6
TGGF, MALE MODEL & ME
“Sooooo…how was the trip to Kingsman with Kenya and them?” asked my TGGF.
“Oh, it was cool. I thought we were going on an upcoming Saturday, but turns out-I learned while in church-we were going to be going a few hours after church let out. It was kind of spur of the moment,” I explained.
She nodded.
“By the time church let out, and I ran home and got changed; Kenya’s big sister was pretty much ready to take whomever was around and in the house. She was ready to leave as soon as possible,” I interjected.
“It’s cool. I wouldn’t have been able to go anyways, so, it’s cool,” she said.
TGGF and me had a distant energy between us, splashed with a dash of her attitude with me, but we sat outside into the night on a vacant apartment’s porch, just small-talking. Periodically one or two other people would sit on the porch with us (which helped ease the tension).
As a result of my ripping and running and trying to squeeze everything out of the remaining part of the summer, it had been a short while since I had seen her last. It didn’t seem like she was particularly upset with me (per se’) but it seemed like she could sense a wedge between us. I admit-it was, sort of.
She was kind of a loner anyways, so she was most probably bored without me around for as long as I had been away from her. It made it a lot easier for her to blend into the crowd with our other friends when we showed up together-other than that, she was cool with hanging out by herself, but I could tell she was lonely without me around.
Into the night, the tension in the air got even more strange when this guy that everyone was crushing on showed up.
Everybody liked him: all us pre-teen girls, Dee’s group of older teen girls, the twenty-something’s who were Kenya’s oldest sister’s age, and even the older ladies who were Kenya’s mother’s age.
Everyone talked about him-I never joined in with their talks of lust about him.
The guy was all but about twenty years-old, but every female from 8-80 couldn’t help but lust him.
You name whomever, he held their attention. No one was exempt. He was a delicacy-new on the street and had moved into one of the vacant apartments a few months before summer. And when the weather changed, he would come outside without a shirt on and jog back and forth to Leroy’s two, three and four times a day to get goodies, groceries and such-probably just for a little exercise with a little dash of an ego stroke-because he sure as hell was on everybody’s menu.
A pleasure to look at, he occupied plenty of pages in my red diary and many a sessions in my mind when I’d masturbate, thinking of him. He had that nice v-shaped torso leading down to his shorts and when I would see that, it would excite me. It just spelled: “M.A.N” to me. He oozed sexiness through his pores.
I never spoke to him-not even so much as a mere: “hello.” It would be a cold day in hell before I would ever give him any indication that he was more than a passing thought in my mind, because he knew he was the center of attention-but surprisingly, he kept his cool about it (falsely modestly so. I saw straight through it).
He was friendly with, and spoke to everyone. If he would spend any time small-talking, it would be only for a seconds. He’d be jogging in place as if in his mind, he was saying: “Make it snappy. I have to go-I’m just stickin’ and movin.’” Outside of his male model good looks, that was the main thing that made him attractive: coming outside only to jog down to Leroy’s, speak, and jog in place, throw his hands up to say hello, give high-fives to guys and jog right back home to his apartment is what made the women and girls wanting to chase and catch up with him-even more. It was funny to observe. He never deviated from that routine. He lived so close to the top of the hill, that his comings and goings could not be clocked. He could just leave his house, hang a left, walk a few steps, and be off of the street and on about his business-unseen. Leroy’s was his only association and connection with the neighborhood-so it was a big deal when he’d come jogging down the hill.
Well, when nightfall came and my TGGF and I were still sitting out on the vacant apartment porch small-talking, he just so happened to have been making his run down to Leroy’s. On his way back up the hill-he decided to stop jogging and make some conversation with the two of us. The night was perfect because no one was hardly outside. There were small groups of people scattered about on the street, but few and far between porches.
About three minutes into allowing him into our small talk; like the grim reaper, up from the basement steps-my TGGF’s little brother started stomping and yelling: “Daddy said it’s time for you to come in the house-Stupid!”
Right about that moment, those were near fighting words to my TGGF. We had already been uneasy with one another, but the porch visitors we had off and on throughout the evening, eased the tension in the air. The fact that Male Model was now joining us, and she had to leave him outside with me-only-pissed her off five times over. She secretly liked Male Model too.
Dumb, damp, dyke, deaf, disabled, definite hetero male or delusional; you couldn’t help but stare at him. I mean, he looked as if someone drew him on a piece of paper, thumped it and said: “bring him to life!” and he come crawling off the paper and turned from a mere sketch to a man. He was gorgeous-regardless your flavor and taste in men (or no).
TGGF ignored Baby Bro and continued to sit there as if he was not calling out to anyone sitting on that porch.
“Daddy said get-your-butt-in-the-house, right now! You heard me! Don’t make me go get him!” he repeated-yelling loudly and trying to be heard by their dad.
He then placed his hands around his mouth and whispered loud enough so that TGGF, Male Model and I could hear. But this time, not so loud-so Dad couldn’t hear. As if he was re-enacting “Amityville Horror’s” notorious “Get-Out!” line, he imitated: “Get-your-asssssss in-side!”
He then laughed like a demon-doll. She wanted to kill him dead.
I glanced over at her. She looked at me-giving me the evil eye-while Male Model stood in front of the porch drinking his soda and looking around as if he wasn’t paying attention at all-so as to not embarrass her.
Her anger wouldn’t let her hold it back. She went for it and yelled at me:
“SO WHAT TIME ARE YOU GOING HOME ANGIE?!” she demanded to know, not caring how she or it looked in front of Male Model. She was pissed.
“Uh, shortly,” I replied-simply.
My eyes stretched wide-open, feeling put on the spot divided by caught by surprise.
“Iiiiiiiiiiii hi. Hahahahaha, “ he laughed.
“Time to tuck ‘ya in lit-tle girl. Let’s make it in the house! Come on! Come on!” laughed Baby Bro, feeling like Big Brother in charge-sent to break up her fun. He thought it was so funny to fan toward her the direction of the downward cement steps.
TGGF ran up on him and punched him in his back so hard. He jerked his shoulders up from the pain, but kept on teasing her all the way down the steps until the door slammed.
Show’s over.
This fine specimen had no idea how many times in my mind that-as a token of appreciation for loving to look at him-I fantasized about sliding my mouth and tongue anywhere on his body I could guess he-himself loved.
