Z-Rated (Chocolate Flava 3)

I tried to quiet the voices in my head, but they kept saying, “What the hell do you think you’re going to do, with your old-ass self?” When I tried to ignore the voices, they would get louder. I even tried to drown out the voices by convincing myself that I would do it just this one time. So the voices must have thought that was okay; they left me alone after that.

When I finally made it to Barry’s apartment, he was so eager to see me, he reminded me of a little boy on Christmas morning. As I looked around his apartment, I noticed how he had clothes and shoes and stuff thrown everywhere. He noticed me looking and reassured me that his apartment didn’t usually look like that and that he’d been too busy to straighten up. I had to keep my motherly instincts from kicking in. More than I wanted sex, I wanted to hang up his clothes and organize his room, but I resisted that urge and turned my attention to the hard steel that was standing at attention in front of my face. He didn’t have any underwear on and said he didn’t wear any in the summer because it was too hot. All I could think was, How nasty is that!

I had to do away with all my old school notions of foreplay and getting in the mood and all that stuff from yesteryear. Before I could get my bearings, Barry’s pants were off and his rod of steel was rubbing the side of my face like a sea sponge. His boldness took me by surprise and, for a minute, I thought his directness was a little disrespectful until I had to remind myself to get out of teacher mode and just go with the flow. It was about two p.m. in the middle of the summer, and the sun was beaming strong in the windows. I assumed Barry was going to shut the blinds and close the curtains, but no chance of that. He was mounting me before I could take my shoes off.

I became accustomed to his unnecessary roughness and found it quite refreshing to be manhandled in that way, even though I did have to tell him to ease up his death grips from time to time. We did it right there on his couch from the front to the back, and before I could catch my breath again he was escorting me to his junky bedroom, where he had to throw the clothes on the floor so we could find room to lie down on the bed. I was going to stay true to my convictions and not take my clothes off, but before I could protest in that matronly way that I had practiced, he was taking off my pants with both of his hands. As I was protesting, he thought I was playing hard to get, but I was really having a mini attack. There was so much sun coming in his bedroom, I feared that all my stuff would be right out there, big and exposed and in living color, for the public to see.

The more I tried to stop him from taking my bra and underwear completely off, the more I heard them rip until I was not only naked but spread-eagle right in

front of him. He lifted my legs high into the air and looked straight into my vagina as if he was going to give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and that’s exactly what he did. He worked his tongue in ways that made my face distort and my body go into convulsions. He worked his tongue and his fingers at the same time, to the point I had to release myself, get caught up in the feeling, and ride with it.

When he finished, I tried to close my legs, but he wouldn’t let me. He did the unthinkable, which was to sit there and look straight into my vagina, while telling me how much he liked what he saw. As he talked, my legs turned from solid gold to putty, and the more he talked about how he liked my “fat lips” the more he buried his face in them. The more he buried his face in them, the wetter I got and the wetter I got, the more turned on he became, until I wrapped my legs around his head and held him prisoner.

He banged me from the front and he banged me from the back and his strokes were long and intense. When it was time for him to go for the long stroke, he would bite his lip and look at me as if he was trying to see right through me. He kept a watchful eye on me as if he wanted to see firsthand my every reaction to his constant pounding. He was brutal and I loved it and I told him so. Some of the language coming out of my mouth surprised even me and I wondered at times who that woman was inside of me. Words like “do it harder” or “just like that” seemed to provide him with enough encouragement to make him go on, round after round after sweaty round. He dripped with so much sweat I had to take a pillow and cover my face to keep from getting soaking wet. Even my locs were drenched and all he did was wipe his face and kept on stroking.

He lay on his back for a moment and, thinking he was going to catch his breath, I decided to turn the tables on him and ride him for a while. I’d gotten my second wind by then and anchored my hands on the wall in front of us while I rode him like a bucking bronco. It felt better than I have ever remembered it feeling; he knew how to move his hips as he held my waist firmly in place with his strong, black hands. When I pushed downward, he would push upward and we were in total rhythm. He was hittin’ all the right spots and looked me straight in my eyes while he was doing it. He didn’t want to miss a wince or a smirk from my face and wanted to critique my facial expressions firsthand.

