Sexy Black

It’s called Kizomba–both the music and the dance from Angola (like an African tango). My first mini-class was last week in Bushwick at my friend’s silly studio party where a beautiful man taught me; tonight I danced with him again and kizomba is my new favorite dance/music. This video is a little dramatic but there were some beautiful dancers at one of the only places in NYC that has kizomba dancers (time for me to visit Europe where they say it’s as popular as salsa). Absolutely sexy, my dance partner, he’s good at all types of dances from Haitian to salsa to bachata, “I’m sorry I don’t mean to be rude but shit are your nipples hard?!”  I said “Sorry does it make you uncomfortable? They’re almost always like that but it’s this dancing too.” “No, I didn’t mean to look I just happened to glance down–um, you want to take a break?” “Okay,” I said but we didn’t stop. The music alone sets the pit of my stomach on fire and makes me ache deep inside. Salsa I feel in my chest, my heart–this is different. I’m going to barter with my new kizomba friend he wants to get better at salsa I’m going to have him teach me kizomba and try my hardest not to devour every inch of his chocolate body–try being the key word. I’m up tonight listening over and over to this music as it throws my soul into a frenzy. Tomorrow night, salsa. I love New York…

Free.

I want to fuck freely. I want to play freely. I want to dance freely. I may be falling in love with a woman who wants to be my friend. I might have fallen in love with an old lover who can’t leave Chicago. One who, every time I recall him, my thighs part  wide to accommodate–goddamn he got so much body.

I want to be out of here soon, to be captured in my own space. I want to live freely. I want to savor every morning I spend at the Freeman stop waiting on the 2 train to get to work. Watching the train come around the corner, sun on my face and the cold air piercing my nostrils, making it hard for me to breathe my eyes welling up from coldness–I want that feeling to last forever. This magic everyday. I want to eat pussy and squeeze a pair of thick thighs. I want my skin to burn underneath the sun, I want hands on my ass and a slick, wet tongue on my vulva. I want lips wrapped around my clitoris suckling and hands on my breasts. I want my feet massaged after a night of dancing. I want to scream out in pleasure.  Tomorrow is Sunday, in the morning I’ll want to stroke my pussy and think of you, and you and you.

All the Nasty Things

Says Smiling: That was good

I say smiling: Okay? while in the back of my mind I’m thinking of all the nasty things I’d do to you.

nothing sexier than a big man who can dance

Damn, why you gotta be so sexy?

Pauses, in between gets closer than he needs to be in order to make his point. He’s my favorite, too good for me to keep up with, laughs,

Stops. Hands slide lower down my back than they need to be so I get closer; permission now to slide even more but I suppose out of courtesy the finger tips glide only he top of my back pockets.

We part, ‘You’re Sexy,’ I whisper hands wrapped around up high enough up for my fingers to glide across his bald head.

It’s slick with perspiration, glistening beads on caramel skin, ‘I have to go home.’

‘Oh no! Awww, c’mon, you leavin?’ he’s joking but I’m serious…

…I have to leave, he doesn’t understand I have to leave before I get overwhelmed with lust enough to take him into the staircase.

No I’m going to wait. Wait until April when I can, in 5 different rooms, do all the nasty things

the nasty things I’d like your hands to do. He’s nimble, what a surprise…

Yes, si, oui, jes, přisvědčení, 주요 번역

Lesbian Action on the Dance Floor

It’s not the ideal way to end a date with a man; but then again someone who’s fat on the inside shouldn’t be dating a chef. The thing about NYC is that you never know who you’ll meet. My friend who lived in Colorado who I met in San Fransisco 3 times and across the country at various work functions–a woman who upon first meeting spent two hour in my lap playing with my hair in a hotel lobby filled with beautiful lesbian women of color. For most of that time my head was (by default because  they had no where else to go) resting on her large, lactating breasts. Several women walked by to tell us how cute a couple we were. My hands were wrapped around her waist, soft, supple and gliding up and down her thighs sweetly–not sexually although I don’t know what she experienced. I had been sitting there for hours contemplating my home life. It was early summer of ’09 and I took a trip to D.C. for work. As it was a particularly hard time back home I considered for a while what might happen if I took her back up to her hotel room. I decided to go for it. And she hugged me and said goodnight at the door. I walked away a little confused and found out later she had a boyfriend and wanted me to be her first woman.

Well of course my friend just happened to visit NYC last week. Husband in tow. After only one other date in a six month period (a date which ended with me literally running down Damen avenue in Chicago away from the spot where we met because he revealed himself to be the biggest asshole in history) somehow I ended up in Bushwick with a chef I’ve had my eye on for months. It was an amazing night but somehow it ended up with me, my friend (and her new husband) and another random woman who grabbed me on the dance floor as I was walking out with my confused/aroused date. Sometimes trouble just has a way of finding people. Sometimes the girl-on-girl stuff that transpires on the dance floor is years of pent-up desire–sometimes it’s just a woman who’s gay trying to find a way to come out…even if her husband is nearby reluctantly watching both excited and scared.

It Was Written

I’ve heard more than once about asking the universe (or god, or God or Goddess) for what you want. Of just stating or writing down your needs and doing what you can to make that happen, having faith and watching things unfold. Subconsciously I agreed although I would have never said it out loud. Mostly because it’s hard for me to always believe that when so many billions of people suffer because of injustice and oppression around the world. And I still find it hard to create understanding around asking and wishing for what you want and the many who everyday never hear an answer. Still, months before I left Chicago I wrote on a piece of paper what I wanted upon my return to New York City. There were four or five things and somehow, all of them are making their way slowly to me. One was to make at least 40K/year and that isn’t much because this city is the most expensive city in the country with some of the highest rents (not including the borough of the Bronx of course); my other requests were pretty simple. But there was one that I hesistated to put out into the world.