Superhead, was dead, so I thought. A mere figment of imagination, or a book, put out by a video vixen. But if you thought this was a memoir about the best head ever, you can forget it. I don’t swing that route. Always the puss, wit dem lips, you never got to worry about, “Excite it, just don’t bite it.”
Now I’m not to finicky about which race I date or bed down. It’s just something about the brown coco skin of a sista’s love, that does something to me. I know black women come in all shades of color, hell, every race of women can be broken down into a light, medium, or darker range.
But this woman here, was something freaky. Notice I didn’t say special, that too, because she was a rare kind. But special, just doesn’t hit the mark on her prowess. It started with the way she moved her hips, like a scale. One scale up, the other one down, one scale up, the other one down. Like a shifting weight being placed on one empty scale then going to the next. Pure mechanics Baby, pure mechanics.
I smiled, and to my surprise she said, “Hi. Anyone sitting here,” she inquired?
“Not at all, have a seat,” I motioned. Now this was not my normal hang out, a motorcycle club on the outskirts of town. But these belly hanging bikers seemed more tamed than the lawless kind you see in the movies. But still, these middle aged guys’ engines were packing some real heat.
I guess she (excuse me, I’m not good about names), gravitated towards me because of my age. I was all thugged out in my diamond studded ear ring and my khaki blue.
“Well Donte, you wanna dance,” inquisitively she asked?
“Do I look like a dancer,” inquisitively I replied? I’m thinking, “Gangsters don’t dance, we boogie.” She seen right through my facade. She got right up, turned around, and did some wiggle move with her ass and hips. I was all in. Being led by the wrist right onto the middle of an empty dance floor. That saying, “Gangsters don’t dance, we boogie,” is true. Because I didn’t know a MC Hammer, or Chris Brown move for shit. Here I was ragging on the beer bellies, now I’m looking like some thugged out fool with two left feet.
I was packing some bills, so I just grabbed her by the wrist and said, “Let’s get out of here, and grab something to eat.”
At first, she looked appalled at my Six-Seven, Chevy Impala, Super Sport, all blue, with white stripes, like it’s beneath her status to be seen in such an old model car. This was until, once inside, she heard that Baby roar (engine). And damn neared cummed in her pussy when I unexpectedly hit dem hydraulic switches, and hopped our asses up out of there. Now she was all on me like a bear to honey. Licking all inside my ear, squeezing my penitentiary biceps (did six years in the pen). She said she never been with a real thug before, let alone a low rider, and that the smell of the interior (420 friendly), had her panties embarrassingly puddled. I’m no fool you see. When a woman tells you she’s suddenly whett, it’s time to park somewhere and take advantage. They be to finicky (women), go to that restaurant, mood kilt, night kilt. No, we’re gonna see some action right now. Now I found a dark street in front of some nice homes and this is with it all kinda gets blurry to me. The next thing I know pants at the knees and she’s straddling this dick. Now mama had a big ass and damn did she feel good. The freshly taste of her engorged breasts, and the feminine smell of her smooth skin, had a brotha fading in and out of consciousness. I told you I’m not good with names, but all I heard was Destiny’s Child’s “Say My Name, Say My Name,” going off in the background. This wasn’t the radio, this was in my head. Never before did I feel so relaxed. Never before did pussy feel so good. I felt a welling inside my shaft, hulking up. It pressed and stretched the boundaries of her warm, juicy, cavernous, girl meat. This set off a volcanic gush, of steamy male spunk, that skyrocketed towards the inner sanctuary of her love nest. I didn’t “Say Her Name,” I screamed, like Prince.