blushed for the first time.

so last night i blushed for the first time.

my fingers became numb from typing.
this was my fifth attempt at a myspace message to the one i used to love.
and i don't think even this one would come out right.

as i typed i couldn't help but think of the lovers somewhere else doing what i wasn't.

there's a hallway somewhere close by clothed with photos by gordon parks
and paintings by ernie barnes.
somewhere in that hallway, right now, two people are making love-
creating some sort of synergy.
sweating, breath funky and carpet burns.

they are fucking like their lives couldn't exist outside of this coming together.
and for those minutes - they can't.

somewhere in the other room wynton marsalis is blowing on his trumpet...or sax or whatever it is he's playing.
and when the screams have been muted by sock balls and dry hands that smell of diesel cologne and fabric softener, he realizes the musician is now coltrane, and everything, regardless of this cramped space and the argument earlier, is going to be okay.

my train of thought crashed as the phone i thought was muted rang.

me: hello.

him: i like you.

me: well...

him: and if you don't interrupt me, it'll be easier. i like you and i really want you to like me to, because if you like me to then we can spend days together watching absolutely ridiculous shows on television and laughing at each others laugh.

me: i do.

him: really?

me: how did you get my number?

him: i'm a determined man. so you like me too, huh?

me: yes. but can i call you back when i finish this letter?

him: yes, but please don't forget.

me: i won't.

---
the letter:

dear you,

i think we should stop before you begin hating me.

friend and sometimes foe,
me.
---

i found my imagination again.
we greeted each other in my window sill -
my right hand giving life to a cigarette i'd been saving for a monumental occasion.

in the street below the heaven i created in the cramped studio apartment sat two men like me
writing poetry on each others scalps with their fingertips.
breathing life into each other with their lips.

and i smiled a bit harder than usual.
and through my reflection i realized this was blushing.

so last night i blushed for the first time.

welcomed him home.

so last night i welcomed him home.

he left his shoes at the door and his pride on the stoop before coming in.
i hung my pride up beside the summer jacket i knew i wouldn't be wearing for a while.
i longed for the foolishness to be done.

all communication up to now lived in our palms as we checked old text messages and the new alerts.

he was beautiful.
and we had yet to make eye contact or so much as a sneeze.

he doubled up on his basketball shorts and wore a tank top under the white tshirt i had given him five months ago when i wore hanae mori cologne and showered with irish springs with aloe.
i could still smell the younger me.

he was beautiful.

his thumbs moved fast across the qwerty keyboard and my eyes moved faster across him being.

'so...i missed you.'
he looked up.
what the fuck was i saying?
i don't miss people.

i'd sooner bite through that skin that lives between the pointer finger and the thumb than confess a longing for anyone.
but shit, this was the type of longing that went further south than the heart.
this was the type that managed to build a fort in one's groins.
shit!

and he smiled.

and as much as i hate the fact that the sun disappears at 5:00pm it didn't seem to bother me anymore.
i now found more time to enjoy laying in a bed with the remote on the floor and my fingertips creating a maze between the strands of hair he promised to grow so i could grab.

and between the last few bites of baked sweet potatoes and the first few minutes of a massaging shower
we found ourselves omitting all fuck-ups we caused in madness.

and with paid programming happening in front of us and the remote too far
we lay there in satisfaction
but no words.

i missed him.

so last night i welcomed him home.

watched him cook.

so last night i watched him cook.

after a fantasy fulfilled on counters and stove tops, our appetites were as big as our eyes.
it began by the guest bathroom door next to the stairs as my head rested on the first step and his head moving slowly between my legs.
one of those moments where God magically appears on the ceiling.

the mirror behind the mail table allowed me to watch
and he could see me seeing him enjoying parts of me i needed him to enjoy.

we next moved to the old couch with the torn pillows right across from stereo pumping out janet jackson wailing 'but i didn't even get to cum.'

neither of us would use that line this night.

my tongue, as short as it is, managed to find that one great spot and moved in a circle watching his head do the same and his lips part and come together again as though he needed to speak.
this time there were no need for words.

his back pressed against the old onion and green pepper pieces on the cutting board from out dinner just 56 minutes prior to this spontaneous session.
but it didn't matter.
the back of his thighs pressed against my chest and his head on a side tilt into the sink.
but it was comfortable.

i made all the right moves.
in and out and side to side.
but all slow.

there's something about the kitchen that prohibits fucking.
you have to make love in kitchens or at least show a deep infatuation.

his chest pressed against the refrigerator and my chest pressed against his back we danced naked to the southern hummingbird.
me inside him.
slow.