Show time:
I continued to sit there, still observing [and happy] that no one was near Male Model and me to the left or to the right of us on any porch-all the way up to quite a few porches away.
Pretty much after Leroy would close his store, the lower half of the street and the tether ball corner where a lot of people would congregate, would clear out-no matter the season or the weather.
Male Model turned to me and sipped on his soda again:
“So how old are you?”
“A woman is not supposed to tell her age.” I responded by rolling my eyes and in a way as if I said: “none of your business.”
He laughed and rolled his eyes in his head and replied:
“Precisely! Women usually don’t tell their age, but you are just a girl, a young woman. Girl!”
I knew that he thought that was going to get a rise out of me, but I ignored him by turning my head-just like the way he was all to used to me doing to him at every trip he made down and up the hill.
I always ignored and abhorred anybody or thing that didn’t favor me or me-it, whatever or whomever I didn’t like or didn’t like me, just about as much as I would ignore or abhor what I could not have all to myself or my way. I made him feel really stupid-so he stopped asking.
He then began making small-talk and flicking his Bic cigarette lighter off and on while I stared at him through the blue, yellow and red flame. Before too long, we were into a full-on conversation about everything from school, to people, to where he lived before moving on our street-anything that came to his and my mind-we just kept it going. While in the middle of the conversation, he got bored with flicking the lighter into the air in between us. He then began to pretend to burn the strings on my cut-off jean shorts.
He looked so luscious standing right there in front of me.
His conversation got slower. His voice got lower: “Bring him to life!”
…he slowly began to appear right out of the thoughts I would have of him from the pages of my red diary. I sat back on my hands and opened my legs some. I began to swinging them just enough that it wasn’t too obvious, but in a way to confuse him and make him wonder if I swung my legs to make him stop burning my jean short’s strands, or if I did it to try and seduce him. He was all too confused.
All I know is that my throbbing heart fell down to my pussy. If he could see me through my jean shorts he would have seen my heart all in the wrong place.
“You can finish burning them,” I said-seductively.
I wanted him to fuck me so bad-he had no idea just how much. I was secretly, very hot for him but absolutely, positively refused to blend my desire with the other people on the street who desired him too.
He looked down between my legs. I pushed myself forward while sitting at the edge of the steps-feeling so aroused by him and throbbing so hard. I wanted him to grab my crotch with his hands so badly. I couldn’t help myself. He slowly brought the lighter down to the inner-thigh strands of my shorts rather than the strands on the top and outer thigh. I sighed out impatiently.
He flicked the lighter and slowly burned the strands with his left hand-then extinguished the mini-fire with his right-hand’s fingers. Then the next strand, the next strand-the next strand-the next strand (repeatedly).
I thrust forward, slowly, while still leaning back on my hands.
“This is it. This is the night I’m going to finally do it,” I sighed and said in my head. I had delegated him to be that one-over a thousand times in my diary and in my mind.
The more he stared into my crotch with the fire in his hands, the more aroused I became. The tough inseam of my jeans shorts was all I had for any crotch-grabbing, because he was scared to do it. All he could do was bite down on his bottom lip.
I grinded slowly and forward as if I was moving closer to him. He continued the fire.
I looked up and down the street-still no one around. He never turned away or looked around, up or down the street. I went for it: “Touch it. Touch me,” I whispered to him.
He was stunned and frozen, but didn’t know what to do.
In my mind, I was kicking and screaming: “I like youuuuu! No-I love youuuuu-always have!”
But instead, I invited:
“Just grab it-one good hard time, please,” I begged-innocently, while admiring how unbelievably good-looking he was: gorgeous and older-just like I liked ‘em.
There he was, standing right there in front of me, having no idea that I ever looked at him in such a way-sure that I never even entertained the thought of him in such a way-because of the way I always ignored him so. As he continued to stand there, my mind envisioned him grabbing my crotch. I got more excited because he was sweating bullets fighting hard not to-paying attention to my body and forgetting to care about my age.
In a matter of seconds right then and there, he had slid my shorts over to the side, and manipulated my clit with his thumb until it got tired. He buried his face in it while I begged for mercy as he threw my legs back and shoved himself inside of me and pounded me mercilessly.
Thank goodness my jean shorts were too tight, because instead of that thought being in my head, I probably would have pulled my shorts over or put his hand up in them while sitting there in front of him to see what, if anything, he would do about it. I could feel his desire-it was burning about as hot as the cigarette lighter he kept flickering. I could tell that as long as he could not see (or touch) anything, he had the lockdown on making sure he was going to control himself. All else was fair-game.
He turned me on so badly standing there.
He grabbed hold of himself as best as he could:
“No. No. Stop girl. We have to stop. No. Stop it. Stop thisssss,” he grunted; bunching his lips together angrily-in agony and with a frown of frustration on his face as if he was forced to withdraw out of the best pussy he never had. I wanted his dick so badly. I had been dying to hold one in my hand, my mouth and inside of me-his (to be exact). And here it is staring at me-inches from my face-erect and bulging through his pants and turning me on. He stood there clutching his fists tightly, doing his best not to touch me with his hands or touch himself.
His forehead was shining like glass. He was lit like the fire in his Bic. I needed to feel some part of him, so I slid my right foot from out of my flip-flop and with the back of my foot; I began digging into his leg-trying to pull him closer up on me to make him fall on top of me. I wanted him as close to my pussy as possible. His body was so strong.
I was trying my best not to lean forward, and come off my (now) sore palms that I had been leaning back on, to support me the entire time. He fought like hell standing there holding his fit body stiff as a super-hero, while gritting his teeth and biting down on his jowls. His head was still hanging down with his chin close to his chest as he kept staring smack dead at my crotch as if he had x-ray vision and could see my pussy from behind my jean shorts. It was driving me mad-so mad that I could almost feel rays of heat from his eyes-beaming at my pussy. Thank goodness for the thick inseam of my jean shorts pressing right on my clit while I thrust slowly into it for pressure and pleasure, because he was fighting too hard not to touch me, and was winning his own battle. He just kept staring into my crotch while I kept grinding slowly; gasping and moaning desperately. I could feel him, feeling himself inside of me.
I was fighting just as hard not to grab my own pussy or his dick, as he tried hard not to grab my pussy or touch his own dick. This was about as painful as it was pleasurable for him and for me. I was about to explode-hard. My pussy was pulsating vibrations that could bust an eardrum. The back of my foot was digging into the back of his muscular thigh-hard enough to dig a hole in it. I threw my head, back then clenched my teeth together to keep from screaming out loud while I came.
