by Tressie McMillan
(08/10/05)
It's the hair. I don't know where this crazy jones for hair came from, but it just does something to me. Not that wasted rocker look. I like it kinky -- twisting little curls that fight to lock like lovers too long apart. It screams domination and power and arrogance and resilience. It's downright obscene. And he has it in abundance.
Thick coils of delightful locs, groomed well, but not obsessively. He rides that fine line between metrosexual and nubian king -- clean but a little ragged. His hair screams his sexual preference. A man with hair like that doesn't just like women, he devours them -- delicately and unabashedly, enjoying the smells and sounds of every piece he nibbles.
I would worship him. I would order special organic shampoos and conditioners and vegetable-oil-based products from the Internet. I would pay extra for next day air. I would wait at home and sign for them my own self. And then I would hustle out to the farmers market for fresh okra and tomatoes and herbs and spices. A quick stop for candles and incense from the hustle man at the corner of MLK and 6th, and then back home before traffic gets too thick. I'd throw my magic in an old cast-iron crockpot and let it simmer till the whole house smelled of my own take on geechie geechie ya-ya stew. Spicy and warm, it would seep into the shag carpet I can't replace and the curtains I bought to distract you from the carpet. That stew would bubble and waft and funk up the house real good.
Then I'd call him. Mohammad. Of course that's his name. With that hair, those eyes, that hustle mentality -- it's all classic Mohammad. Or Koran. Or Shaheem. Righteous and indignant, proclaiming the men they'll be one day after they find the right hustle and the right loving. I'd call Mohammad up and get his voicemail, cause brothers like him don't answer at first. I'd leave a message with every number I got. Call me. Page me. Text me. Want me. Fuck me. Please. In so many words, that's what I'd say. All knowing and laughing and breathless, trying for Chaka Khan sexy, I'd talk till the beep.
Then I'd clean up. A hot soapy shower, extra care with my cooch. I'd steam it a little, laying a soft washcloth drenched in island-scented bathwash over it for a minute. I'd take my time, knowing he won't call right back. Mohammads never do. They're busy, making money, making time slow down and dollars multiply. I would figure I got at least half an hour and I would take it all. Bathing and preparing and shaving and trimming, making everything just right.
When I emerge, my bathroom would be as steamy as the crockpot that's started to bubble over. The lid clanking as steam and motherland roots rattle it from its resting place. By now the whole house is marinated in juices, open and inviting like a large womb waiting to swallow us up alive.
I wouldn't bother with a bra -- what was the song? Yeah, a T-shirt and some panties, both hole-free and thin enough to make my chocolate outline clear as my intent. I would lotion and soften and decide against perfume. Mohammads like musk, and I make my own when touched just so.
Like a mill worker punching a clock, 29 minutes after my voicemail the phone would ring. Mohammad. What's up? With me? Nothing. How bout you? Hustling. Fo' sho.' You hungry? You trying to go out? Nah, I cooked. Word? Word. When? Now. Bet.
I can see it clear as a Carolina spring day: no good-byes, no promises made, just understandings as the line goes dead. A stop at the corner store for two ice cold 40s and a chewing stick, three stoplights and a holla out the window -- shouldn't take 20 minutes. I check the stew. The okra has thickened the sun-ripened tomatoes into a paste made tasty with garlic and rosemary and onions and thyme. It would be Italian, 'cept for that okra. The seeds wink knowingly as militant bubbles burst, burning my hand just a little. A pan of cornbread. A side of sweet potato pudding. Me. The kind of meal meant to make you stay awhile.
He would be right on time. I love brothers with an innate sense of timing. I open the door and he's too cool to be surprised. Naked but for my hi cut thongs and Bob Marley tee, all he does is smile. Just like that, he approves. Inside within a minute, full within 15, riding me within the hour, he stretches time like a single momma on her last dime. Every stroke of his beautifully-veined dick makes folly of fools who can't separate lore from truth. Brothers are well-endowed -- mostly, but only a few know that a big dick ain't enough. Precious, precious few take the time to learn to caress, to growl erotic commands, to pull your pussy hairs, to tease you, to lick you, to rim the delicate nerve endings between your vagina and your ass. So few know the difference between wet and gushing. I thank the Gods of every religion that Mohammad is just such a man as he lays me down to make a game of me.
After orgasm number three he unwinds his locks. He's in no hurry but now he's serious. Like writhing flesh they uncoil, tangling about each other, forming odd shapes as they dance from the nape of his neck to brush the middle of his chest. He lowers himself onto arms made sinewy and tight not by gym-time but fighting a righteous street fight. Hovering just above every body part that screams for him to touch, to move, to do something, I feel their first kiss. Surely as firm lips press against flesh in salutation, they kiss my breasts. Somehow knowing just how much to tease, they taunt me, moving in the breeze of the ceiling fan that hangs too low overhead. Like an extra set of hands, or dozens of smaller, softer dicks, they heighten my senses. From my shoulders, down my arms, across my clavicle and back. They dance against my nipples now, making me wish for milk so they could weep in response. I'm that damn touched. And I'm that wet. And I'm that insane. These locs force every thought from my mind as they rape me of my resolve and my common sense. This man's not mine. That's my final coherent thought as my womb contracts.
Now that massive dick is gliding along my pussy lips, tickling the clit that's as hard as the balls glancing against flesh that would welcome him without pause. Not above creating a new fantasy, he bends to add his tongue to my nipple. The left one...yes...it's the mos sensitive. All of it's somehow stroking to the same rhythm, keeping the same downbeat, marking the same time. And I'm lucid enough to be filled by wonder at his patience. I'm also just woman enough to want to break it. Less content to lie there than I've ever been, I reach for the appendage I know will excite him the most. Stroking between his shoulder blades, my hands reach for the unattainable. So fucking close. That's where I am, but I'm taking him with me. I want him to remember this. Damn near in a frenzy as his movement remains lazy, I run my fingers through those gloriously long locs. Capturing a few in a gentle caress, I shock us both as my hand fists and makes a mighty tug. Yanking his head back I watch his eyes as he feels the urgency seep from his life force into his scalp to dribble through the cracks of his resistance. Like a freed beast, his body responds long before his mind, speeding his heartbeat, quickening his thrusts, challenging me to keep up. Again I tug, loving the way it breaks him, only to remake him into the dominating sexual force I just knew he would be. Now both hands plunge deep, alternately twisting and pulling, fingernails scratching his scalp as my innermost walls clench to trap his hard heat.
At that final clinch -- the hardest yet -- he drops his forehead to mine, shielding us from everything outside that would convince us we're on opposite sides of centuries old battle lines. With a groan, he pulls back, proving who's master, knowing how much I love it. He ain't in no rush. That's what his body says. He slows it down until it almost stops -- my heartbeat, my pulse, his final long nut. Then like tumbling locs and simmering homemade geechie stew, it all tumbles and melds and steams and bubbles up, blowing the top, and my mind, in one final pop.
Recover. Repeat. Hours slide by before he rises to search for a rubber-band to secure his hair from his eyes. Time has picked the pace back up and it's back to real life. Out there ain't no kindness for a man that's a lover. So he hides his hair and his delicious appetite for woman's orgasms, and I tell him I'm going to the farmer's market next weekend.
He smiles slow and leaves fast.