'i swear i'm spinning. i'm on a merry-go-round.'

with the left side of his face pressed against the freezer and his lips held captive between his teeth he showed his deep infatuation with me in the refrigerator door.
and i followed but remained inside.

after the bleach bottles disappeared and the kitchen was clean again, i sat at the bar listening to tweet's track number 9 and waited for the smells we created to fade away while the smells of the potatoes, pancakes, salmon cakes, eggs and turkey bacon took over.

so that's what i did last night. i watched him cook.

wrote him a poem.

so last night i write him a poem.

when the hardwood floors were silent and the sun's high began to fall i sat next to dying fire on a marble floor in my black briefs and white t.

i stared at him attempting to kidnap his thoughts and hold them captive on this blank sheet in front of me.
but he kept those thoughts locked and his eyes on the floor that lay four feet in front of him.

the struggle for power between the scorched wood in the fireplace and the raw air that crept under the door ended when the last flash of an orange-red fire vanished.
the heat was gone.

we sat there, cold.
my camera and my pen occupying my hands and this thre-quarters naked man occupying my mind.
i took the picture.
i sat down my camera and formed a death grip on the pen as if for dear life.
and i began to write:

-----
i’m trying to do that other shit with you
the type of shit we daydream about during commercial and cigarette breaks
there will be no reruns this time
just original thoughts and new places to kiss you
places that have gone undiscovered
and I want to be that breath that never made it to your lungs
so this time when you exhale it’ll be slow and forever
i want to become familiar with the hairs on the back of your neck so when they tickle my lips I’ll laugh
i’m done with just kicking it too
i want to picnic inside by fireplaces on days when it rains
so the sunshine will be never be missed
and dance between bites of lumpia and glasses of grapefruit
I want to lose you between the sheet and discover you all over again
this time starting at your toes
taking your heel into my palms
so your sole’s in my hand
and whisper
‘you alright?’
-----

and one day, when the furniture arrives and we're sitting comfortable and warm on leathers and suedes i'll read it to him, and watch his eyes go from the fallen moon to me.

i folded the poem and slipped it between books on the shelf.
baldwin and hughes.
how appropriate, i thought.

so last night i wrote him a poem.

cried for my friend.

so last night i cried for my friend.

a few back-to-back episodes of good times couldn't create enough laughs to cover up what came next.

with a little more than a smile, i answered the phone hoping it was cereal buddy calling to ask for another bowl of cinnamon toast crunch.
but not this time.

the sadness of a person's voice before conveying a message gives the brain too much to work with.
i began thinking of him and her and them.
and i couldn't get a tight grip around any one though, so the 'hims' and 'hers' and 'thems' were everybody.
my eyes prepared themselves for the tears.

'i just got the call from his mom. he died an hour ago.'

and in that second, florida evans wasn't so serious. jj wasn't so funny and michael wasn't the revolutionary they hoped him to be,
i found fault in it all.

all the cliched thoughts ran crazy:
'i just talked to him. he can't be dead.'
'he's in a better place'

fuck all that. he wasn't hear now. there was nobody here right now to eat my last bagel and drink that last little bit of vodka that's been in the freezer for weeks waiting for someone special.

there was nobody here to cuss out for turning from the golden girls to something stupid on discovery health.

had he called me tonight i would have ignored his call and called him back in the morning and listen to him cuss me out for not answering in his time of need.
his need being food or liquor.
and for not being here now i hated him.

on my couch sat the cherrywood brown man, looking me in the eye as i watched him through the mirror.
the tears remained hidden.

'are you alright?' he removed his glasses and stood up, paused the movie and stretched out his hand, requesting mine.

i held onto the phone that whispered its dialtone in my right ear.

he checked for a voice on the other end of the phone, then hung up, not once removing his eyes off of me.
'i asked if you were alright.'

and before i knew it, my fingertips were begging his spine for comfort.
and he hugged me back.

and there i stood, a crying man mourning the loss of my friend in the arms of someone comfortable.

and later he watched me sleep during the flood.

so last night i cried for my friend.

took a deep breath.

so last night i took a deep breath.

the last box of tomato and spinach pizza found it's way to the garbage and i found myself lying face down on the febreeze-scented carpet.
i was full.

this was no stranger's house, so i lay there with my shoes off, listening to Janet Jackson blow the last chorus of 'let's wait a while' through headphone in the kitchen.
and the sound of faucet water and the clinking of glasses being put up to dry.

i smiled.
this was that comfortable feeling i missed.
that feeling of being able to just chill and kick it and not be bogged down with 'what are we doing tonight?'
this was relaxing and going with the flow.

those water wrinkled, well manicured and lotioned hands were now on the back of my neck while my eyes pretended to be shut.
the smile gave away my secret.

i could feel his heart beating on my spine, and the grooves of his fingertips on my neck.
i could feel him blinking and hear him thinking to himself.
and he could tell i wasn't sleeping.

'there's something i want to tell you. there's something i think that you should know.'

and each syllable and note would have caused each hair on my neck to rise had i not just gotten a cut.
i missed this.

the lips i had been watching chew gum, then pizza crust were a breath away from my ear.
the lips i watched move up and down and then curve frequently during jokes were now a whisper away from mine.