I collected myself, unwrapped my leg from around his, then sat up from leaning back on my sore palms. I looked at him with my watery eyes trying to focus. I closed my legs. My heart traveled from my pussy, back up to its rightful place: in my chest.
He collected himself and finally took a seat in front of me-placing his head in his hands, wiping his face and grunting aloud. He then turned around, looked up at me and bit his lip: “Ooh ANGIE, I wish you were older! Just a little older!,” he challenged, as if he would have definitely won this game.
“What are you-like, sixteen?” he threw in my face.
“You kill me. You’re not even twenty-one yet. You’re not so grown yourself!” I snapped back.
“And you’re not quite eighteen yet-that I do know-despite…” he lowered his voice and stopped himself from finishing his own sentence, but tried looking in between my virgin and tightly closed legs.
I folded myself back up by wrapping my arms around my legs and sat my chin in my lap. He stood up and folded his fingers to give me a little affectionate thump on my forehead:
“What’s up big head girl? Get your chin out of your knees and that hump out of your back before you end up with bad posture-you don’t want a hump in your back do you?” he said to me-turning his head to the side-being playful.
“Trying to act as if you like me now. You never even speak to me!” he complained and remembered-all too well.
“I do like you,” I replied and stuck my tongue out at him playfully like a girl my age would-whom I snapped right back into being.
I stood up and yawned, stretched and pulled my shorts from being bunched at my crotch. I then began to slowly step down off the porch:
“I’m kind of tired. I’d better be going home now,” I said.
“You and me both,” he replied.
He then yawned and stretched like I just did.
I didn’t say anything else. I just squeezed past him, turned left and began to head home without turning to look back at him.
I could feel him staring at me walk away.
Old Man Leroy’s was good and closed.
There were no people standing around or sitting outside from the left, going down the hill-the direction I was heading to go home.
The only direction for him to head towards his home was to the right and up towards the top of that hill, only to disappear into oblivion as far as I or the situation was concerned.
This night with him was a one-night-chance and I couldn’t wait to get home to write all about it into lines of my little red diary:
“Dear Diary: Progress.”
7
TGGF & ME
Sun up, mom gone to work, brothers still asleep and me: lying there having barely opened my eyes-the doorbell rang. On the other side of it stood my TGGF, dressed, hair combed and a slight frown in her brow, looking as if we had made plans for the morning and inconsiderate-me, rudely overslept.
“Uh hey, what’s up?” I asked, while cleaning out eye-boogers, lips swollen and face with that morning shine on it.
“Nothing, what are you doing?” she asked, sounding as if it was a “kinda” emergency, but feeling awkward for showing up at my door before 9am-fully dressed and with a disposition as if she had tossed and turned with me on her mind all night.
“Well, I was still asleep and my brothers are still asleep upstairs and all,” I offered.
“Well, I was just making sure you weren’t doing anything for the day so we could hang out all day and whatnot. School is starting back up in a couple days and all…” she said-not completing her sentence.
“Oh. Okay, that’s cool. My lil’ summer is over with. I don’t have anything to do today. When I get dressed, I’ll be out-probably… around 12p okay?” I told her.
“Okay, that’s cool. So I’ll see you around 12p alright?” she verified.
“Sure, I’ll see you around 12p,” I confirmed.
I went back up the stairs and back into my bedroom to try and get a little shut eye at least for the next couple of hours. Later into the morning when I got dressed, I walked over to Leroy’s to grab for my TGGF; all her favorite goodies and a juice drink before reporting over to her house at 12p.
No one was sitting on any porches around the basement apartment where she lived, so since it was wide-open, day-light and person-free; I could clearly observe the black railing over top my TGGF’s basement apartment. For some odd reason, after all these years since Twin had Cable Boy wrapped around the railing; I stopped and took a moment to observe the deadly distance from that railing-down to the large rock-tiled bottom walkway that led to my TGGF’s father’s front door. The protruding cemented walls resembled a dungeon, ironically. I don’t think my brother noticed the deadly distance either-he was just a madman that day. Anyone who would fall from that distance most probably would not live.
“Wow, scary thought. That could have been the scene of a crime had my TGGF’s dad not come to the top of the stairs to save [Cable Boy] from Twin’s angry stranglehold,” I said to myself.
When I walked through the dungeon and approached the door with my hands behind my back, clinching the brown paper bag, before I could even knock; the door squeaked and swung right open like a scene of a horror movie. TGGF took a seat right back down at the dinner table and gave me a “somewhat” kind of smile-not wanting to give up too much of a smile at all. She was still feeling about one month’s mad at me I guessed, but she changed her mind when I took my hands from behind my back and showed her the brown bag that I was hiding behind it.
She grabbed it out of my hands and started giggling-sitting there with a blushing and embarrassed smile, nose squinted like Ms. Celie sitting on the bed after Shug Avery gave her a kiss.
The moment she put one of the Jungle Jollies in her mouth and after savoring the flavor, she removed her smiled. She still wanted to withhold it from me. Standing right over me and looking down at me with her two fingers pointed toward my face, she asked:
“What was up with last night? Why didn’t you just pack yourself up and prepare to leave and go home when you saw that I had to go in the house?”
“I didn’t stay long, not real long,” I replied.
“Mmm Hmm,” she said, looking as if she saw the whole thing that went down.
She paused and put her thinking cap on, looking like she was planning something.
“Who’s at your house?” she asked.
“My two older brothers are gone to work and Twin is gone out in the wind some doggone where,” I replied.
“Well, Twin pretty much stays gone until he retires for the night doesn’t he?” she asked.
“Yeah, he does. Once he leaves the house, he’s gone like he works two or three jobs!” I laughed.
She somewhat smiled at me and kept staring at me for an awkwardly long time:
“Let’s go to your house for a second,” she said, looking like she had something up her sleeve.
“Well…Okay,” I replied-having just left from home a little less than an hour ago.
Still standing there, her awkward stare was replaced by a devious look on her face as she opened the bag of Jungle Jollies without looking down at it-still looking around my face and cooking up something in that awkward mind of hers. She placed a Jungle Jolly in her mouth. We then we began to walk out of her house, through the dungeon, turned left, then down the hill toward my house.
