Making the Hook-Up

Table of Contents

 

 

 

M
y quest to create this anthology stems from a conversation I had some years ago with Calvin Herndon, author of the bestselling
Sex and Racism in America,
who told me, shortly before I attempted my first erotic story: “When Black people are allowed to indulge the usual sins, the customary fetishes, and all the regular vices humans are permitted, then they will have achieved total sexual citizenship. Otherwise, they will remain trapped in the usual stale stereotypes and labels the world has assigned to us.”

I never forgot that statement. With this collection, I sought to expand and broaden the psychological and sexual terrain of the Black community. The reflection of the Black sexual being, as Professor Herndon added, should be just as creative and innovative as the soulful simmer of singer Nina Simone, the barely concealed bite of bluesman John Lee Hooker or the electrified muted moans of jazz trumpeter Miles Davis. As sexual beings, our people should be able to reflect joy, pleasure and other blissful emotions in their lives besides rage and bitterness. It's there in our music, our walk, our sense of fashion, our art, our literature, everything: that hip element of sexy soul.

When I sent out the call for submissions, I noted that I was
“looking for edgy, stereotype-busting erotic stories with sizzle and soul…. No baby daddies. No tireless studs with anacondas between their legs. No hotties or chickenheads with ‘motordriven coozes.'”

The stories poured in from all over the world, sexual yarns that were not about the Other or the Outsider, but people of color redefined and redeemed in sensual terms. Writers took risks, embracing themes of tolerance, acceptance and worth, as if the erotic world wanted to be rid of unpleasant generalizations and sexual bugaboos and just get on with the natural business of living and loving.

These stories feature lovers and partners on a wide range of emotional and sensual adventures. The characters retain their dignity while communicating with and even submitting to their partners' feelings and needs.

These stories show lovers and partners going for it all despite the reality that they may not get much in return, that circumstances may lead to separation. That's what I like about these tales. They insist that lovers and partners reach out again and again to move beyond the loneliness, isolation and boredom. As they take risks and make substantial changes in their lives, they sometimes find intimacy that promotes healing.

You will find both old friends and new faces in this tribute to the diversity of our fantasies and the potency of provocative sexuality in all of its many forms. Tenille Brown's “Lonnie's Licks,” has playful fun with the concept of addictive behavior. Monica Elaine's “Got Milk?” combines both the erotic and screwball comedy. Preston Allen's “Three Kisses,” features a casino setting and a pair of devious, horny individuals trying to outsmart each other with raw talk, big cash and a trio of sumptuous kisses. British writer Leone Ross pens a mellow yarn of fantasy and flesh in “When the River,” where things have a
way of going awry. A very real river is the focal point where the erotic past is reclaimed in the present in R. Gay's thoughtful “Strangers in the Water.”

Zetta Brown tells of a juror named Number Nine with good reason in “Hung,” in which a single woman alleviates the tedium of civic duty with steamy activity. In “For Nita,” Jolie du Pre, editor of
Swing
, tracks the blossoming of a formerly meek woman who flees an abusive marriage and recaptures her sexual self through the ministrations of not one, but two horny men at once in a fantasy come true.

The nature of a fetish life is what concerns Shakir Rashaan in “Welcome Home,” a story of a lusty Master embraced by two submissive women after being on the road. If it's potent romantic love you want, a trio of stories, Garnell Wallace's “Sex and Chocolate,” Zaji's “Lights on a Cave Wall” and Asha French's “All Day” provide warm kisses, overflowing hearts and glowing embraces. Veteran erotic writer Shane Allison contributes a raunchy encounter between two previously unacquainted moviegoers facilitated by a convenient leather jacket in “Dangerous Comfort.”

Any sexual experience expands our consciousness, especially when unrestricted by money, class or custom. Kweli Walker, Fiona Zedde, Deepbronze, Reginald Harris and Jolene Hui explore those areas outside of the classic themes of lust and desire with skill and imagination.

In
Making the Hook-Up,
you are invited to fantasize, dream, think and imagine yourself in each story. The stories tell some basic truths about us: how we live and how we love. Enjoy—and put your soul into it!

 

Cole Riley
New York City

 

 

 

 

 

D
octa Love had it bad for this little PR dealer he met up at the Indian casino, and when Docta Love had it bad, Docta Love hadda get his medicine.

Got up that morning, took his customized van to the Handy-Wash, had 'em do the Deluxe Super Duper Special on it—$89.99 plus another $39.99 for the buff and wax.

Motored up to the Indians, parked in the Self Park (another $15.99). Strolled inside. Solid gold swinging on his neck and blinking on his fingers. Looking big and fine in his trademark black Stetson, black polo to show off his tight biceps, and black droop-hip jeans that hung just right on his lean hips to show off his six-pack, his long, strong thighs.