'let's wait a while. before we...'
and i kissed him.

and between the bottom lip biting and tongue sucking, i found my eyes open watching him, making sure this wasn't my imagination running wild.
the 4.5 cups of pomegranate juice and vodka would do one of two things:
1. create a false sense of confidence, and make me go that extra mile that i normally wouldn't sober.
2. act as a mind eraser, leaving me dumb and wondering in the morning.

his tongue tasted like hawaiin punch and his shirt had been sprayed with bvlgari.
i'd find him in the dark if i needed to.

and in the dark we created snow angels in the carpets (if that makes sense).
and when the light broke through this morning i remembered everything about him.

but more importantly, i remember how comfortable it was.
and how deep i breathed.

and then i fixed us a bowl of cinnamon toast crunch.

yeah.
so last night i took a deep breath.

cried to the blues.

so last night i cried to the blues.

somewhere between nina simone's wailing about tired footsteps climbing up the stairs and the slamming of the front door i realized that maybe this was it.

maybe this is the last time the smell of chrome and yves st. laurent will walk the same hallways and dining room tiles as my blue sugar man.
the beeswax and twist-n-loc will go to waste.
there are no more locks to re-twist or scalps to grease.

there was no rain to make this breakup a mary j. blige cliche
and no blood red moon to stare at through the cracked blinds as he walked out the front door while my back was turned.

you ever stand in a living room with no furniture in a house with huge windows and stared sadly at a black street in a dark night that should somehow be representative of your emotions, but it's too dry?

and you beg for rain.
if not for you, at least to ruin the drive home for the motherfucker that just walked out with your last spoon and tea mug.

i stood - a black boy standing against this antique white wall staring at nothing. absolutely nothing.

maybe they'll make a movie. or maybe there will exist some white page carrying all these thoughts and words that couldn't find their way from my mouth.

we stood in the kitchen.
a few dishes to mumble under the breath about and a little sugar scattered on the counter.
his banana box filled with dishes we brought and trashbags my mom sent as a housewarming gift.
i was silent.

fuck the little message that hang on my grandmother's wall from that rusty ass nail:

if you love something
let it go
if it never returns
then it wasn't meant to be
if it returns
love it forever

and while we're at it, fuck build-a-bear.
how the fuck can he leave a stuffed monkey with his voice inside:

voice box: (press here) 'unconditionally you and me.'

and now i hate him for that.
and the toenail clippers he left are now in the trash next to the bananas that didn't make it.

the rain never came and his eyes stayed forward when he drove off.

my man's gone now.

and before the song's end
and the repeated gibberish
the tears began to flow like
kicked-over juice

my man's gone now.

and i felt like the old man by the river with nothing but his tears and his music.

yeah.
so last night i cried to the blues.

slept beneath the covers.

so last night i slept beneath the covers.

see - this dude was strange.
this dude reminded me of everything that's right in the world. so it's safe to say he's comparable to that j. holiday song i listen to when shit doesn't go my way.
we discussed his reasoning behind cutting his locks, and my infatuation with the way he used to look, and an even deeper infatuation of how he appeared to me now.

i needed him to know that when his back was turned, my nose became familiar with the smell of black cherry oil sheen and weed.
and sometimes he wears givenchy cologne.

we discussed politics, race and our favorite sex positions.
and between michael eric dyson's thoughts of bill cosby and riding backwards so he could see the flick on the tv, i told him it was almost impossible for me to sleep under the covers when i slept alone.
sleeping under the cover provided a comfort i hated when noone lay beside me taking over the other side of the bed.
he laughed and thought i was strange, too.

whenever he took a time-out to take a sip of his vanilla bean frap. i was able to smile and not be noticed.

a few pinches from my banana nut bread chased by a grande caramel latte
and i was hoping tonight my non existent fingernails would exhaust his shoulder blades of all feelings.
i was hoping my lips would graze the back of his neck where the neck fade met the skin
and the black cherry oil sheen would survive the shower i'd take afterwards.

he's brown. and his skin lights up when he gets excited.
he sat there, eyes locked on the the track and field section and lips locked on the top of the straw.

it was 11:48pm.

him: can i chill at your spot for a few?

me: of course. don't pay attention to the room. it's messy.

him: fuck the appearance.

me: glad you made it sound easy!

him: we can watch the jeffersons and i can dip your oreos in milk for you.

me: word?

him: listen, dude. i don't give a shit what we do. i just want to make sure you're gonna sleep under the covers tonight.

and i smiled.

that night the cold crept under the door, found a lift in the goose down comforter and tickled my feet.

it was cold.
around 4am i found his naked body for warmth.

and i kissed the back his neck so i could find comfort in his scent all of the coming day.

yeah.
so last night i slept beneath the covers.

wrote from beneath the sheets.

so last night i wrote from beneath the sheets:

bebeh...

through the letters - the many letters - written for the many others, i've noticed one constant.
you.

somewhere between the spiritual awakenings and the talks of camping,
i found exactly what i needed.
you.

i woke up this morning in little rock next to a styrofoam cup with remnants of parrot bay
and a cold side of the marriot bed.
where in the fuck were you?

somewhere 567 miles away wondering where i was.
and hopefully as lonely as i was.