When we arrived at my house, I was walking up the steps in front of her. She made her way up the steps by stepping both her feet onto each step-slowly, still looking like she was up to something. She was almost playful.
When we got inside the house, she sat on the couch, crossed one leg on top of her knee and sat back as if she was about to start a serious conversation. I sat down, then stood up to go over and turn on the television. She grabbed my hand with one of her hands and with the other; frowned and shook finger then said: “Noooo.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because, I just want to sit here for a second-what’s wrong, you scared of silence!?” she sarcastically asserted and hit me in my forehead-affectionately.
She kept staring at me and while doing so; reached over and grabbed my hand. She then lay the back of her head on the couch and smiled at me-softly.
“Are you still mad at me?” I asked.
“I’m going to always be mad at you. I stay mad at you-that’s just how it is,” she replied.
“What! How is that? Why is that?” I asked.
“Because, as long as I stay mad at you, then next time I see you-you’ll know how to act because you’ll already know that I’m already mad at you-keep you in check!” she laughed-putting those same two fingers in my face.
I rolled my eyes and lay my head back on the couch next to hers.
She moved closer to me as if she was stealing a moment, and then got up on me and kissed me.
She then started giving me gentle kisses all around my face while I lay my head on the back of the couch; exposing my neck and shoulders. She began to move her soft full lips down to my neck and sinking her teeth in to both my shoulders and neck-passionately.
As she got more comfortable, she climbed on top of me and stretched my arms out.
With my head and neck still resting on the back of the couch, she began to kiss all over my face and sink her teeth into my neck, shoulders and arms-wildly this time; breathing hard, biting her lips-aroused and frowning. I was shaking so badly. It was feeling so good.
We’re teens now-still loving all on one another since third-grade. She and I had been so used to hiding from the world and being balled up in a closet, or behind a couch kissing and grinding one another until we were drenched in sweat with sore pubes. We never got a chance to be in a wide open space in this way. This was new to us. It was amazing. I was so aroused and hot. I loved it. She loved it. She began purring like she wanted to cry and I was shaking from limb to limb. The feeling was incredible. I had been longing to be felt up like that for a while, I wanted to just piss my pants.
She then lifted my shirt, unsnapped my bra, grabbed my breasts and moaned out into the air like she was howling as she caressed them. My feet were curling and my hands were balling up. My heart had fallen down to my pussy and I let out a loud: “hellllpppp meee ahh!” She was going crazy all over me. Nobody was there to help me-but the one who was making me feel so good.
Every part of my body was jumping, and I could feel every part of hers jumping onto mine.
She then grabbed both of my breasts and held them together-trying hard to suck both of my nipples at the same time. The more my nipples grew longer and more erect, the more she kept yelling out as if her own heart fell to her pussy too. She was so aroused that she would occasionally arch her back and bend her body back as if she was being struck in the back while she was yelling out. She was animalistically aroused. I understood. I knew all too well how it was to play out a mission in your head then execute it, or have it right in your presence-accessible for you to complete it.
She was taking this moment all in-savoring it. She paused, and close her eyes-tightly-then folded her lips and bit into them. I could tell that her pussy was thumping. I wanted to grab it so badly and go crazy with her lips and clit, but she never liked for me to touch her like that, caress her like how she would caress me, or kiss her breasts like she would do mine-ever.
“Oh Angie, Oh Angie, Oh Angie, let me stretch you out on the bed so I can get you! Come on-please-come on, right now!” she asked-desperately.
We had never been unfolded and able to be passionate with one another out in such a wide-open space, so the atmosphere added to the excitement that we both were feeling. I was ready to just let her have her complete way with me.
Protectively, I stood up and grabbed her hand as if she was somehow going to get lost into the thin air on route to my bedroom. She sat me on the bed, kneeled beneath me and grabbed at the sides of my shorts while biting the top of my thighs like she was hungry for me. It was turning me on so badly. She then pushed me up on the bed to undress me while she undressed herself as I helped her. We were everywhere all over one another.
Ever since third-grade and up to this very day, our usual routine was to: kiss, allow her to caress my breasts and grind-for hours. This time, her touch felt different. She had a lot of tension in her mind and body. She let herself go. It was wonderful, I loved her this way.
With my heart beating madly inside of my pussy, I practically growled at her-begging her to grab it: “Grab it! Grab it with both hands and shake it hardddd please! uhhhhhh!” I yelled out.
Even despite our private moments and unbeknownst to her-I had a thing for having my legs wide-open and having my pussy grabbed, shaken and handled aggressively, and I knew that if anyone would do it for me, it would be her.
A thousand times in my mind while masturbating, and on my “to do” list (as written in my little red diary); I had sucked the life out of her pussy and she sucked mine twice as senseless. With the way we were at this moment, I was hoping that all this would finally happen between us. I needed to get this off and out of me so badly. It was so agonizing to me because I knew that if she would never let me touch her with my hands-sucking her pussy would probably be out of the question. Quite frankly, I never knew if she knew anything about sucking pussy, because we never talked about those things, we would just get together and do what we routinely did-all above the waist.
She had been straddled over me-laying there going crazy from my neck, shoulders, breasts and stomach. I wanted her down on my pussy soooooooo bad. All I could imagine was her dropping down on me, aggressively chewing, gnawing, sucking and pulling; trying to put my entire pussy and clit in her mouth while I’d scream bloody murder. Instead, she gently crawled down slowly-as her tongue traced my stomach. Then by surprise and on her own time-she grabbed my entire pussy in both her hands and began grabbing and shaking it like I asked her. “Ahhhhhhhhh!” I yelled out. This time my back was arched and enjoying that shit. The pleasure drove me wild.
She then took those two fingers that she had been pointing in my face today and began playing with my swollen clit with them. I was crazy-shaking wildly. Then all of a sudden, she yelled as if she was about to ask me a question: “Angie-let meeeee!” …and started inserting one of those two fingers inside of me.
I jumped. She snatched back and yelled out in surprise as if she had been busted from trying to do something that she had no business doing:
“Oh my goodness!” she gasped.
“What?” I asked.
She then crawled up to me with those long legs of hers and put her face in my neck-whispering stuff that I could barely understand-like she was speaking a different language. She was so excited.
“What?” I whispered back.
“Shhh” she pressed her body into mine to gesture-as if I was breaking her concentration.
