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It was 1987. It started with a natural need that came from the core of my young being. I was fifteen, taking a look at my pussy for the first time. It felt instinctive after laying in my twin-size bed gripping my forearm between the unyielding clutch of my legs feeling the need to hunch against something solid. A natural need to have something pressed against me. Inside me. As the overwhelming feeling of curiosity called, I jumped from the bed, careful not to wake my mother sleeping in the next room, and locked myself in the bathroom. I grabbed a hand mirror from the cabinet and propped myself on the toilet. At first glance it had the appearance of a piece of candy I once picked from a Valentine’s Day sampler. A small ocean of pinkness surrounded by coconut-shell-colored waves of flesh with dark wispy beginnings of pubic hair. I ran my index finger around it, separating the outer lips, feeling the warm smoothness of my vagina. Exploring that intimate part of myself by traveling my finger in it as far as I could, wiggling it around, and withdrawing.
As I sat gap-legged on the toilet, I touched the tip of my clit. Added pressure… resigned… then again. It felt good so I repeated the activity, stroking my way into a new addiction. I leaned back on the toilet seat, closed my eyes, and exercised my hand more, humping against it with the fervor of a child pup trying to keep up with its mother. Then, without notice or warning, drums began to beat inside me. I opened my eyes and removed my hand, ignoring the pounding heartlike beat surging from my valley. My vision blurred and I saw myself as a young whore as a clear substance glistened my naive jungle and dripped onto the mirror. I jumped up, wiped myself, cleaned the glass, pulled up my panties, and tiptoed back to my room, cowering beneath my sheets, intending never to visit that sacred place again.
Shame engulfed me, as did the voice of my mother. “Keep your legs closed!” she’d said to me the day I got my cycle, three years prior, and every month thereafter sounding like a broken record, and despite her pointed finger preaching, there I sat, legs opened, revealing myself to myself. Disobeying Mama, I lay in my bed shivering with thoughts that I’d left some omen and my mother would find out I had failed at keeping my legs closed and she’d punish me. But I’d borne a fathomless curiosity that day. One that would send me on a journey later in life that would eventually end where it began. Me between my own.
It was March 1999, I was twenty-seven years old, and Reginald and I had fucked for the last time. He was a beautiful, engaging, and intelligent man who was undersexed and deeply submerged in personal problems. I’d indulged my twenty-seven-year-old self in his drama for three years, until he finally admitted to me that I wasn’t the one. With a few tears and a lot of curses, I released him. That sneaky spring night (three months after our relationship was over), as we fogged my car windows and called each other’s names, I went as he came. I wasn’t his after that. I didn’t belong anymore. It was a rebound fuck. One of many fucks that came along once I began searching again for that feeling I discovered at fifteen. That guilty that I hurt her feelings or maybe this will bring him back kind of fuck. It was rushed, hard, and done without any of the conversation that it deserved. With every thrust and moan, I acquiesced. Finding that valuing myself didn’t mean saving myself for Mr. Right, but it meant letting Mr. Could-Be-Right know up front who I was, what I wanted, and for him not to add or subtract to it. That would happen from here on out and it would save me a lot of heartache; so I thought. The months went by as I wrote in my journal and Iyanla-Vanzanted my way to answers as to why I was gainfully employed, childless, honest, dependable, attractive, spiritual, and smart but single. I wanted a man to call my own. No, let me change that. I wanted a dick to call my own. A dick that represented me to the fullest. A dick with passion, charisma, rapture, and a little adventure. A smart dick. This dick couldn’t just be any old dick. Not the kind with children or girlfriend/wife drama. I wanted a dick that complemented my pussy. A single dick that wasn’t down for the bullshit that comes with lack of communication or fear of rejection. I wanted a safe dick. A dick with testimonies about how life has dealt some hard blows but one that knew it was always in the best interest to keep getting back up and fighting the good fight. I wanted an honest dick. I wanted a dick that was sensitive enough to call me when it was thinking about me. Ask me how I was doing. Send me a birthday card. Be free enough to do these things because it was a caring dick and not a dick held up by time constraints, marital obligations, sexual frustration, tainted quickies, or the hassles of overbooking booty calls. Simply put, I wanted a personal, liberated fuck friend.
