* Or, imagine M'Shell NdegeOcello fucking Erykah Badu
by
Darklust
My friend Deja is known for having the flyest girlfriends. I mean, sisters so bad, you can't help but to stop whatever it is you're doing just to look. We joke that we don't know where she finds them. See, Deja is one of those young, new dogs. Intelligent, paid so well owns a three family home in Harlem, flosses in a BMW X5 (the SUV for those who don't know). She even has her own personal financial advisor. Now I don't envy the sister's game, because I am of the devout old school philosophy about "beauty is only skin deep," but when Deja brought her newest piece, this tall, tan-toned enigma of beauty to a party, I lost my mind.
What it was exactly in words, I cannot describe because verbal description would do her no justice. So I'll provide the superficial details. I'm talking heavenly full breasts bodacious enough to fulfill the hungriest of souls. I'm talking hips made for riding; rough riding (for you hard-core hip hop heads), Western, English, and Side-saddle (for the bougie sisters). Whatever riding you are into, you wanted your legs wrapped around this one. Trust me. Eyes, dark, mysteriously seductive, capable of making one both hypnotized by their blatant mystery. And those lips, child those lips, plum color, thick, designed for so very many erotically feminine things. Sandy brown hair (could have been weave, no one really cared cuz it looked so damn good) in about 15 long braids down her back tickling the dip in the small of her back teasing the top of her sister-fied buttocks. And like I said, when Deja and her girl made their entrance, the room just paused, lingering in suspension for a few frozen seconds before resuming whatever they were doing; tongues wagging, strap-ons grew erections, fems even fanned themselves. Toi was that bad.
One hot-ass summer afternoon, Deja asked me to do her a real big favor. See, she hated shopping, any type of shopping and Deja would do just about anything to get out of it, including soliciting someone to take her girl Toi to do the dirty deed. Deja, Player of the New Millennium, had a rainbow harem of concubines (it was rumored none of them knew of the others-both hard to believe and yet, highly likely at the same time) Toi being the baddest of the collection. I was privy to all things sacred to Deja, so I tended to live vicariously through her, just for kicks -- it was safe and devoid of commitment and pain. Deja liked to give her girls cash to do their thing. I think this turned her on more than it did them. Not only did I drive and was blessed with an infinite amount of patience, Deja trusted me with her Boo. And me, an old player in my late 30's, Deja predictably gave me my nickname, Old Skool, was no threat to these generation X chocolate-covered sister loving sisters. Right?
I was early, sitting in my old but reliable Pathfinder, in front of Toi's building in one of the sexier parts of Brooklyn. Jill Scott serenaded me thru the speakers. When Toi came out giving that Nubian alternative vibe, donning a stunning headwrap with hues of burnish oranges and deep golds high on her head, my heart skipped a beat. A sleeveless ribbed tee was gathered in a tight knot in the back to reveal her totally soft toned tummy and pretty pierced navel, a golden unkh swinging from the hoop. When peering closer, interrupting my visual flow, my jaws dropped at the impression of ambitiously large nipples, each obviously pierced by a thick hoop. Her long, wrap skirt matched her headwrap and her totally culturally diaspora-centric, beaded African sandals shown her tiny appendages dressed in golden toe rings. Her skin tone captured the earthy golds and oranges of the fabric in a deep, rich sepia shade. No make up. She didn't need any. Although she was overly groomed by the most natural of things, she was stunning, glowing, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"What 'chu looking at, girl," smiling, she asked in a moaning, growling lilt, that climbed thru me as she climbed into the passenger side. How was I suppose to respond? No one in life had ever had this effect on me. Once inside the truck her scent rushed inside the interior overwhelming me, immediately taking over everything on my mind, damn near stealing my heart. One should not be confined in close quarters with a woman who smelled this good and be expected to behave. Her scent was an oil I could not identify, not like Night Queen, not African or Egyptian Musk. It reminded me of those scents but her's was not quite that. It was deeper, yet subtler.
During her shopping mission, we journeyed through Soho, the East and West Village. I had tired early of the episode; the only thing sustaining me was her pure existence, her smell, her smile, her butt (excuse me, just trying to keep it real). Our platonic repartee was refreshing and yet I had to keep the burning enthusiasm of being in her company in control.
Exhausted, she finally relaxed enough to want to slip into a sweet, dark and intimate caf‚ with huge, comfy antique winged chairs. It was a balmy summer afternoon so we were able to sit wedged in a corner among other couples, close enough to catch a breeze from Bleecker Street. She ordered herb tea. I ordered my favorite double scotch and soda. Believe me, I needed it.
"Thank you for being my escort, Sky. Carrying all my bags, walking all over the place, all for me." Her bags were filled with oils, incense, candles, dried flowers, herbs, vitamins, aromatherapy, organic matter, books and tapes on meditation, yoga, health food and new age things. Nothing totally commercial, nothing woefully materialistic. Not one thing had a designer label. Of course, I didn't mind one bit.