She kept her hands in my crotch while grabbing and shaking my pussy, aroused and gurgling into my neck while I opened my legs wider. I started thrusting my pussy upwards to give her full access to it without having to reach down uncomfortably. She began to manipulate my clit with those two fingers again. This time, it was so wild and non-stop that I was sure her hands had to have been tired-my clit was loving it. She would not stop. The pleasure was unbelievable to a point where at times, I would lay there with my mouth wide-open; in complete shock at how good it felt to me. She was making me moan and sing out in a gyrating and riffing manner that matched the motion of what she was doing to my pussy. She was biting down on her teeth; grunting some language in my ear as if while she was driving my pussy wild, she was driving hers wild as well. She was aroused to the point that, whatever she was doing to me-that made me feel good-she could feel it too. That made me crazier. I then opened my left and right legs; making them both hang off the twin size bed. I then reached down with her to push and knead the top of my pussy and screaming out. Everything was driving me crazy.
“Damnnnnnn” she said.
“What?” I asked gently.
“You-you got your pussy open for me. Oh so beautiful. Angie-ooh. Oh. Ooh. Mine,” she kept saying over and over.
She then grabbed my swollen clit and pulled it; shaking it while I yelled out-about to burst.
She knew my body was telling her that I wanted something different. She nervously moaned out and went for it. She quickly slid both of those fingers deep inside of me and let out a quick yell-as if it frightened her. She started to thrust her body into her hand with her fingers inside of me; moaning out my name as if it was me who was breaking her in. She was aroused, excited and nervous-all at the same time. I was cumming so hard in her hands while her thumb was manipulating my slippery clit.
Tears were rolling down my face, which to her, probably looked as if I was in pain because I was panting out loudly and cumming decibels-until the sound of my voice completely disappeared. I must have sounded like Prince at the end of “Darling Nikki,” I didn’t care. I was with someone who knew and loved me.
She was watching me while I was trying to regain my focus-fully.
As if she was sneaking, she kept looking at my pussy and my face back and forth; trying to figure out what was going on with it and me, while at the same time; those two fingers were still inside of me. She held them there as if she was supposed to hold them there until I told her to pull them out of me.
I lay there and slowly relaxed my legs, closing them some-trying to give her a cue that it was okay to pull out. She was busy staring at my pussy-admiring my swollen and exposed clit with those two fingers still down there. She slowly pulled them out of me and laid her body on top of my body-wrapping one hand around my neck.
She brought her two fingers toward me so that together, we could both look at them. I focused in:
“What?” I giggled.
“My fingers are wrinkled. Why was it wet like that?” she asked, with her nose squinted.
“Well, I mean you where down there for a while-I don’t know,” I replied.
“Oh. Boo…” she placed gentle kisses all over my face and neck-feeling happy about what just happened.
“That was wonderful, so, so wonderful,” she whispered.
I paused for a second then asked her: “Soooo are you still mad at me?” I giggled.
She lifted her face from out of my neck and looked me in the face. She dug her knees into my bed, took both of her hands and grabbed my pussy as if she was snatching me up by the collar. She then said to me: “I told you that I’m always going to be mad at you girl!”
“Owwww,” I yelled out loud as if she was hurting me.
She rolled onto the side of me and sat up on her side, supporting her head with her right hand as she traced my body and face with her fingers.
“So. That dude that everybody’s crushing on-including you,” she emphasized.
“What was up with that last night?” she asked.
“I don’t know why you keep playing. You like him too!” I accused her-laughing.
“You were pissed off that you had to go in the house!” I laughed out loud.
She then pointed those two fingers in my face like Celie pointed in Misters face and said: “everything you done- done, done already been done to you..”
The laughter subsided.
“What do you like about him?” she asked.
“I mean. I think he’s cute. You know, sometimes I feel like I want a guy to have sex with me…stick it in…kiss it and stuff. I think about that sometimes.” I said, immaturely.
She paused with a look on her face as if she was trying to picture what I had just said.
“I know, but, I stuck it in-my fingers,” she offered.
“I know. It felt funny too!” I laughed and said with my nose squinted.
“Has anybody else ever stuck it in? Be honest.” she asked.
“Never,” I replied.
“If a guy does it (sticks it in) he can get you pregnant,” she said-immaturely.
Long pause.
Crickets.
“Angie. I saw what happened last night. I watched it through the crack of the curtain in the window…” she admitted.
I didn’t respond-I didn’t know what to say.
She then asserted: “I think you think you like men, but you like women. I think your place is with a woman. You like it too much.”
“Yeah? You think? I haven’t been with any guys yet, so, how can you say that?” I replied.
“Well you almost did last night. But you didn’t like it as much as you liked what just happened,” she challenged.
Crickets.
Long awkward silence in the room.
We then got up, washed up, got dressed and hung out for the day as if we were just two cool friends-and we were-but just a little more than that.
8
DIVORCING DAD
I’m back in high-school now, feeling a little more mature, ready and focused.
I enjoyed my summer, because along with all the fun and experiences that came with it-it was the summer that I seemed to have grown up overnight.
Life was great and everything seemed right, in line, and as planned and mapped out.
The only eye sore, well, no…more like a heart scar, was the Saturday afternoon big blow up that my dad and I had shortly before school started back up.
Kenya and I had been playing around on her mom’s vanity and makeup case while Kenya sat there imitating each and every move I made. I was looking all too experienced in how to apply the makeup and she loved it; having no idea about how sometimes at school during the day, my friends and I would be in the restroom applying makeup only to be worn around school because we had to wash it off before we got home.
Everything that I had learned in art class about the color wheel, primary, secondary, tertiary colors and how to blend from dark to light; I wanted to try on mine and Kenya’s face.
I was so happy with my finished product on Kenya’s and my own face that I couldn’t wait to go home and show my mom, despite the fact that she insisted I not wear makeup.
As far as her eye-lined eyes and mascara lashes could see, I wasn’t high-school enough to wear makeup just yet, but I just wanted her to see it (and in the back of my mind) hoped that she would like it enough to allow me to wear it this upcoming school year (so that I wouldn’t have to sneak and apply it during school and have the daunting task of washing it off before I got home).
I knew that she would not have been angry at me when I walked in with it on, but whether she liked it or not (most probably by way of some idiom of hers) she would sarcastically ask me to wash it off.