It was August 1999 and his name was Terry. Beautiful. Talented. Single. Smart. “My reflection” was what he’d crowned himself. Terry had a sexiness that vibrated well past his oblique brown eyes and charming smile. It seeped through the way he smoked a cigarette while stroking himself in the middle of a good football game. His sexiness was in his lazy walk. It whispered to me when he danced, and it smiled at me when he called me by my last name. When he sang his favorite tune, it toyed with me and I let it. Me being five months’ deep in excessive masturbation, Terry became my new fantasy. He was the air spirit that roamed over my hardened nipples, at night, as I lay in bed fondling my clit, believing that once we finally crossed that threshold there would be no reason for either of us to have alternates on the side. I had let him know up front that I wanted to put him where no man had been before. “Where is that?” he asked like a curious child. “Not to fuck you before I get to know you,” I replied. I had become the new breed of female-nigga. Aggressive. Sly. Up front. Personable. Unattached. I made time to make a man feel special without intentions. Terry became special. I told him secrets, gave him gifts, cooked for him, loaned him money, and even told him how unique he was without batting an eyelash or stuttering. I did it all. Sure I cared, but not enough to entertain any premature thoughts or questions. My heart stayed at home. My feelings came first.
Dealing with Reginald had taught me that. Terry and I kicked it hard. We shared intimate nights at posh restaurants, feeding each other and having warm filling talks. Everything we had, we had in common. From sitting up sharing a joint as Chris Rock politically joked his way through thirty minutes on HBO down to the way we slept together, without touching or letting our libidos take over. He found me sensual and told me that he never doubted for a moment, if given the chance, he’d enjoy a roll in the hay with me. He’d even caught me staring at the modest bulge in his pants on several occasions. I was trying to check the merchandise on the sly and had gotten caught. It was unpretentious even though I was oddly embarrassed, but there were days that my mouth watered thinking about wrapping my warm, wet mouth around his hardened cock while watching him enjoy being enjoyed. He laughed about the whole thing. Joked. Nervous laughter sometimes. In the space of five months Terry and I had become close. I respected him. But it wasn’t long before shit began to fall apart. I found out that Terry had been involved in a relationship that lasted longer than the Civil War. He’d been involved with the love of his life for seven years and abruptly she ended it. Left him hanging like the nuts he owned. She’d hurt him. He missed her. She moved away, putting states between them. He kept her picture openly posted in his bachelor’s pad. I let it affect me. My lusting disappeared. Fantasies became fragmented. The wetness that consumed my panties when I first met him no longer existed. I’d attracted a man with issues, which meant he no longer had the potential to be a personal, liberated, free fuck friend. Unfortunately, I wasn’t willing to spend another five months on a brother only to have my hard work crippled. Terry would have to do. We discussed his feelings, and he voiced that he was okay. Told himself that it was over. Convinced himself that life goes on. Preoccupied himself with preoccupied people to keep from dealing with the detachment. Point-blank, I was embarking upon fucking a passionate but hurt brother. I was considering sharing nakedness with covered nakedness. Having fun while losing in the game of sex.
It was November 1999. I’d turned twenty-eight and had put Terry on the back burner. As much as I wanted to have sex with him, I didn’t have the strength or the tolerance to look in his eyes and see his fears, reluctance, and want all at once. As I pondered actually crossing the line between the surreal and the substantial, where my sex life was concerned, I ventured to deeper pastures. Not greener. Found sex without the touching. I went cyber. I logged into a chat room as April_22. A shy, rare, and curious cybergirl typing her way around a room full of bisexual females. It was new. It was exciting. My Scorpion passions took me there. Sure that if the right opportunity presented itself, I would taste whatever nectar dripped from the branches of the chat tree. It was after all safe, noncommittal, and a great way to openly explore taboo fantasies at my own discretion.
