Best Black Women's Erotica 2 (8 page)

Reagan was about thirty seconds into laughing when she realized Z wasn't joining her. Instead, she looked like she was about to start crying again.
Whoa, my humor's not that bad….
Still no smile.
Hey, what's the matter?

I…I can't do that.
Z wished she'd never asked the question. She wanted out of this conversation before Reagan tried to justify how everyone could have a wild and free life like hers. Before she had to explain why Reagan could never understand.
I just…I can't touch that. I can't do that….
Reagan tried to break in, explain how easy it was, how she could even loan her one and show her how to use it, when Z burst out….
It won't work! It won't work on me, nothing will work on me down there.

Reagan just watched her friend as she burst into tears. She didn't know what she meant, but knew that it wasn't a good time to push her.
I…I'm not whole like you, Reagan,
Z started, slowly.
Back home…we have a tradition and…I don't have the things you're talking about. I'm not like you. I can't feel that explosion or see the stars and colors like you see, Reagan. Just…please just leave me alone about this. OK?

Wait a minute, Z…are you talking about….
Z just nodded her head.
All of it?
Z nodded again.

I mean,
Z started, searching for the right words.
I mean, there is still some little opening. They had to cut it when I started bleeding. But they removed the top and…and sewed it so that there would be no feeling. No pain. No joy. When
I get married, my husband will open me fully and I will hope that I heal enough in time to have babies so there will be no problems.
Z started to trail off, daring herself to look her friend in the eye.
It's a badge of honor back home. All the girls do it. They prepare us our whole lives for this, this amazing transition. But they don't really tell us what it is. None of us really knew what it was until they did it to us. I'm the only one who tried to run away when I saw what they were doing. My friends were so strong.

Z was wiping the tears from her cheeks as fast as they fell, wanting to get these words out while she had the courage. She needed to tell someone, get the weight of her secret off her chest.
They thought they could shame me—my friends, my family—for fighting. For trying to get away, for shouting and saying out loud I wish they had never touched me. I wished they had left me alone. My mother said I brought shame on the family with my words. She said no man would marry me if I didn't transition into a proper woman. But there was no shame they could give me stronger than what I carried. I felt…ripped apart. Torn to shreds. I couldn't understand how
this
is what would make someone want to love me. Whenever I looked at what they'd done, all I could feel was shame. How would anyone ever want to love…that?

Z turned to pack up her lunch until she was ready to read the horror on her friend's face. She knew how women in America felt about what happened back home. How they thought her people were barbaric, the women stupid. She was ready to say good-bye to the lunches and the fun stories Reagan shared with her, but when she looked into her friend's eyes she couldn't find any pity. Reagan scooted over and gave Z a quick hug, sat back, and shrugged her shoulders.

All right then,
she said matter-of-factly.
So that's done. That doesn't mean you can't feel good. It certainly doesn't mean no one will love you or want to date you. But we can
worry about that later. Right now it's all about the
big O. Reagan smiled so brightly, and Z was so shocked, that she had no choice but to join her. She was just about to argue with her friend when Reagan continued,
There are a thousand places on your body that respond to touch, Z. The clit rocks, for sure, don't get me wrong. But still, I accept no excuses for an orgasm-free existence. You're beautiful, all you've got to do is what women have done forever, honey…use what you've got! Come on…I'll tell you more after work. I'm takin' you out! Let's get back before we catch an earful.

 

Reagan and Z went out after work, sleeplessness and delirium mixed with the freedom Z felt having shared her secret. It was a perfectly clear night. Z counted exactly twenty-three stars, the most she'd seen since she arrived. Reagan plied Z with food and dessert while telling her story after story of her journey through self-love. Z learned about the first time Reagan did it, pulling down her Spiderman Underoos after her parents tucked her in and turned off the lights. Z remembered playing with herself in the dark when she was a little girl: how sweet the pleasure was, how she knew instinctively to keep quiet so as not to wake anyone else in the house.