Before I could even make it down to my house from Kenya’s, my dad beat her to it-no, he beat me for it. He completely blew his lid in an instant. He practically chased me like a crazy man back up that hill. When he caught me, he tossed me around like a ragdoll so badly, that all I knew was that when I opened my eyes, I ended up against the banister at the same exact spot where my twin brother had Cable Boy wrapped around the rail across-right above where my TGGF’s dad’s dungeon of a basement apartment was.
Remembering the distance I had observed that day, I panicked.
Like déjà vu and I guess from hearing me scream like a banshee; my TGGF’s father swung his door open-preparing to talk someone else into unwrapping another human being from over the top of his humble abode (that was starting to look more like a coincidental attraction for the scene of the next homicide).
Only this time, my TGGF’s dad was met by an extremely good-looking, long-legged, talk, slim, grown man; man-handling his tiny, baby-faced daughter-whose face was painted with electric blue mascara, dark blue eyeliner and bright red lipstick-looking as if she had been playing in her mommy’s makeup case.
With a John Witherspoon-like demeanor mixed with a George Jefferson walk, after my TGGF’s dad took one look at my colorful face and obviously put himself in my daddy’s place [and obviously] understood-unlike the way he saved Cable-Boy’s life (the day that Twin had him wrapped around that same railing that I was now being bent backwards on with his hands mashed into my tiny face); John-George walked right back down the steps to his basement apartment’s cement floor and stood under the railing and watched my dad hover over my badly shaken and near lifeless body while I cried out like a stray cat.
My daddy may as well had killed me right then and there, because as far as I was concerned, from the moment he would remove his hands from me; I was officially dead to him as he was to me the moment he began chasing me up the street like some crazy man-in front of all of my peers. He could never imagine how much he blew it with me after that performance. It was a bright sunny Saturday and a sad surprise right in front of everyone’s watchful eyes-they all witnessed it: My TGGF, Big Jasmine, T-Rubble and Collar Girl, Big Basketball Lena, Nina and all my umbrella friends, Rita and Charlene, the boy from swimming who had a crush on me, the older teenage girls who I would sing for, my friend’s parents-even Leroy stepped out of the store and stood at the bottom of the hill to see what was going on. They were all there-startled; probably wondering what happened that caused my mature persona to be handled like some bitch in the street, slash, abused child. Confusion was on everybody’s face.
If Male Model was near, I did not see him. Oh-wait a minute…
I was hearing birds chirp and seeing stars. I believe his mirage was twirling in the circles of the vertigo I was experiencing at that moment, for he had to have been there. No one missed this sideshow because it went on for a long while.
I was worn out and all too confused.
In all my life, I had never seen him like that-ever. It was almost like some stranger had run up on me-not my dad. He had never even raised his voice at me yet, yet he went from 0 to 60. No, not 0 to 60; 0 to 120 in a matter of some long unforgivable minutes that day.
Regardless how close we had always been all my life, and no matter the: Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica’s, Superman sequels, Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus,’ shopping together, long drives and conversation, short rides on the back of his motorcycle, dinners, movies, and surprise bags of clothes from him being my personal shopper that he gave to me-none of that mattered anymore to me. That Super Saturday that he embarrassed me in front of my entire street of friends was the day that he exchanged everything we ever had. We no longer fit.
Because of that one Super Saturday, any closeness that we ever shared (as far as I could register) had now been exchanged for a permanent marquee emanating from my throbbing head that read:
“ALL SALES FINAL. SORRY, NO RETURNS…”
I made my way down the hill-tired and winded-with red lipstick, electric blue mascara and dark blue eyeliner outlining my tears. Standing on the top step, I pointed to my mother sitting there looking startled at the sight of my face. She didn’t pay any attention to the makeup on it, but rather, the look on it. She had the same look on her face the day that Cable Boy, Tom-Tom, Bay-Bay, Day-Day, Ray-Ray and Kay-Kay attacked me. And just like that day, I placed both my hands to my knees as if I was in the middle of playing a rough game of football. I was wheezing, huffing and puffing like a toddler while trying to catch my breath. I was feeling a type of frustration that I had never felt, mixed with a sudden onset of an asthma attack and some conditions that I never even had. That was the feeling.
I closed my eyes tightly and clutched my rapidly pounding broken heart; fighting to assist my lungs in pulling any amount of air through that it could. While wheezing, some air came through and I said to my mother: “Daddy. Do not open that door for him if he rings the bell and from this day forward-I never want to see him in life again-ever…”
In that instant, I could see her face turn from empathy and concern for me, to some longing damsel in distress: sitting there waiting on that prince charming (who was once hers) to bring her some fucking glass slippers so that she could stand on her two feet to walk and breathe again-herself. Well after her heart was shattered like glass after him leaving her and given someone else a ring that once upon a time was hers, as well. I was livid from watching the expression on her face:
“Bull crap! Don’t look at me like that. I never want to see him again and he’d better not ever come near me again-for nothing. And it’s your duty to make sure of it!” I yelled at her as if she was the child.
“He doesn’t have any babies in this house! I’ve got two brothers almost twenty-one and Twin is my age! So there are no babies here! What do we need him for anyway? We are all almost grown! You don’t need him! How much longer is this fantasy going to keep going on in your head? The “babies” y’all had together are grown! The only reason he comes around you is because of me-and I don’t ever want to see him again! Can’t you see that he’s moved on and started his life and started a business with somebody else anyway. You’re sitting over here crossing your fingers and toes, waiting for the day that he comes back to you! He’s coming over here dangling you like a puppet on a string-just in case…and you’ve got the nerve to be looking at me like you are caught between a rock and a hard place!” I asserted-sounding like I got my mouth from her.
She paused and folded her lips-wanting to curse me out and spew a bad mamma jamma of an idiom from that mouth of hers to put me in my place. But she knew I was hurting, while at the same time-everything I said to her made the kind of sense that she needed to hear-a long time ago.
It was perfect timing because we were already about to start packing to move to a new apartment.
I made my mother promise me that she would not let my dad know where we were living-until I felt ready; when or if ever that day would ever come back around. I saw that happening next to never.
She digressed and agreed, but that mouth of hers was filling up with the kind sputum to moisten her lips that resembled mine-in preparation for forming an idiom to smack me with for talking to her sideways in my moment of my temporary insanity.