As soon as I logged on, sisters acknowledged my presence. I followed along, letting them know I’d never slept with a woman but was curious, which validated my attendance. I opened up and found myself engaged in a conversation with a married woman who too was curious, but afraid. She said that her husband knew about her wanting to lie with a woman and had tried to hook her up with a local beautician, but she wanted to do the search and find on her own. She read hopeless. Her words were without the will to really try and get out there to find that person. She wasn’t my type (no pun intended). I relayed my own feelings of wanting to have a woman between my legs but to ultimately remain heterosexual. This was purely fantasy for me. A risk. We talked as women do. Supporting. Comforting. Questioning. Reassuring each other that we’d eventually complete our journeys, but it would not be with each other. Then a private message came to me. It butted in. It interrupted. It asked me what I looked like. The handle (name) attached to the message was Brklyn Brotha. His invasion was as deliberate as it was familiar. I responded giving him my age, height, weight, eye color, and skin tone. He said deep brown-skinned women turned him on and that his dick was hard as he sat thinking about what I felt like. Instantly I was aroused.
He’d captured my attention. We talked and I learned that he was dissatisfied in a premature marriage gone sour. But unlike the sister I’d been chatting with, Brklyn Brotha was happy, energetic, bright, and knew exactly what he wanted. He was looking for pleasure. Sexual satisfaction. What his wife didn’t do for him, cyberwomen did. He was open. Uninhibited. Unafraid. Immediately we clicked. Dirty talk. Deep breathing. Touching myself in places he’d ask me to. Sending me his phone number for one hour and fifteen minutes of extreme phone sex. I leaned against the hallway wall with a dripping-wet twat as he told me where he wanted to lick and taste me. His hard New York accent penetrated my ears. Tingled my soul. Took me places. Electrified me. I met his words with sucking sounds and moans. He asked me to taste myself and I did, hating that this was a chance meeting that could only survive inside modem lines, secret log-on names, passwords, and keyboard kisses. As I fell to the floor, spread my legs, and let Brklyn verbally bring me to orgasm, he exploded on the other end of the receiver and then there was silence. We both were exhausted. I felt at ease. Between deep breaths we ended our relationship as we hung up our phones. I walked around the house naked the rest of the day.
It was December 1999. New Year’s Eve. The dawn of a new millennium. Things would never be the same after tonight. Not only for the world, but for me. Terry had called and asked if he could come over. I hadn’t talked to him in weeks. He called at eight and was at my place by a quarter of nine. He brought a gift, two blunts, a bottle of wine, and his charming smile. He said that he never made plans to bring in the coming of the millennium and that he hoped to catch me. I’d spent most of the evening at work and knew I’d be too tired and sullen to want to party. I’d come home, taken a long bath, rented some flicks, and planned to be asleep before midnight struck. Until he called.
He came in smiling. “Put some music on,” he said as he breezed past me and headed to the kitchen. “Mitchell,” he called my last name, “tonight is going to be our night.” He placed the gift on the counter and proceeded rambling around.
I watched him pull two wineglasses from my cabinet and place them in the freezer to be chilled. He then lit a joint and held it between his lips as he walked past me and posted two incense sticks in a nearby plant. Serenity. That was the scent of the thick lines of smoke dancing from the sticks. Terry walked up to me and offered the joint. I took it and inhaled deep. Yeah, I needed to be high right about now. The odor from the J was pure and strong. I liked it. I appreciated it. I put five CDs in the changer. Eric Benet, Sarah Vaughan, Stevie Wonder, Erykah Badu, and Maxwell. If nothing else happened tonight, at least we’d be high and singing some good music. We both sat on the floor and talked. I decided to let Terry call whatever shots would be called this evening. The ball was in his court. I was on defense. Third down and long. I remained lithe to his presence. For the next hour and a half we conversed about everything from our careers to who would put out a Grammy Award–winning CD next year. We laughed. Sang. Questioned. Shared. Things felt like they had been when we first met. I was enjoying the moment. Dry panties. No fantasies running concurrently through my brain. No longer caring if we had sex. Terry pulled me to my feet as I downed the last of the wine. The glasses were still in the freezer and probably cracked from the cold by now. My buzz was strong but I was still aware of what was going on. He pulled me close as Stevie Wonder began singing about all being fair in love. It was a mellow tune. Terry shifted me close to his torso and rested his head near mine. He hummed gently near my ears, causing the fuzz on them to tingle. I felt the bulge in his pants jolt and relax. The dry between my legs no longer was.