As the night progressed, Reagan told Z all about vibrators and dildos, gels and lubes, powders and feathers, whips and chains, and rubbers and ropes. Z got home exhausted, thinking about the miracles that could be attained from just the right pressure on a nipple, or the pinching of a thigh. She gave cursory greetings to her cousins, said goodnight to her aunt, and fell into bed. Her dreams were filled with lips and tongues, probing fingers, and taut, sensitive skin.

When she awoke late the next morning the house was eerily silent. Her aunt had left for work over an hour ago; her cousins had gone to school. She wasn't due at work until late that night, and had the house to herself for the rest of the day.
She rolled over and tried to climb back into the wet warmth of the dream she'd been having, but it was too late. She was up.

Images of laundry, dishes, and the dinner that needed to be prepared before everyone came home poked around her mind but she shooed them away. Instead, her fingers began slowly trailing their way up her stomach. She felt the curves that led to her breasts and allowed her fingertips to linger at the place just beneath the rise. She traced the spot with her index fingers, surprised at how soft and sensitive it was. She left her right finger there, and allowed her left hand to drift up, over her breast. Her fingers encircled her nipple and gave it a tug. She arched her back in response and pinched it harder, tugging it again, gently. A moan slipped from between her lips. Z repeated the motion again and again, pinching, then pulling. Pinching, then pulling. Her left hand drifted from the pit of her shoulder to the swell of her hip. She slowly rubbed the side of her hip, reached around, and squeezed the flesh of her backside before sliding her hand back up.

She felt her skin get hotter and hotter, her hips instinctively rocked in circles as she kept up the motion of her hands. She lost track of her moans and felt a soothing sense of peace begin to envelop her. Z wanted more. She was just about to reach down, dip her fingers into the forest between her legs, when the phone rang and startled her to attention. It rang again and she stumbled up to answer it, modestly pulling her nightdress down over her knees and looking around to make sure she was alone.

T hung up before she could finish. Z puttered around the kitchen for a while, stacking the dishes and getting the drainer
out to set them to dry. She pulled the chicken out of the freezer and placed it in water to defrost. When the water poured over her fingers she almost jumped. Her skin was still burning.

Giving up on the concentration needed to clean, she tried to sit and watch television. Curling up on the sofa Z grabbed the remote and turned on the set, flipping from channel to channel to channel. As the images went by in a blur she thought back to when she was little, when she would lie still and quiet, touching herself until she shook. She remembered the innocent joy, and tried to imagine a richer, fuller, grown-woman gratification.

She cursed her body, cursed her curiosity. She sat up straight and wondered aloud if she was supposed to feel pride in the scar she was left with, or the self-hate coursing through her veins. She questioned what she was doing at all here in this cold, lonely city, speeding toward winter. Maybe she should have just stayed home and gotten married to her intended, followed expectations. Why had she been so headstrong about coming to America and going to school, about trying to find some big, exciting life? Maybe she had fooled herself into loneliness and pain and starless skies.

Z found herself lying across her bed with her face pressed into the pillow. She felt the cotton case soak up her hot tears and spread them cool across her cheeks. Her body was almost feverish. Slowly she let her hands lift her nightgown up and over her head. She buried her face back into the wet pillow as her fingers trailed almost imperceptibly up her thighs. She let them linger, drawing circles with one hand, while the other reached up to cup her breast.

Sweat dripped like dark rum down her temples, riding the salty rails of her tears. It broke out like dew along her arms and chest. With one hand pinching and pulling her nipple, she let the other drift impatiently between her thighs. She settled her fingers along the scar she had cursed so many times, and
for the first time she felt how soft it was. The skin was damp and getting slicker. She spread the wetness around and felt herself getting warmer still as she circled her fingers around the spot. She moved her hand around and rubbed the space where her thighs met her small opening, front to back. She rubbed slowly, then more quickly, returning to the scar with which she was slowly, seductively becoming enamored. Each rough edge swelled to caress her fingertips, like lips welcoming her into a kiss.