"Toi, don't thank me. Girl, you are worth all this foot pain." I sucked on a scotch soaked ice cube hoping it would cool off my steamy thoughts. Running around shopping was bad enough but sitting opposite Toi, face to face, was almost too much to deal with. I had to keep reminding herself, "This is Deja's girl. This is Deja's girl," just to keep myself in check.
"You have pretty hands. Nice fingers." When she touched me I pulled away quickly. She purrs. I mean really purrs like a fucken pussycat. Purring into me, traveling thru me.
"No touching." I warned taking another sip of my drink.
"No touching? You're tripping now." Those eyes, those voodoo eyes narrowed on me, growing even darker luring/wrapping me in some inescapable destiny, casting a sensual spell I wasn't trying to feel. Whatever was going on, I was trying to fight it. Despite my initial naughty thoughts, I did not want to go there, regardless of my obvious attraction for Toi or how many women Deja had. Things were falling out of sync, becoming real inappropriate. For all intensive purposes, there was no hint of "seduction" up until this point, nothing even slightly flirtatious on Toi's part up until now. She couldn't blame the green tea for her actions. Staring at me with her nipples all "swoll" she starting moving around in her chair, very seductively, almost frustrated, rubbing her thighs together like she was trying to start a fire. I could almost see the smoke. Knowing I had to change the subject, I complained again, about my aching feet.
In one action, sister had grabbed my right foot from underneath the table, slipping off my shoe and started a very sensuous massage between her extremely warm, extremely soft hands and overly skillful fingers. Shocked, surprised, caught out there, my brain cramped trying to separate the sensations of a forbidden, improper nature filled from deep arousal to the more respectfully responsible response - control. I tried to gently remove my foot from her clutches but when she resisted, she extended my leg so that my foot was soon resting in between her open thighs, underneath her skirt, my toes at her very naked and very wet entrance, and when I say wet I mean slippery wet lips - my toes sliding and disappearing deeply into her desire, toes swimming in between soft sensuous moist silk, to the inviting mounting and sinking of her juicy woman size bottom. With her head thrown back, her eyes rolled up inside of herself for one brief moment, before centering on me. Her breasts heaved as she swallowed short breaths of air. Her tummy began rising and falling. Her teeth were biting into the bottom of those luscious lips. Her eyes never leaving me.
So, I was in there, all up in there working this delicious pussy against my will (like you believe that). She rocked me, while I rocked her back, from head to toe, my head spinning while I crashed her world, all right there in the cafe. I moved her, trying to hit her spot, sending her on some mad amazing journey, lusting after her lust, jealous of my very busy, very lucky foot, especially when allowing my big toe to lightly tap her vibrating clit while my other toes buried themselves inside her warm, juicy center. Our waiter, a young queen walked by our table twice before deciding he should leave us alone entirely, which was a good idea, because trust, I wanted more than my toes in this epiphany of beauty.
That sultry afternoon quickly shifted into evening. We both ignored the menacing rings of our pagers/cell phone, probably Deja - as we decided to sink even deeper into our own newly created world of female fire. My toes were completely healed but other parts of me needed some serious attention by this divine priestess.
"What's next?" she whispered. I didn't answer. I paid the check and led her from the caf‚ heading West. We didn't hold hands although we both knew that we wanted to. Once we reached one of those dark, isolated, winding streets of the West Village going towards the Pier, my appendages could no longer resist not fusing with some part of Toi. Pulling her closer to me, she interrupted our flow, kissing me deeply, deliciously. A deep, sensuous kisser, I felt like I was dangerously pushed over the edge. I wanted to do her right there, but thought better of it, guiding her quickly to the moonlit waterfront, my hands busying themselves inside the beautifully draped Ghanaian fabric of her wrap skirt, my fingers slicing into her Nile River.
If you know the Pier on Christopher Street, it is layered with boy on boy activity. Cruising is most certainly the order of the day when one can steal quick, carefree moments of passion. Once Toi and I found a relatively secluded spot, I kneeled before this priestess, crawling underneath the layers of her skirt so that I could finally taste her passion fruit. She was as sweet and juicy, like a peeled mango left out in the sun to ripen. I could not breathe, I could not see and had no desire to as her center gave me life while her hands pressed me further into her. We moved together in time, her clit beating like a djembe drum on my tongue. The reward was indescribable.
It was our first and last encounter. Never in my life had I ever done something so spontaneous, so scandalous. Although I've heard plenty of similar dyke drama tales I would have never believed that I could be caught up in something like that, both so trifling and yet so damn satisfying. Deja stopped playing her games and decided to commit to Toi. I hear they are in it quite seriously. I rarely see Deja these days. On the rare occasion I run into them both, Toi stares at me, almost as if playing back that faithful evening in her mind over again like a hot new release at Blockbuster; and me, savoring the memory like an 8 track. That's how Old Skool be kickin' it.
Copyright © 2000. Used by permission of author. All Rights Reserved.