somewhere around 5am before i left a trail of eeeeeeeeeeeeeee all across my computer screen
i wanted to call you and make a drunk confession:

you are worth my life, i think.
i almost died on the road to memphis last week,
but the sheet of clouds ten feet above the car reminded me of that night on interstate 10 three years ago.

the only constant is you.

so i wrote it all down.
and before my final blink, i started writing your name over and over, and it turned out like this:

braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

p.s. you'd love the sunset in little rock. i took a walk by the water, and went with the flow.

so last night i wrote from beneath the sheets.

pretended i was sleeping.

so last night i pretended i was sleeping.

under the white, goose down comforter i brought for protection against nights like these, i found the warm spots my body made before it found it's way to the other side.

my left foot and toes made sheet angels as they moved side to side in hope of creating a comfortable warmth and drive the cold spot away. i gave up creating the heat source, and decided to crawl into a fetal position until i fell asleep, hoping i'd wake up in a bed as warm as the chai tea i drank fifteen minutes before.

i was sleep before the second episode of 'the golden girls.'

my hands met on the back side of the pillow, and my bed was empty when closed my eyes.
who owned the hand that applied tempting pressure on my knee?
i didn't move, nor did i open my eyes.
i lay there, still partly sleep, not knowing the day, hour, place and barely my own name.

'wake up!' i yelled at myself.

i pretended to wipe my eyes in a sleeping manner, and cracked them.
damn!

of all the fantasies to have
and all the dreams to cum to
this one could actually happen if i stayed still long enough for the hand to find it's way from my knee to dick hole in my new boxer briefs.

two days before this eye-cracking discovery, this dark-skinned cousin of a distant god and i flirted across a dinner table over a plate of sweet potatoes and fried oysters.
it was a potluck.

the obvious flirting stopped when i got my masters.
this flirting happened through the frequent 'ooohs' and 'ahhhhs' while we each explained our life goals at a table four other people also occupied.

'maybe we should link up. a lot of what you want to do really interests me, and i'd love to help you accomplish that,' he said, mixing more brown sugar into his sweet potatoes, while the others talked loudly about their excitement for the upcoming election year.

my body began jerking nervously.

how had he gotten in here?
why was he here at 4:00am?
what was his name again?

fuck all the answers, i figured.
i really didn't care.

what's going to happen now?

i remember his nails.
he handed me a basket of jiffy cornbread muffins, showing off his clean, self-manicured nails and fingers.
they were beautiful.
clearly a man's.
i licked my lips, hoping he'd think it was for the muffins.

now those fingers found their tips worming their way under the elasticity and fabic covering some of my thigh and i still hadn't moved.
my breathing changed.
the heaviness of it, i prayed, hadn't given me away.

i cracked my eyes again.

this gorgeous, six foot two inch man with the body of an olympian track star lay there with his eyes closed as though a dream had taken over his sleep.
his arm, although achieving a goal at the moment, looked relax - and the veins drove me crazy.

he wore a small white tank top and the rest of him was swallowed by the thick white blanket i now wished didn't exist.

i closed my eyes and remembered all the great parts of sharing a bed - all the beauty in finding warm spots in a cold room and cool spots in the summer - all the reasons i wanted this to happen days ago.

his hand found the part of me that, in my nervousness and numbness, had grown rock-like.

i opened my eyes and remembered all the reasons i wanted this to happen days ago and i moved in closed, finding the cool spot between us.
my arm was no longer behind the pillow and my hand was beneath his tank top moving to his breaths.

and as the air began to thicken between us, and the space it occupied grew smaller we both managed to whisper:

'hi'

our eyes shut.

the morning came, forgetting the sun
but brought with it a cool wind left no space between him and i

and we opened our eyes in the afternoon.

yeah...so last night i pretended i was sleeping.

longed for sunday.

so last night i longed for sunday.

the thing i miss most is the sweet tea my mother would make in a large pot and pour into a kool-aid pitcher.

i found my flip flops and howard university sweatpants and made my way to the front door to begin my mission to obtain a bottle of arizona sweet tea; country style.

if the almost-night's drizzle didn't change my mind about the walk to the corner store, neither would the three junkies that sat on milk crates two feet away from my stoop engaged in indecent conversation about old lady fannie's big ass drawls.

something about these old men reminded me of my father.
i walked a little faster.

between the aisle where the bread and transmission fluid were kept and the candy section, i fell into a deep yearning for tomorrow.

there's something about this time of the night that made me want to sit under a tin covering while it poured and the wind blew, leaving drops of rain just inches from my toes.
my hand hugging a sweating glass of cold sweet tea and the other hand engaged in instant message conversations with whomever.

there's something about the not-so-light/not-so-dark sky that makes me want to do better with my life, but at the same time it lets me know that i'm where i'm supposed to be.

...and then i snap to.

'ready for the rain?' the short, grandmotherly persian lady asked from behind the counter, taking my money for the tea and a pack of california fruit starburst.