“Mitchell,” he said cozily.
I pulled back and looked into his eyes. They were a hazy shade of cranberry. I said nothing. Looked concerned. Curious.
“I want to make love to you tonight. Before these thousand years are up, I want to make love to you.”
I could hear Stevie’s voice loud and clear. He was singing to me. Not to us, but to me.
Terry leaned in and kissed me. Softly at first. Gentle. His lips tasted like soft, wine-and-cannabis-flavored pillows. I closed my eyes as he came in for more. Our tongues touched.
The softness of Terry’s mouth washed mine. His hands slid up the side of my Victoria’s Secret mesh camisole. The fleshy palm of his hands rested against the skin of my back. He rubbed.
Terry pulled back and looked at me one last time. His eyes wanted a lot of things. Some of the things I could no longer just give. They were things I wasn’t ready to give. Things he wasn’t ready to receive. I placed my hand underneath his stubbled chin and pulled him back to me. He came willingly. His hands massaged my butt and waist. Cupped my breasts. Raised me and carried me to the kitchen. Placed me on the counter. He unfurled my legs and removed the pajama bottoms I’d borrowed from him back in September. Tasted me through my panties. Listened to me moan. Listened to me whisper his name.
He lifted his shirt and let it fall to the floor, where he then took me. The refrigerator hummed in the silence between CD changes. Terry’s tongue watered my breasts. Rained on them. Gave them renewed life. The warmness of his hands sent chills through me. We looked at each other under the kitchen lights. Confirmation. I met his tongue with mine as he positioned himself under me. Eric Benet crooned about using the pain in his heart to set his lover free. Damn. Revelations began to come to me. Was I as free as I thought I was? Could I do this with no strings attached? I slipped my lips around his penis and tasted him, putting my conscience in the backseat. He tasted good. Too good. He moved his hips in rhythm with my motions. He ran his hands through the wildness of my hair. I felt sounds reach his lips but gave them no entrance to the open air around us. He was still afraid. Taking a chance on taking a chance. I couldn’t help him. I could no longer help… myself. The music faded as we melded on the kitchen floor. I licked Terry up from his navel to his neck and with that, we entwined.
Ten minutes later we were butt naked and in my bed creating our own song. Told Stevie Wonder he was a liar and deemed Eric Benet a coward. The passion between us made our relationship make sense. Terry looked at me just before he entered. The pulse of his dick thumped against my thigh. I smiled. He smiled. Allowed me to put the condom on. He entered. Smooth. Quick. With care. I sighed. Thrusted against him. Created a new rhythm. His body caved around mine. Sweat formed between our abdomens. Party goers laughed outside in the night. He rose up. Looked at us. Looked at himself inside me. Watched as his stick, covered and strong, moved in and out, solid against the caverns of my vagina. The friction made me tingle inside. The quicker he moved his hips, the better I began to feel. He closed his eyes, lifted his head toward the ceiling, gripped his hands beneath my buttocks, and shifted me closer. The friction sent that electric feeling through me. I squeezed him in. Suffocated his movements. Grooved with him until the power of my climax overwhelmed me. I became the wild woman he thought me to be. The woman he needed. The woman every man needed, sometimes. He called out my name. My first name. Called it like he was falling and needed to be saved. Another strong thrust. Insanity and laughter rose in my chest. He gritted his teeth. I tried to hold my breath. Quick short immediate strokes. I yelled out affirmations.
We rammed each other. Laughed separate laughs. Grunted. Begged each other for forgiveness and climaxed simultaneously. I’d never come with a man. He withdrew and I became disturbed. It’d been too long. He fell on me. Delirious. Panting. Clutching my hair. Breathing against my neck. Too close. His skin invaded my space. I wasn’t used to having a warm body against mine after I climaxed. It had been ten months. I had become accustomed to curling up in my own space. Stroking myself into a peaceful slumber. I was used to letting the spirit dwell over me.