The expression on my face was like that of Larry Fishburne-frowning up at Ms. Sophia and begging her not to, before punching the mayor: (“Ah no, Ms. Sophia, Ms. Sophia No!”). My mother just couldn’t hold it back: “You let me tell you something LITTLE GIRL! You are not grown! And if you ever talk to me like that in your life-again, I will turn your grown ass upside down and spit in your butt!”
9
YOU-KNOW-WHO
“Ms. You Know Who.” You know what? You can’t even imagine…
A tall, long auburn-haired, racially ambiguous, sassy, well-dressed, slightly bowlegged woman with an almost arrogant but self-assured walk. Everything about her seemed like the world did everything her way-at all times.
My friendship with Ms. You Know Who escalated to a whole new level a couple school years before this one in particular. One of my major courses of study ensured that I would see her for the duration of my years there at the artsy-school I had been attending.
We first met some years back when I was in fifth grade. She was always very “big-sisterly,” slash, borderline “motherly” to me; a mentor-a “momtor” of such. She wanted all the best of everything for me and went out of her way to give to me, push me, as well as show me.
No matter what, she always felt like she knew what was best-not only in her area of expertise,’ but she felt like she knew what was best for me (studying under her) as well: artistically and personally.
I admired her so much because she was like magic. My area of study was one in which, if you took the time to care, you could see that I had major potential, but it didn’t come natural for me like other things did. She took that little bit, and like a magic ball; wove together: my potential + her expertise and made me an artistic force to be reckoned with. Step by step, she taught me “how” to do it from the ground-up. It was as if she knew how to take her mind and place inside of my mind-to help me see things from her a perspective that the average untrained mind and eye could not see.
The subject she taught went so much deeper than the surface (and as expected in the outline of the curriculum). She would interject the science or psychology behind what we were learning, so that we would know the science or psychology behind the art-itself. She interjected the study of hemispheres of the brain and how they worked for us in relation to how we could make it work for what were studying, all the way down to how the trained versus the untrained eye looks at lines, shapes, (primary, secondary and tertiary) colors-the whole sha-bang. She was full-on.
I trusted her and everything she taught.
I valued her and held onto everything she said-like I could take it to the bank.
For two hours a day, five days per week, nine months out of twelve, school year after school year; she watched me like a hawk. Come to find out, she had actually studied me school years prior, and now was the time she felt the need to intervene: intervene in my school life, my personal life and any other life that I had that could fit into my busy lil’ teen schedule. My summer before this particular school-year was pretty full with a lot of goings on. My body, my emotions and my mind had seemed to change overnight. She too, could tell that I had a full growth spurt overnight rather than gradual-and she just had to know why.
As my momtor, something about me was just was not sitting right with her. And by the time I sashayed back and forth in her classroom this year; she was ready for me.
Reminiscing on all those previous school years that she would start her classroom demonstrations by break us up into one big circle to surround her-then send us back to our seats; she would lean back in her chair as if to say: “my work here is done.” After which, she would sit back and scan the classroom, her eyes: observing. Everyone would be working diligently on their projects, and sometimes I would look over at her. She wouldn’t quite crack a smile at me, but rather, a squint-as if to say: “I’m on to you/I got my eye on you…”
Her interest in intervening was almost like she had been a fly on the walls of my life up to this point and she could no longer act like she didn’t know.
It worked out perfectly this school-year, because my schedule was more flexible-which allowed me to have her class for two hours. And since my study hall followed it, and my lunch bell followed my study hall; my busy little schedule eventually opened itself up to many a conversations with Ms. You Know Who. So when that bell rang for class to end, from the first moment she asked me to stay after, I stayed after every day.
While in class, she was warm-but detached and serious about her job. When classroom was over and everyone was gone, she would start her conversation as if she was taking her lab coat off and it was now time to break everything down to a science.
“Playtime is over bitch,” was what she may as well had said to me, because when class was over and that door shut, with the entire class gone and on the other side of it, it was curtains: “show time.” She wanted to know everything that was going on with me: my life, what I wanted to do with it, where I wanted to go, things I wanted to see, people I wanted to meet, what inspired me, what made me happy, what made me sad, my favorite color, favorite food, favorite movie-you name it, she was on it. I was comfortable talking to her because not only did I trust her, she did not smother and scold me like a mother would-but more like how an older sister would.
Our personal time started off as small talk to eventually: a tough love, slash, mini boot camp, slash, touch of etiquette class, and a dash of image consulting, slash, a crash course of: “Angie Baby Your Life is Calling What Are You Going To Do About It?”
Within a couple of months into that school year, she was on first name basis with my mother.
Before too long, one Saturday or Sunday a month, she would come by the house and chat with my mom for a minute and off we would go out on our girlie dates to talk about life, my life and her trying to keep me focused on it. Our monthly weekend excursions included everything from going to the movies and out to eat-where she’d sit across from me-teaching me dining etiquette. We would also go make-up shopping (for her) where at the counter, she mentioned how she had seen me a couple times trying to sneak into her classroom with goo-gobs of mascara and eyeliner thinking I was cute.
“Death by eyeliner!” she joked-holding her hands up as if she was describing a headline or marquee of some kind. We laughed so hard standing at the counter like two teenagers insulting one another without a care in the world about who was listening to us being downright unruly.
“Girl, that foundation was ten-twelve shades off from your complexion some days. I would look at you and say to myself: “What in the?!” we laughed. It was a fun day-bursting into loud inappropriate laughs mid-store, as if we were both thirteen.
“Angie, sweetie your mom said she didn’t want you wearing makeup right now but just for the record, this is where I buy my makeup and when you do start, this is where you will get yours. I insist!” she emphasized and laughed again.
When the clerk to come back, Ms. You Know Who bought me some pink lip gloss and purse spray, telling me that woman’s purse should always smell good as well.
I felt like a princess that day, it happened to be one of our best weekends out.
We had one of our weekend excursions over to her house. I was astonished when I walked in.
She lived richly. More richly than I already thought she did. I wondered how she could be a mere teacher but live in what looked like a mansion with all the trimmings.
When we first walked into the foyer of her home, there were two sides of spiral stairs that met a giant life-sized oil painting-a portrait-of her beautiful self, posing in such a way that her legs painted in the picture gave off the same mental picture as the long stairwell. It just worked. The stairs looked like they were built for the painting. “How vain,” I thought to myself, but she was sassy anyways, so nothing less could be expected-coming from her.