'yeah.' i walked out eating one of the blue pieces.

the sky reminded me that i never cry.

i sometimes listen to the sad songs on my 'i feel like crying' itunes playlist and try to conjure up a few tears, but it never works. i always end up writing a new poem, or starting the newest great american novel. and then i feel better because i've gotten out my frustrations.

the sky reminded me that tonight i promised to sleep alone.

snap a photo, pass the junkies, through the fence, over the welcome mat and through the front door.
i found myself on my bed listening to 'a bitter song' by butterfly boucher...

and crying through ink.

the rain began...and the clock tipped into a new day.

germany must have known such sundays.

wrote from the road.

so last night i wrote from the road.

somewhere between mile marker 256 and 298 i found a blue pen in the junky glove compartment and a hotel postcard and began to gather a few thoughts to put down across the pictures of the little ducks.

this road thing was nothing new.
i found myself cruising the aisles of strange and unfamilar gas stations and convenient stores on a monthly basis because of work.
and when shit like this came to be, i miss my bebeh.

so i wrote:

----------
october 5, 2007
10:29pm

dear love,

you'd really like this little city the rest of america calls dallas.
i haven't found myself in any of the tourist traps, so some would say i haven't seen much, but what i have seen you'd appreciate.

bebeh, we would come here and hold hands and be in love like we planned years ago when we first began doing this.
in that little room, on that almost-mattress.
you pretending to come through and watch hotel rwanda
and me pretending i knew all about the crisis.
well...i did know everything, but i didn't really care at that time.
and when i began yawning, it was just to cover my face with my fingers so i could secretly peek at your pulsating zipper.

who knew i'd miss you this much?

you in atlanta
me in the rest of the world

maybe next year we can find ourselves in the same place.

regardless of what you've come to understand about me:
you are 78% of the reason my freedoms have been compromised.
who would have thought it?

from that little room
to this world!
who knew?

all the stupid things i do have absolutely no reflection on how i feel about you.

i miss you
i love you
meet me when i get home, bebeh.

p.s.: i woke up with the pen and postcard in my hand and the camera on the dashboard. i caught the sunrise for you.
----------

so last night i wrote from the road.

was bored...and reflected.

so last night i was bored, so i decided to just sit in front of the television and think about a few things.

under my bed was a box of old journals that hadn't been pulled out in months.
in my boredom i felt the need to write.

i found a pen and the journal with the fewest number of used pages and started writing.

this is what i wrote:

*there's something about maxwell's voice that makes my cumming a very memorable moment.

*i'm definitely an exhibitionist. i love it when others are watching me.

*of all the sexy motherfuckers i've been with, girls and guys, i still can't decide which is better. and i'm completely okay with that because it keeps me open for the possibility of love. i'll have more options than the average person.

*there's something about bathroom stalls that make me horny as fuck.

*if i could find a mouth that makes my dick feel as good as my hand make it feel, i would settle down immediately.

*i don't masturbate often...but when i do it's so good, i feel like killing myself after so i won't come down off the high.




and after i finished writing i sat there and read the words, closed the book, and placed the journal back in the box and pushed the box under the bed. i threw the pen across the room.

i flipped the channels and found the dvd input, found my favorite flick on the screen...
and found my lube on the headboard.

no suicide to follow...but i considered it.

yeah - last night i was bored. and reflected.

dripped sweat.

when the last episode of will and grace left my screen i found myself sitting on my bed, staring at the computer screen...bored. this was the times of the day/night i hated most.

doing this during the day was cool because there were options after the good shows went off, but at night the options seemed to disappear with the credits.

approximately 46.5 minutes before my face became fixed on a screen saver, i somehow managed to finish off half of an apple pie and a pint of soy milk i brought a while back. thank God soy milk doesn't expire, i guess. the rumbling in my stomach this time had nothing to do with hunger, but everything to do with me walking that thin line between 'skinny boy' and 'nigga, put your shirt back on.'

my eyes made a move for the closet and located my three-year-old sauconys and my hoody.
i got up, adjusted my dick in my sweatpants, put on my sneakers and my hoody and made a move for the door.

i adjusted my dick because i began scrolling through all the emails i had in my 'biznass' folder. emails with dick attachments from seemingly millions of anonymous potentials.

outside was cool, dark and empty.
the streets were mute and the wind couldn't seem to muster up a whisper.
i put in my headphones and started my walk toward the park's 1.4 mile trail.

the park was just as empty as the streets i'd seen on my short trek en route.

i was wrong.
i hadn't even made it a half a mile when in the corner of my eye i noticed something bouncing.
then i noticed who was bouncing it.

i stood there for ten seconds and the words of the ying yang twins popped in my head:
a closed mouth don't get fed.
i was hungry.

'you ball?' he asked. it was too cold to be outside with no shirt on, but thank God this dark brown, hairless boy found a reason to remove his.