I was in a good groove when I happened to look down and notice how my breasts reminded me of cow udders, flopping from side to side as I tried to anchor myself on him. Not wanting to ruin the mood or the visual, I strategically placed my locs over my breasts. That simple move suddenly made me feel like a stripper, but it also gave me the confidence to keep right on movin’. I buried my hips in him and grinded them into his pelvis as if I were churning butter. At times we would synchronize our movements, and at other times, he would do a little off-beat move that would take me by surprise, but all the time never missing a beat.

After the third round of him saying, “Get your dick, get your dick, get your dick,” I couldn’t stand it anymore and exploded all over his chest. It was warm and plentiful and must have taken him by surprise, because all he could say was, “Oh, girl, cum … I like it!” as he lay back on his arms to bask in the wetness of it all. He didn’t want me to get up right away so he could continue to enjoy the heat coming from our bodies, the wetness coming out of me, and his heartbeat keeping in rhythm with mine. It was at that time that I noticed the open windows in his room and could only imagine how we must have sounded to the people passing by.

He wouldn’t let me catch my breath, and I wondered, from time to time, what kind of Mandingo Man I was working with, but it was indeed all good. Sister girl could keep up, and the wider I would spread my legs, the deeper he would fall into them. He was like my puppet. No matter what I asked him to do, he was more than eager to oblige. When I told him to pull my hair, he pulled my hair. When I told him to spank my ass, he spanked my ass. When I told him to go slow, he went slow. When I told him to go fast, he would go fast. He was quite obedient and I liked that, but membership does have its privileges and I had to learn to be a good sport as well.

There were many times when I wanted to say, “Slow your roll,” or “Get your big ass off me,” but being the team player that I was learning to be, I tried to refrain from my usual “I got mine; you got yours to get” mentality and give the man what he wanted. By the time I was finished with him, my mouth was sore, my vagina was swollen, and my knees were bruised, but I hung in there like a champ. Barry never came up for air once and I prayed that he would take a time out, but no such luck. He was in it for the long haul and I had to suck it up like a big girl and count my losses later. This was indeed one of those classic moments when I needed to be careful what I asked for, because in a matter of minutes, I had gotten everything I had ever asked for and then some.

Lucky me, after about three hours of hard labor, he took a break long enough to wipe the sweat from his body, take a leak, and get in gear for round four. As he walked around his apartment, I noticed how chiseled his body was and how tight his butt was. It was refreshing to see a man with a six-pack that didn’t have to be sucked in on the count of three. He felt comfortable in his nakedness and never lay down the whole time. Sex seemed to invigorate him, almost inspire him to the point where he wanted to play basketball or run around the track. All I wanted to do was take a nap, get something to eat, and start locating my underclothes for the journey home.

After taking a few deep-knee bends, Barry was ready for round four, or rather, “one for the road,” as he called it. He was amazed at how wet I was and every time he touched me, I seemed to erupt in hot lady lava, so much so that the sounds of wetness were echoing loudly throughout the bedroom. If I wasn’t wet enough, he would take his fingers and make me wetter by working them vigorously in and out of me. When he finished, he would lick his fingers as though he was licking homemade pudding. Being the gentleman that he was, he unselfishly offered me his fingers, one at a time, as he fed me the tasty pudding from my own body.

I was so hot I could smell the perspiration and feel the heat coming from my own body. If I didn’t have locs, my hair would have been a matted mess. At that point I didn’t care about my breasts, stretch marks, gray pubic hairs, or anything else, for that matter. In the end, I felt like a used-up dishrag and it felt good. I tried not to look as though I was gasping for my last breath, but I was spent, used up, and out of order. The throbbing that was coming from between my legs was both bitter and sweet, hot and cold, pain and pleasure. There was no need for cuddling, small talk, or plans for the future. It was about pure sex, animal lust, doing the nasty, and “gettin’ mine.”