She had a husband who was the Dean of College, a daughter away in her first year at Harvard and she loved to brag that her son was on his way to Yale or Harvard behind his sister.
Outside of class, more and more, she let her hair down.
She was so child-like and immature with me. We’d love to insult one another non-stop and if it was something that went wrong during a class demonstration or any imperfection or mishap; that would be my insult for her for the day. We were so fun together, but when she would get serious, she’d look me in the eyes and tap my nose:
“Angie I feel like it’s something special about you and I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. You’re “different.” Stick with me and if you want to dance-I’ll make you dance. If you want to sing-I’ll make you sing. If you want to act-I’ll make you act. If you want to go to the best school to do whatever it is you want to do, I will see you there. I have two kids who are doing well. They followed my rules, they’re well-adjusted, and success is a guarantee for them, as long as they have me for mother,” she bragged.
“Success is guaranteed for you, too-as long as you have me as a friend…Oh!… Provided that you don’t get fat!” we busted out laughing, again.
“No, but I do want to tell you a thing or two Ms. Angie. You stay dancing-but you also should stay watching your diet and even when you get older. And most of the girls who dance with you and walk the halls are still built like little twelve year-old boys. You have bells and whistles,” she laughed.
She then got serious:
“You’re different than them. Though you’re slim and fit, your body is still more developed than your peers, so, there are things they do-that you cannot do, anymore,” she explained.
I listened on.
“Let me ask you a question, Angie. Couple days ago, I gave you some interoffice mail to take to Mr. Richards, remember?” she asked.
“Yeah, I remember,” I replied.
“Did he say anything to you-at all, like anything inappropriate or out of the way?” she inquired.
Long pause.
“Oh. I know-I remember. He was just joking,” I replied.
“What was he joking about? What did he say?” she asked.
“Well when he took the envelope from me and then when I was leaving, he called out my name. I walked back in and he whispered to me: ‘Angie, you’d better not come back in here in that leotard again because if you do-I’m going to start thinking different about you.’ ”
“And you didn’t think anything was wrong with that man saying that to you?” she asked-looking me in the eyes as if she knew that I knew better than that-as if she knew that I was smarter than that, and if not, all this time, she had been giving me credit for being smarter than what I really was.
She had no idea the life I lived, so that comment had gone through one ear and out of the other-to a girl like me.
I didn’t respond.
She was thrown, she scolded me:
“Angie, I know you didn’t think that was appropriate did you? That was inappropriate!” she yelled.
“If it didn’t register with you as being inappropriate-then hell yeah, you got bigger problems coming your way than I thought-where men and boys are concerned…”
I defended:
“No, let me explain. When you gave me the envelope to take to him, I thought it was some kind of note or something personal for him. And when he said that, I did frown up somewhat, but I didn’t reply back to him. To be honest, I didn’t say anything to you about it because I didn’t know what was going on between you two…the mail and all…I…thought it was a personal letter or note inside.”
“What!?” she replied, in shock.
“I mean-he is fine. And you are really pretty too. Soooo…I…thought that you too were passing notes or something-flirting,” I explained.
“Girl, I don’t even know that fool down there! That envelope was going around to all the staff and his name was next on the list to sign! I only gave it to you to take to him because you were headed that way when you left here. It didn’t dawn on me, until you were good and gone, that you (with all your bells and whistles I might add) were in a leotard, going down to some man’s office. I was hoping that the fool could contain himself and not say anything to you. I just know how some men can be. I merely took my chances and asked you what, if anything, he said to you and you just proved my same exact point that I am making to you!” she defended.
“Oh. Okay,” I replied.
“I want you to quit walking the halls with that leotard on. Those other girls your age, walking around in their leotards after dance, have under developed bodies-they can do that. You: Angie-cannot. Do you hear me? You are getting to an age and stage of development right now where little boys are getting curious and excited about girls like you, and dirty old men are taking notice,” she said.
I stood there and listened-taking it all in.
She continued making quote and unquote symbols with her fingers:
“And Angie, just because a man and a woman are both “fine” doesn’t mean they have to be messing around either. Besides, did you forget that I was happily married?” she laughed.
She rolled her eyes in her head, rolled some assignment papers up in her hand, and smacked me on my forehead. She then gave me a hug and kiss on that same spot on my forehead before she interjected her bottom line: “You are my special girl. Stick with me-do what I say-and you’ll go far,” something she would always say: many variations-many ways.
After a few moments of silence, she placed her hands on her hips:
“Wait a minute. So let me get this straight. So…if Mr. Richards was my lil’ man on the side, you mean to tell me you would not have told me what he said to you girl?” she said-sounding like some sassy peer of mine.
I began to shake my head “no”-repeatedly, then let out a loud and obnoxious laugh.
“You sneaky lil’ strumpet!” she laughed out loud in unison with me.
With the rolled up assignment papers in her hand, she then ran up on me and started smacking me anywhere there was an open spot I couldn’t defend and cover myself. I was laughing and giggling like a munchkin-trying to guard myself from her playful blows.
She then interjected:
“I can see right now that I have a lot more to teach you than I originally thought I did.”
I kept giggling, not knowing what was brewing in the lessons forthcoming I still had yet to learn that were in the making-changes between us and my situation altogether; many variations-many ways…
_____________________________________________________________________________
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE 5
- The Roots of Picked Fruit 17
- The Precocious Ripening 33
- Ripe & Ready. Gangs, Bangs & Pangs 39
- The Queen Bee in Me 63
- Another Level. Blossoming. Beautiful. 80
- TGGF, Male Model & Me 101
- TGGF & Me 112
- Divorcing Dad 124
- You Know Who 130
- First Flings First 139
- In the Lion’s Den 170
- Cold Shoulders and Frozen Dancing Feet 195
- Pills & Frills 204
- You Know What: I Told You So 209
- Dichotomies & Dazes 228
- Situations, Decisions & Transitions 241
- Up, Out & Away 244
MEET the AUTHOR Q & A 254
READING GROUP GUIDE 257
SNEAK PEEK into book2
(“Angie Situation NAIVETE’” )’s CHAPTER ONE 260
OTHER BOOKS BY ANGELA SHERICE 269
ABOUT the AUTHOR 270
Spitfire .
Media Maestro .
Writing Rhinoceros .