'i mean...i can make a few lucky shots.'

i placed the ipod on the bench beside his duffle and motioned for the ball.

the score was 9 to 7. he was ahead and i was having too much fun.
my shirt came off around point 4.
well...my hoody came off. i kept on my white t.

i found every excuse to guard him from behind, and he seemed to find every excuse to take forever to make a shot.
this game quickly became more than who won.
i think somewhere around the time i was lucky enough to level the playing field, we both made the decision that we'd both win in the end.
at least i hoped.

he won.

a few cars whipped past 500 feets away on the street and there was silence again.
i began dribbling the ball as he leaned against the post playing with the string on his shorts, looking at the ground and every once in a while stealing a peak at me.

'air ball' he said as he caught the ball i purposely tossed at the basket weakly.

'it's cool. i missed on purpose.' i was walking over to get the ball. he placed in under his foot.

'no more basketball tonight, sir' he said. he looked up at me and smile.

we stood 2 feet apart with nothing between us but the air that was becoming cooler as the sweat began drying.
my lungs pulled in more air than ever before and i could smell the acqua di gio he sprayed somewhere, some hours ago.

before i realized it, i had found where he sprayed the cologne.
my tongue found that all his teeth were in place and perfectly straight.
my hands found that my eyes were correct: he had no underwear on and the movement in the shorts earlier wasn't the wind.

against the post, i discovered new territory. i became christopher columbus under the court light that flickered in the dark.

this was something for the books. something for the journal. something so exciting, i couldn't make it past two minutes of warmth and tongue flicks on my dick.
he remained squatted, his back against the metal post, my knees about to give in. my head looking around in case the streets changed their minds and decided to fill up.

'i'm about to...'

and he sped up, not even giving me a second thought...
and suddenly the basket didn't seem so out of reach and the flickering light didn't seem so dim.
and not a drop touched the asphalt.

his dark gray, watering eyes across from mine, and his smile unlike any other.
the veins in his arm turned me on even more as he grabbed my right hand and placed it on the part of his shorts under which his dick found refuge.

i attempted to grip it, but my hands were too small.

'next time we play, i'll let you win. and this will be yours.'

i smiled and pulled him in closer as his eyes followed the last drop of sweat from the tip of my nose to the blacktop.
'next time we play, there will be no ball.' and i slowly slid my hand from his dick to my sweats to comfortably adjust my nuts.

we headed in seperate directions, him dribbling his ball, smiling back at me.
me, blasting common's 'testify' in my ears, putting his name in my phone.

yeah...
last night i dripped sweat.
tomorrow night i think i'll do the same.

i was kinda disappointed.

on the nights when most of the possibilities have been exhausted i log onto my yahoo messenger account to exhaust the final possibility.

my buddy list consists of guaranteed dick swallowers and riders and the occassional bed mate.
apparently something was happening this night worldwide because there were only three buddies signed in.
two had the pleasure of tasting the natural juice my body created when overly excited.
the other had the pleasure of sitting on the stiffness and rocking back and forth while his eyes rolled to the back. this one claimed to have loved me at some point.

i summoned one of the dick swallowers and hoped for the best.

me: what's up?

d.s.: sitting here. was just thinkin' about you.

me: true. come over.

d.s.: i'm about to get dressed to go out.

me: damn. i need my dick head in your mouth with your tongue swirling around the hole.

d.s.: fuck! you making me wanna say fuck this party. you wanna see me on camera?

me: fuck it. i guess. if i have no choice.

the camera came on.

the zipper was being pulled down and suddenly i remembered why he and i hooked up seven times already.

never have i sucked his dick, but everytime he pulled it out i had every want and a small need to do so.
i could give a shit about this brown skinned, five foot four inch almost-pretty boy, but i was in love with his nine.five inch dick that had a tendency to stare me down on command. i mean...it was beautiful.

he began stroking. i never knew how he did it, but his dick always had a natural shine to it which made it look lubricated at all times, making my mouth water and my dick jump in my boxer briefs, leaving a crusty cloud near the dick hole.

my dick began knocking on the zipper of my pants, but i wasn't in the mood to pull it out and mock his actions. i was in a staring mood.

with each down stroke i fell more and more in love with the muscle his hand held.

his speed increased and each time the fingers passed the head, the dick seemed to grow more and more.

and my dick refused to cease.
my breathing was insane and a wet spot began to appear just below my zipper that i was debating opening.

he type:

d.s.: i'm about to cum.

and just like that, his hand tightened around the brown steel and the lava began flowing.
i imagined him laying on his back, and my hand replacing his squeezing the life and juice that remained from him.

and watching his face go numb.

he typed:

d.s.: i gotta go wash up, man. hope you enjoyed it. luv ya.

i wrote back:

me: it was cool. be easy.

and my dick seemed to wither away from the zipper.
and i closed the laptop and then my eyes.

so last night i was kinda disappointed.

made her dizzy.

she sat there playing that shy role.
i saw her hands jitter a few times when she attempted to turn the channel, afraid to talk.

in my thoughts she was already naked on my bed with her knees pointing to the celing fan and her eyes bearing witness to whatever was taking place on the other side of her eyelids.

but in reality she was beside me sitting straight up with her eyes on the television - fully clothed.

i made a move for the kitchen just so i'd have an excuse to come back into the room and lock my bedroom door and turn out the light.

i did just that.

everything happened in a blur of motion: i locked the door, hit the switch and my hand was on her bra hooks and my lips on her neck. all i could hear were sighs of relief. she loved it.

i've been with many women who could give a shit if i licked the nipples, areolas and breasts all together, but this one moved as though my tongue created nerves on her titties.

