were worried about the other night.”
“No,” I said. “The other night was great. Amazing, really.”
“I agree,” he said, with joy in his voice. “I was just worried you thought we were moving too fast. Instead, you’re worried that I’m only dating you because you’re black, right?”
“The thought crossed my mind,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“No, I’ve never had a black girlfriend before. I have dated black women before, but I’ve dated women from a lot of backgrounds. I know all about fetishism and the problems it causes. I’m attracted to you. Very attracted to you. But it’s not only because you’re black. I would have left the store without asking you out if I wasn’t attracted to your intelligence.”
“And you would have fantasized about me later?” I said, with a mischievous grin replacing my hurt frown.
“That’s a strong possibility!” He laughed.
“What about white guilt, savior complexes, and master-slave fixations? You got any of those?”
“I sure hope not!” he said. “Who’s been getting into your head?”
“A girlfriend. I don’t know why I let her get to me. She has horrible taste in men. I mean really bad taste in guys. She’s just trying to help, but her help can sometimes keep me from taking valuable, wonderful risks.”
“To be honest,” he said. “I had a friend caution me against you too.”
“Was it a race thing? Was it your parents?”
“No,” he said. “But I did tell them about you. Early as it might seem, I was excited enough about you to sing your praises to them, and they hope to meet you some day. I’m probably getting ahead of myself though.”
I was flattered at how happy he was to be with me. It was adorable to see a powerful, self-assured man act like a schoolboy with a crush, especially over me.
“It was a friend of mine. He’s more of a business partner, really, but we have coffee or brunch now and then. He was worried you were only interested in me for my money. That’s not the case . . . right?” He asked as though he were joking, but I could tell he was genuinely curious about the answer.
“No. I’ve thought about it, and Lucy asked about it, but I am happy with my life. I don’t need a lot of money.”
“Lucy’s the friend, huh? What did she say about the money?”
“She wanted to know how much you had,” I said, feeling guilty that I’d talked about it at all, but knowing honesty was important here.
“What did you say?”
“I said you might be a millionaire based on your car and clothes and all that. She said that you were more likely a billionaire because you weren’t a showoff about your money.”
“Lucy sounds like a smart woman, even if she was trying to scare you away from me.”
I was finding it hard to look him in the eyes, even though I knew that his eyes brought me a lot of comfort.
“Alison,” he said hesitantly. “I do have a confession to make to you.”
My heart jumped to my throat. I had felt such relief when he denied all of Lucy’s allegations, but my tension was renewed and intensified.
“When I came into your store,” he continued, “I wasn’t just browsing. I was scouting for a new location. You see, I own the largest chain of bookstores in the United States. I knew about your bookstore, and I wanted to see if you were competition. I also wanted to see if a bookstore could thrive in that area.”
I waited for more. This didn’t seem like enough to constitute a confession, but he was still hesitant.
“I asked you out,” he said finally, “to see if you would be willing to sell me your store or the land so that I could build my own store there.”
He could see the hurt on my face, and I wanted him to see it. My heart was sinking. All I could think about was the lecture Lucy would give me on whites gentrifying black neighborhoods and closing black businesses, taking black jobs. That was how all those white-only suburbs near my hood came to be anyway.
“But,” he said, “my attraction to you was real. I never brought up the store because I was so caught up in getting to know you. In fact, I forgot all about it that night. I knew there was chemistry between us,
real
and
rare
chemistry, and my priority switched to exploring that. By the next morning, the only thing I was interested in building was a relationship. That’s still what I want to build with you, a relationship. Something meaningful and true. Something honest.”
I could feel my tough exterior cracking, and my vision blurred as hot tears filled my resistant eyes.
“If you don’t want to see me again, I will understand. I will understand, but I will be heartbroken. My heart will break because I’m giving it to you. I’m falling for you, fast, and I want us to be together. I’m in love with you.”