The palm of her hand was pressing into bone where her thick, black curls began. Her breath started coming hard and fast as she rubbed her forearm across one breast and gripped the other's nipple tight between her fingers. Pinching and pulling. Pushing and circling. She became enraptured by the rhythm as her body danced. She felt as though she'd never heard music before, never felt the freedom of movement.

At first, it almost felt like laughing. Her shoulders started to softly shake. Her lip trembled. She felt a squeezing, like a firm, desperate handshake gripping the pinky she pushed inside. Her fingers grasped their nipple more tightly. Teeth clenched. A grin would have pulled her lips apart and spread like sunshine across her face if her mouth hadn't been so busy birthing a scream. If her throat hadn't already been choking up moans of
never befores
and the blessings of honey-coated wholeness she found deep inside herself, then, yes, she would have been laughing. Throwing her head back and laughing at the astonishing simplicity of it.

Falling back on the pillows as she gasped for breath, Z ran milky fingers up her stomach, dragged them across her chest. They lingered on her neck, glided up her cheeks and over her lips. When they found their way into her mouth, her tongue lovingly bathed them, savoring the nectar as its flower twitched her continuing release.

Z woke up and realized she had less than two hours until her cousins returned from school, and T would be home soon after. She balled all the dirty clothes she could find into her sheets, threw the nightgown on top, and headed downstairs to the washer. The rest of the afternoon she was astonished by the brilliant light that filtered in through the kitchen blinds. The sudsy water felt like warm ocean waves caressing her skin. The reds and oranges in the living room draperies had never looked so bold. The blue shag of the carpet held a brilliance that she was amazed she hadn't noticed.

At dinner, everyone complimented her on how rich her chicken and rice tasted. Even though she made the same dish every Thursday night, she couldn't help but agree that tonight it was especially flavorful. Every spice exploded across her tongue; each drop of sauce seemed to make love to her lips before it mixed perfectly with the rice and slid down her throat.

Z walked to work that night with an extra swing in her step. Her hips swayed and her backside bounced as she reached her fingers out to the leaves hanging heavy over the brownstone fences. It was another moonless night, and Z studied the sky as she made her way around the park. She took her time counting the stars, careful not to miss any. She was stunned into silence by the starry night overhead. In the distance she could see the Archer, the constellation her mother dedicated to her before she left home. She felt her mother's arms around her, understanding.

As Z rounded the corner into the hospital parking lot, she felt closer to home than she had in years. She felt herself fully contained in the warm wrapping of her body. A small, secretive smile crept across her face as the automatic doors opened before her. Yes, she thought. She could get used to living here. This might be the perfect place to start the new life she had yet to imagine. Part of her hoped she could pick
up an afternoon double shift so that she could share the news with Reagan. The other part of her couldn't wait to get back between her bedcovers. She was ready to start dreaming of the future; and she already knew the ideal way to lull herself to sleep.

 

 

 

 

On Friday morning, at 5:58 A.M., Rick rose just minutes before the alarm clock rang, grabbed the remote, and switched on ESPN for the early edition. “Booyah! Kobe and Shaq strike again as the Kings suffer a devastating loss in the fourth quarter.” Disgusted, Rick turned off the television and began his morning regimen of 500 crunches and 100 push-ups. Going out for a run used to be the high point of his day. Exercise had become the biggest stress reliever in the Shelton household, until the injury that forced him back to the proverbial bench.

Rick was a weekend warrior who played organized basketball and football any chance he could get. His thin frame could no longer provide him the cushion he experienced after eating a whole pizza when he was just twenty. He still looked good in clothes but the Krispy Kremes had certainly caught up with his six-pack. Rick was the bursar at the University of Rhode Island, and financially he and his wife were debt free and always in the black. This fact made Rick happier than any other. But, nursing a torn ACL, he was stuck
in the house forced to watch daytime television and find other outlets for his boredom.