'shhhh. don't wake up homeless motherfuckers down the street,' i told her.

i created a maze on her belly, made of wet spots and fingerprints and it disappeared under her panty line.

then the panty line disappeared under my bed, to be found later, after a hot shower and a lie i always told moments after the screams and moans: 'i should be free in a couple says. call me.'

justin timberlake's new album and a black love inscent took up just as much room on my bed as we did.
between her fingers were my egyptian cotton sheets and a piece of the matching pillow.

between my top teeth and my bottom lip was her clit with my tongue writing her name in cursive on the pulsing flesh.

a chorus of 'right there's' and too many 'oh my fucking goodness's' passed and my tongue was tickling her ear while my dick tickled the back of the pink abyss.

'please don't stop. please don't stop'

i had every intention to follow her instructions, but this was different. this was new pussy.
my dick hadn't learned the curves, tightness or the wetness of these walls and was about to mark it's territory for later return.

'i'm cumming,' she screamed from beneath the pillow she held tightly over her face.

and in silence i came.
not even a shake or shiver.

and before pulling out i decided i'd have to return.

she lay there. the pillow still on her face with her arms reaching for me as i made my way to the bathroom to wipe off my dick.

i helped her dress in silence. i had fifteen minutes before the grocery store visitor would pay me another visit.

as i walked her to the door, she let out a sigh - and then: 'damn. that tongue and that dick got me feeling dizzy.'

'i know,' i said. 'i should be free in a couple days. call me'

yeah. last night i made her dizzy.

leaned against a wall.

so last night i leaned against a wall in my living room and almost died.

she never showed up like she had promised me she would, so i sat at the dining room table picking over a dried out filet of whiting and sipping wine through a straw while j. holiday made his voice rise and fall.

i was pissed.

between slurping the last drop of pinot from the flute and tuning out the guy with the panty-dropping voice,, my hand found it's way to my zipper. to the dick hole. to the dick.

how sad would this night end if i began stroking my erection at my dinner table over a piece of dried fish and few african violets?

i stood up. i'm not sur eif it was laziness or pure love of my dick, but i let it swing as i walked to my silenced phone and began cruising the texts for a certain message i hoped would still be there.

'i hope you don't mind me going off subject, but i thought i'd hit you up. you and me should kick it sometime soon. hit me up if you down for it.'

and like that, the promise-breaker was forgotten and this messenger was the thought of the night...and if shit goes right...the morning.

i responded to the 3 day old message.

after the alarm beeps, doorbell buzzes, and mandatory exchanges of 'hello' i found myself pressed against a wall, his tongue pressed against my teeth and my dick pressed against the inside of my jeans, wishing i would have left it out.

my breath felt short each time he flicked his tongue on my ear lobe.
my hand felt small each time it gripped his dick through his pants.
my heart almost exploded.

i blinked. when my eyes were opened, i realized my shirt lay on the back of the recliner and my pants were under the couch. my socks were still on and my boxer briefs were between his teeth, slowly descending to the hard wood floors.

my back found unfamiliar spots on the wall and arched with the coolness of them. the only light shining existed from the other side of the partially opened blinds. i needed someone outside to see this, because i needed this to be real.

the heat escaping from his mouth and his body made me shut my eyes and remember everything that's good in life and hope for everything good to come.

the head of my dick found it's way through the entrance of my mouth and went straight for the back. repeatedly. any flies that hung around, sitting on the walls would have figured i was an absolute dummy. all i could say was 'damn.'

a small puddle of saliva began gathering on the floor as he took control of what i gave him full ownership of for a limited time.

i wanted him to have hair so i could grab a hold of something. so i beat on the wall a few times.

he began picking up speed, sucking and sliding my dick in and out to a non-existent beat.
he began swirling around the head, then take it all in.

how did he know this was what i loved?

my knees began to wobble and my voice began to faulter and i was no good.