I saw Barry off and on after that, and each time, the sex was just as “crazy, sexy, cool” as the time before. He’s now thirty-nine and I’m fifty-two, and though he’s getting up in years, I’m not going to hold that against him. He’s worked his way up the educational ladder and I’m proud of him, and he is freakier and as sexually uninhibited as he ever was. He’s tried to talk me into having threesomes and sex parties, but I’m a little more discreet than he is when it comes to things like that. We still play our email games and talk our talk, and between work and grandchildren, I fit him in whenever I can. It’s sometimes weeks or maybe months until I can get with him, but it’s all good whenever we can hook up.

The maternal side of me is always trying to get him to find a nice lady to settle down with, but Barry’s not trying to hear that at this time, so I let it go. Many times I’m trying to convince him to let me help him clean his rattrap of an apartment, but he likes it just the way it is, so I let it go and bite my tongue. By day, Barry is still very ambitious and is making a prominent name for himself in the field of education, and I admire his drive and dedication. By night, he’s still a “freak of the week” and loves to get his “freak on” whenever he’s not busy trying to change the world of education.

By the time my sexual empowerment hit me like a ton of bricks, I was already a grandmother. Barry was the catalyst that helped me to see inside myself and unleash those self-inflicted barriers that kept me from fully experiencing my total sexuality and sensuality as a woman. For as long as I can remember, I denied myself full sexual freedom because of preconceived notions about my body image, as well as an overall dislike of myself and inability to understand what I needed or wanted as a sexual being. I was not complete. It’s not enough to be a woman and go through the motions faking it when I should be enjoying it. That’s not living, and no one is being satisfied or fulfilled. I acted like it didn’t matter, but all the time I wanted to break free of myself.

The first real clitoral orgasm I experienced was with a Bullet and it was so powerful, it scared me. I never thought something so mind-blowing could be self-inflicted. The first real orgasm I had through penetration was with Barry and that was only because I was at the stage in my life when I could let go of all my inhibitions, and allow myself to fully be present in all that I was experiencing. That was a process and, by no means, do I want to give Barry more than his fair share of praise. He was a catalyst for sure, but more important, I had to undergo a revolution in my own thinking to even allow Barry to get with me in the first place.

Barry’s youthfulness and vitality were indeed a plus for my ego, but there were many times when I prayed that my legs wouldn’t give out on me or secretly wished that I could have a little more wait time than he was allowing me. There were also times when I forgot to cover up my breasts with my locs, only to find one facing east and one facing west. I can laugh about it now and I laughed about it then; the bottom line is, it’s all about the quality of the sex and not about the stretch marks, the body noises, or the gray pubic hairs. It’s all about having the best sex you can have, living in the moment, and being true to yourself and your partner.

What I experienced with Barry enabled me to carry it over into other caring relationships I have developed with my family and friends. My sex life with my husband is now tolerable and my relationship with my children has become more meaningful. Through these relationships, you can say I am leading by example. Now I am able to give fully and accept fully and in turn I’m getting the same. Whenever I need to jump-start my libido, dial up a “booty call,” or take a walk on the wild side, Barry is always just an email, text, or tweet away and more than ready a

nd able to help a sister out.

Possessed Penis

Tiffany L. Smith

I’m sleeping with the devil. I know he’s a lying, manipulative bastard. But it’s like an addiction. I’m under some kind of mind control. One minute, I’m disgusted and swearing to cut him loose, the next thing I know, my clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor and he’s talked me into some bullshit I swore I’d never do.

This shit is wearing me thin. I’m up at two in the morning checking his cell phone. At work, I’m hacking into his email. I spend a lot of my free time and lose a lot of sleep—searching. Playing amateur detective so I can stay two steps ahead.

Like today. It’s 2:13 in the freaking morning and I’m tiptoeing around my own damn condo trying to figure out where the hell he left his cell phone. First, I run my hand across the nightstand beside the bed. No luck. Then, carefully, I search the darkness for his pants and reach into his pocket.

Bingo!

I slink quietly to the bathroom and ease the door almost shut, allowing the darkness to fold in around me. Ignoring sanity yet again, I scroll through his messages.