Walked right up to the floor man and slid him fifty. “What she dealing tonight?”

The floor man laughed as the fifty disappeared. “Texas Hold 'em.”

“Then that's what I'm playing.”

“There's a long line ahead of you,” the floor man informed him. Another fifty appeared, another fifty disappeared, as the floor man nodded. “But I'm sure I can fit you in.”

The place was crowded tonight. Gamblers on top of gamblers crowding the machines for a chance to lose. Gamblers on top of gamblers waiting for seats at the poker tables.

Docta Love striding past all of them, passing through the velvet ropes as angry heads turned, angry comments hurled under and over angry breaths. Taking the one empty seat at her table, the seat right next to her luscious, lickable Thank-You-Jesus thighs.

Popping his gum at her in greeting. Giving her that Docta Love smile. Perfect white teeth. Handsome broad-nosed black man with a cleft chin and double dimples.

The PR dealer smiled back at him, nodding her head like,
You again? Shit, you can try as hard as you like, brother, you ain't getting none of this.

But Docta Love had it bad, and Docta Love had a plan.

She dealt him 2-3. He smiled. Folded.

She dealt him 7-3. He smiled. Folded.

She dealt him 4-6. He smiled. Folded.

She dealt him 4-9. He smiled. Folded.

She snorted, “You ain't gonna play no cards tonight?”

She had that chiseled PR face, with sharp cheeks, the almost square jaw, and the raven black hair pulled back so tight on her head that her eyebrows lifted like McDonald's golden arches.

“I'll play…” he said deliberately slow, eyeing her swollen bosom, wondering fake or real, fake or real, fake or real, “…soon as you give me some cards, dealer lady.”

She dealt him AK, big slick, suited. He smiled. Held it. Called it. Raised it. Reraised it. Raised it all in. Won the pot. A big pot. $190.99. Did the quick math. He was ahead for
the night despite the car wash and the greased palms.

He gave her a nice tip. $190.

Kept the .99 for himself.

She liked that. You could see it from her smile. She liked that a lot. But she could also smell the trap. She closed up shop. Gave some kinda signal to her boss. Her shift, she suddenly announced, was over. She got transferred to another table.

He watched her sexy little walk as she carried her dealer's tray of chips and cards to the next table. Pretty little thing. Thick delicious lips. Her little button nose almost a white girl's nose, but for the small gentle wings that screamed Africa. Her skin, about two shades lighter than his, screaming Africa too. She couldn't be no older than twenty-three, twenty-four. Her booty singing
swish swish
as it swung in those tight dealer tuxedo pants with the velvet seams. Lord, it looked good. He watched until she looked back as he knew she would. Her eyes smiling like,
I told you you weren't gonna get none, brother. Thanks for the money. How you like them apples?

He liked them apples a whole lot. Liked that ass, too.

He called the floor man over. Whispered in his ear, “Why can't my love and me be together?”

A hundred appeared, a hundred disappeared, as the floor man said, “I'm sure it can be arranged.”

Three minutes later, Docta Love was transferred to her new table, smiling up into her pretty brown-skinned face, his seat right next to her lovely lovable Thank-You-Jesus thighs.

She dealt him 2-9. He smiled. Folded.

She dealt him 4-8. He smiled. Folded.

She dealt him A-A. He smiled. Held it. Called it. Raised it. Reraised it. Raised it all in. Won the pot. Another big pot. $294.43.

Gave her a nice tip. $294.

Kept the .43 for himself.

Oh, she liked that. You could see from her smile. She liked that a whole lot.

She fell into the trap.

An hour later, she was dealing and smiling and talking with him about things a virtuous woman with a good husband and happy children at home should not be talking about—bra size 44DD, all natural just like her mama's; virginity, lost it when she was fifteen, but regretted it ever since; orgasm, always from oral sex, almost never from the penis, unless it is a really big penis; swallowed, only once, didn't like it; anal, too painful, does it only to make her husband happy; cheated, no, never cheated on her husband, well, never with a man.

And he whispered, “I ain't kidding around. You do it for me, baby. I been loving you ever since I first laid eyes on you.”

“But I have a husband.”

“It's too late for that. I'm too far gone, girl. Look what you done did to me. I got a nice clean van waiting outside.”

“It don't make no difference to me.”

“Your husband don't make no difference to me.”

“He does to me. I'm an honorable woman.”

He sighed. Those tits were honorable. That ass—that ass was honorable. He laid his cards out on the table. Or at least he pretended to. “And I am an honorable man. My intentions are honorable. I think what happened was you misunderstood me. It ain't what you think it is. I don't want nothing from you, dealer lady, but a little kiss.”

She replied, laughingly, “But I can't kiss you. I'm married.”

Docta Love answered, “But what if it was a business transaction?”

“I ain't no ho,” she rebuked him.