'i'm close.'

he kept going as though he hadn't heard me.
i grabbed his shoulder and squeezed and i created a flood in the heat of his mouth.

i stood there as if pinned between a tree and a 15-passenger van.
this gorgeous black man with the body of a prison yard god slid my dick from his mouth after his tongue searched for anything extra he may have forgotten.

my heart may have exploded.

my right leg gave out and the two of us found ourselves eye-to-eye.

this was my first time seeing his eyes.
this much, i regretted.

me leaning against the wall with my dick in his mouth was beautiful
but me on my knees looking him in the eyes was love.
damn.

last night i leaned against a wall and almost died.

worried a little afterwards.

well how does one begin to explain what you may consider a 'fuck up'?

like this:
the tip of my tongue was stabbing her clit as though it has broken into my mouth to steal my tonsils.
i mean, this shit was violent. her body jerking with every tongue thrust, head adjustment, and tickle my my middle finger.
i prefer the middle finge because it's the longest.

just five minutes prior to this act of...um...romance, my head was on her shoulder while she explained her reasons for thinking darrius and nina should have never gotten back together.
i didn't give a shit about neither of them.
after a few sighs, laughs and squeezes of the titties, i unbuttoned her skinny jeans with my lips and teeth.
i created a heated sensation on the already moist panties. right where the pussy was waiting for me.

in a blur of motion, the panties lay on my floor next to my new air force ones with the argyle shoosh. custom made.
i made eye connection with the pink abyss and went in for the kill.

i digress.

while my head was on her shoulder she asked 'what do you get out of eating my pussy?'

without a breath, hesitation or even a blink i answered 'the hardest dick you've ever seen.'

'oh.'

back to me stabbing:

i was right. my dick was throbbing.
the under-vein made it kinda resemble my arm, minus the elbow.
if i were her, and seen my dick, i'd go crazy.

side note: i'm probably the only man who loves his dick like this. i can go on for hours describing the beauty of it.

my teeth bit down softly on the growing clitoris and my lips had fully taken in hers.
she was gone.
somewhere between me attempting to swallow her uterus and her delivering a sermon on her back with her face in the pillow, she had released the sweetest lip-licking nectar.

and immediately after that my dick went numb, but still erect as though it were preparing to break through iron.

'i...want...you...in me now!'

white lights, shoulder shaking and toe curling is what followed.

my down stroke was to a non existent beat.

her spot and my spot somehow became the same spot, as we both yelled 'right there' at the same time.
i was afraid to move from 'right there,' so i didn't.

cross-eyed and stuck-faced, we both yelled for whatever god appeared in the room at that moment.
and she cried, her nails in my back making me want to say 'i love you forever,' but settling for 'i'm done.'

i managed to snap a photo while she bent over to put on her panties.

looking at myself in the bathroom mirror i remembered the condom i had brought through. ribbed for her pleasure. and mine.

it's cool. this was going to happen eventually.
i searched her medicine cabinet for birth control bottles, pills, pill residue.

nothing.

so last night i worried a little afterwards.

finally met him.

it wasn't the same ol' run to the neighborhood grocery store.

this time was different. this time i was buying all fruit, thanks to a few helpful hints on the internet and in a few cosmo magazines letting me know how to taste just a little bit sweeter. not that the juices that flow from within aren't already sweet. just wanna be able to offer a full meal to this who choose to bypass the real dessert. feel me?

i had on a pair of college sweatpants, a wifebeater so the tattoo i like the most would show and my favorite pair of timberland boots. i wasn't dressed to impress nobody except the not-so-attractive cashier who swipes the card for me when i'm unable to provide mine. truth is, i don't have one.

at some point, between picking up the 5 cans of sliced, diced, and mashed pineapples, something caught my attention. not really something, but someone.

the heart begins to beat extra fast, or really slow. you never can tell in these moments. the eyelids get a little lower than usual and the breathing stops all together at this point, and you just feel empty. like everything you've done up to this point was for nothing.

in his basket was everything i hoped we'd be eating tonight.
fuck the fruit i was about to buy.

i made a few rounds through the aisles waiting until i saw that butter pecan tan man with the bald head and eyes of god wander to a line so I could get behind him and say a few 'hallelujahs' in my head.

'you can get in front of me if that's all you're going to buy' he said with a smile.

so after the pool and when the shower water stopped, i let him step out first to repay the favor.

last night i finally met him.

imagined her.

and not to sound cliched or anything of the sort, but her pussy has powers.
i've never daydreamed of fields of green shit and white flowers before until fucking her on her living room floor at 3:12am with the TV all the way up. we figured we'd rather wake the neighbors with infomercials than with calls to a god that existed somewhere between the ceiling and the coffee table.

i digress.

because it wasn't her pussy on this day that had swallowed 'mr. russell the one-eyed wonder muscle.' it was the jaws on...the strange white 'lady' whom i had just met some 44 minutes prior that took up space around my midsection. her one hand, invisible under the folds of flesh pressed against the blankets and her other hand appearing tiny, gripping my lil' buddy as her suctioned and unsuctioned jaws slid up and down in a twisting motion.

now don't get me wrong.
i'm no fool and that did feel good as a motherfucker.
but...something wasn't right about this.

this was like a bad book, i guess.
the beginning sucked me in.
then as i went on and on and on i realized that a climax wasn't close.

right before all hope was given up on, the brown woman that once delivered god to me appeared in the corner of the room by the window looking into the back yard. it wasn't her face so much that caught my attention.
it was the beautiful, delicious, watery eye staring at me from between her legs.

...and splash!

the jaws of the white 'lady' was pleased as i lifted myself from the comforter and found my shorts and sneakers.

so last night i...imagined her.