“Get up,” I said. It was in my throat. Barely audible. Not sure it wanted to be heard. “Terry, get up.” This time louder. Stronger.
He didn’t stir.
“You have to leave.”
He looked up. Eyes barely opened. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, but you have to leave.”
He frowned. Rose without further argument. “Are you okay?”
“No. I’m not okay. I’m sorry but... I just need to be alone.”
He stroked my pubic hairs. Stared me in the eyes.
“I hope you’re not offended. It’s not you.” I tried to comfort him, but the comfort wasn’t in my voice.
“No, I’m fine. I’m happy. If you want me to leave, then I will.”
I sat up. Looked around the room. Looked at him. “I think I’ve been masturbating too long.”
He smiled. “You know, it’s possible that you have. The way you turned over afterward indicated your lack of human touch.”
“I masturbated last night and this morning,” I confessed. Smirked. Enjoyed the thought. Ignored his comment. I was in my own world already.
“Tell you what,” he said as he cascaded downstairs to get his pants. “Take a break from it. Discipline yourself. Keep your hands from between your legs for as long as possible and when you can’t stand it anymore, then call me.”
I frowned as I followed him. I was still naked. “This is not something I need you to conquer. I’m happy before and after I masturbate.”
“Baby, I understand your plight,” he replied. “There’s one thing that masturbation can’t give you.”
I asked, “What’s that?”
He walked over. Hugged me. Squeezed tightly. Kissed my cheek. Told me he enjoyed being with me. Stroked my skin. Irritated me.
I felt crowded. Overused. Like I was being put in a straitjacket. I didn’t care for being kissed, stroked, or ego-boosted after sex. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to cum and go the hell to sleep without the closeness of someone else. I’d learned to live without the affection. Had been forced through poor selection to live without the affection. I’d learned that the climax is the goal; everything else was like having seventy clowns at one birthday party with four children. It was too much for a casual experience between the sheets.
“It just dawned on me that my fantasy world is what I like about me,” I replied. “I can be whatever I want and sex whoever I want in my mind without having to worry about stamina, performance, snuggling, or even body odor.” My revelation brought out a sigh in me. A sigh that made me feel safe. “I like having that without human intrusion.”
Terry was fully dressed. He stared at me longingly. I felt sorry for him and for me. Remembered how much I used to want him. How I still do, in my mind. Still would like to place my mouth on his penis every now and then, but no longer wanted him or anyone else inside of me if they couldn’t be happy living upstairs on the left side of my brain.
“Don’t forget to open your present,” he said. “I got it especially for you.” He grabbed his keys, hugged me as friends do, and left.
It was a few minutes till midnight. I turned off the lights downstairs and headed up to my room, gift in hand. I sat on my bed. Leaned down and smelled me and Terry on the sheets. Smiled a grateful smile. Missed his voice. I opened the present, awed. In my hands was a framed photo of me and Terry. It was taken when we first met. On the grass watching an Al Jarreau concert. Hugging. Looking like fuck friends. The best of friends. I fell on the bed and rested the picture beside me. Tomorrow I would place it downstairs on my bookshelf for any visitor to see. I lifted my knees and positioned my legs as if Terry was between them. As if Brklyn Brotha was between them. As if a female was between them. As if Reginald was between them. I fingered my clit and caressed my vagina, sticking my finger in it as far as I could, wiggling it around and withdrawing. Added pressure… resigned… then again. Felt the wetness ooze from me. I was glistening. I rotated my hips in slow motions against the pressure. Created friction. Party whistles, excited yells, and fireworks went off in the night somewhere outside. A new era had arrived. Like Indiana Jones, I journeyed my ocean of pinkness surrounded by coconut-shell-colored mountains of flesh with dark wispy adult pubic hair. Tasting who I had almost become at fifteen, who I liked being at twenty-seven, without the aid of a hand mirror. Liberated. Disobeying Mama by opening my legs. I was the something solid I’d been hunching to discover. Me between my own.