I finally broke down and bent down, weeping, in front of James. He moved to my side and rubbed my back and hair, patiently waiting for me to regain my composure. “I love you too,” I said between sobs. “I’m in love with you too.” My tears, I could feel, were not from sadness or anger, but from years and years of repressed feelings. My family, my neighborhood had forced me to build a tough shell in order to survive, and James’s love had worn a hole in my armor. With the dissolution of my toughened hide came a backlog of emotions that was overwhelming. Before I had enough time to feel ashamed of crying in front of him or in front of the other restaurant patrons, my tears turned to laughter.
James began kissing my neck and head as I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, as I laughed at my tears, as I laughed because it felt good to laugh. When I finally calmed down, and after another period of uncontrollable laughter brought on by the very confused look of our waiter, I returned his kisses. I could taste my tears on my lips, and I knew he could too, but our kisses were deep and meaningful. They were cleansing.
Chapter 8
This time, we drove to his house, which was a magnificent property hidden deep in the suburbs behind lush greenery and tall, guarded fences. He excused his staff for the evening so we could be alone. We both laughed at how corny we must have looked as he carried me over threshold after threshold to an enormous bathroom lit with candles and decorated with aromatic flowers. The bathroom was bigger than all the rooms in my house combined. The bath, which had already been drawn and was slick with oils and bubbling from the underwater jets, was big enough to fit four comfortably.
He placed me on the edge and began removing my dress. He unzipped the back and lowered the garment, revealing my attentive breasts and my g-string, which I promptly removed. The steam of the bath felt good as it kissed my naked flesh, and I stood for a moment delighting in my own nakedness. We were surrounded by full-length mirrors, and I admired myself from new and various angles before turning to disrobe James.
My heart began a familiar racing as he ran his hands along my sides and down my back while I unbuttoned his shirt and pants. He was big enough that his frame totally eclipsed mine in the mirror. I hadn’t before realized just how broad and muscular he was. The candlelight flickered to highlight his defined musculature, and I felt the glowing warmth of arousal radiating from my pussy.
He clearly was feeling similarly aroused, as his manhood nearly jumped out of his boxers when I lowered them. I had only begun to take his eager cock into my mouth when he urged me into the bath. The water was the perfect temperature to loosen my muscles, which were still tense from the emotional rollercoaster of an evening, and I found myself simultaneously relaxed and more aroused than ever. He sat next to me, where water jets massaged us both as we massaged one another. The oil in the water was enough to lubricate our skin entirely. We explored one another’s every crevice with oiled hands. He ran his fingers through my small triangle of pubic hair before sliding one into my cleft, gently rubbing my clit. I cradled his ample testicles before moving my hand to oil the head of his hefty cock.
I maneuvered myself to his lap and looked into his eyes as I rubbed his purple head against my pink pearl. He gasped and tossed his head back when I lowered myself, inch by ecstatic inch, onto his thick shaft. As I moved up and down, my lips gripping his dick, the water moved in waves. My orgasmic contractions matched those waves. With one of his hands on my back, pulling me closer, and the other clutching my ass and spreading my cheeks, he took control of the rhythm. He stood in the water, and I wrapped my legs around his torso. I kissed his chest, neck, and face between groans of ecstasy as he pumped his fat dick into my love-mouth. I had never felt the walls of my vagina stretch so gratefully.
As his pace accelerated, I could feel my orgasm building to new heights. He pressed a fingertip from his anchoring hand against my asshole, and I looked him in the eyes. Between gasps and moans, I managed to say, “I love you so much. I want you to come inside me.”
He kissed me deep just as we both reached our peak. Shudders ran through us both, and I felt his hot load filling me completely. The rhythmic throbbing of my pussy milked every last drop of his pearly essence from him. We collapsed into the water where we continued our kissing. I felt a closeness that was totally new to me. I loved the feeling of having him close to me, of having him inside me. Again, I cried, but this time it was from overwhelming joy.