Best Bi Short Stories, page 21
Uh oh, she thought. She was not a gay man at all. She must be a lesbian.
She scratched behind her ear. The skin back there was starting to flake. Stress from her divorce proceedings was making her eczema act up. She wandered into the bathroom and squirted some thick, creamy moisturizer into her palm. She massaged from her scaly elbows up to her itchy shoulders. She kneaded the muscles in her neck, rubbing along the prominent knobs of her vertebrae. They seemed to stick out even more than usual. Age? She sighed and grabbed the toothbrush. The chocolate could wait.
She decided she was going to be the best little lesbian in the whole wide world. She bought a leather jacket and high-topped black tennies, chopped off all her hair, and wore asymmetrical earrings with backwards baseball caps. She started smoking in dyke bars. She drank Dewar’s and water, splattered her speech with expletives, and slept her way through every single lesbian in New Haven. There were only four. All the other wimmin were in lifetime committed relationships with the ex-lover of their best friend’s girlfriend’s softball buddy, with whom they had been in a lifetime committed relationship two lifetime committed relationships ago.
She had a one-night stand with a bizarrely body-pierced bi-curious anthropology student who never washed her hair. She flirted with and then dumped a deeply disturbed quality-control chemist with the same name as her mother. She tried to let an office manager with the alluring thighs of the Venus of Willendorf down easily, and disentangled herself with difficulty from a windsurfing nymphomaniac hospital chaplain.
“You don’t look well,” said her straight best friend Selene on the rare occasions that she still saw her. “You need to slow down, get some exercise, pay attention to what you eat. You look—I don’t know, sallow. Like you’re coming down with the flu.”
Alex inspected herself in the mirror. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, and her skin had developed a greenish cast. Maybe it was the cigarettes and the drinking. She’d lighten up a little, go to the health food store, buy blackberries and broccoli. All she had wanted lately was steak, burgers, ribs. Her cholesterol must be through the roof. She had read somewhere, though, that you needed cholesterol to make sex hormones.
What made a person straight or gay? She had always appreciated Selene’s beauty. The smooth bronze of Selene’s eczema-free skin and the curve of her neck had attracted her even when she was married, but she had explained it away as an outgrowth of their emotional intimacy, the closeness one feels with a best friend. It was only men who could feel turned on just by the sight of a breast or thigh, without even knowing the person to whom it was attached. Men—and maybe butch lesbians. Is that what she was?
She was starting to notice women’s bodies in a different way, divorced from their personalities. She felt carnal, even predatory. When the phrase “KNOCKER ALERT!” began to sound in her head whenever well-endowed female chests passed her on the street, she realized she had reached the point where she could totally sexually objectify other women. At last, she thought, I am a real dyke.
Then the unthinkable happened. She developed a monstrous crush on George, the clerk in the video store. He was years younger than she, with the same golden hair and friendly blue eyes as her ex-husband, but without the stubble and the body odor. You could tell he was going to tend to fat as he got older, but he wasn’t fat yet. Just sort of—juicy. He saved special videos for her and knocked off late fees, but she didn’t think he was just being nice to her to get into her pants. He seemed to be nice to everybody—teenagers, kids, old ladies—a regular knight in shining armor.
At first she hoped he was gay. Then she might still be a dyke, and her crush on him might have a weird logic of its own, like a double negative. But he turned out not to be gay, just engaged to be married. So as she lay awake all night writhing her way through erotic fantasies about George the Video Saint, she realized she must really be a bisexual.
Ssh.
Did she actually exist?
Or did she wander, like the dragon, somewhere in that realm between rumor and myth?
She got up and switched on the fake gas fire in her living room fireplace. She lit a mentholated Virginia Slim from the gas jet and took a few short puffs, then a long drag. Her naked toes broiled before flames that glowed more blue than orange. She had let her toenails get so long, they were beginning to curve like talons. She smiled, and smoke rose curling from her nostrils.
Face to Face by J.R. Yussuf
I had one thought as I watched her sleep; she was crazy as hell, and so was I. She was completely uninhibited, a ball of energy and readily available emotion. A swift smooth fox. The type to wake in the middle of the night, springing up deciding she suddenly wanted to go for a three mile run or do twenty minutes of calisthenics.
I had flashbacks of meeting her at this rooftop party Tony was throwing to celebrate getting promoted to financial curator at the IT Company he worked for, just one week before. Tony and I had already been good friends for just over a year. The night we met we’d both just graduated from Dartmouth College but hadn't met until after graduation at one of those summer graduation parties out in Hanover, New Hampshire.
The multicolor, Christmas light-studded rooftop overlooked Brooklyn on one side, and the borough that never sleeps on the other. Brooklyn and Manhattan were like night and day in scenery, vibe and quite literally with the amount of light emitted after dusk.
There were lots of guys on the rooftop and a decent amount of girls. All races represented, like a big bag of trail mix, most were in their late 20s and just a few over 30. Most guys were casual and wore fitted caps, Sperry's, Jordans or the tanks from H&M that every guy seemed to own. There were guys with dark wavy caesars, curly fros, locs, fades, box cuts, buzz cuts, bowler cuts, long curly hair, straight hair pulled into a ponytail and quite a few baldy's like me. Most girls wore short shorts, dresses with flowers on them or those long frilly skirts with the waistband worn just under the bust, either to mask the pudge from the guys or make themselves appear taller. The ladies rocked long luscious locs and patient short ones too, pixie cuts with highlights, silky straight hair, long multicolored box braids, blown out fros, tightly coiled fros, high buns, Bantu knots, low-cut hair dyed red, straight permed hair, weaves and a few other ones that I had no idea about but I loved nonetheless. As a boy I thought only black girls could be sexy. Bushwick, the neighborhood I grew up in, was predominately black: West Indian, African, Afro-Latino and just plain African-American. I learned the word sexy with a black girls’ body as the example. I've learned to double back on that thought and look closely, to admire how much work women of all races put into their appearance. I pay attention to it all.
Tony and I were on the right side of the rooftop by two large ficus plants, overlooking other Brooklyn neighborhoods while he let me in on his newfound perspective on men.
"This nonstop roundabout also known as 'dating' is tired. Men are only good for sex. If I need anything else, I can get it from a friend."
Tony always said the craziest shit. You know, the shit most people thought, but would never say aloud. That was one of the things that was so dope about Tony. Tony stood at 6'0" slim athletic build, soft and short, curly light brown hair, with light brown skin the color of a peanut to match, a peanut head, high cheekbones with red undertones, large light brown eyes, thin mustache, full lips and a wide child-like smile when he was in a good mood and lastly, a strong prominent jaw. Tony was Native American and African American although people always assumed he was Dominican and even spoke to him in Spanish occasionally. He had lots of family living on the Unkechaug reservation on Long Island, NY and the rest living in Gainesville, Georgia. Tony wore a black leather cap, backwards of course, a long, fitted short sleeve black Raiders jersey, all black drop crotch harem pants, and neon green Nike Roshe sneakers, a gold Casio watch, a gold chain with the matching gold bracelet and a gold two fingered ring on his right hand. Tony could never wear something like this to work, but he was known as the guy with the brow-raising, brightly colored, sock-tie-handkerchief collection.
”How did dating get to be so fucking impossible?”
Tony continued on like this for a little while until I told him he should consider looking for different kinds of men in different kinds of places. Tony called me a "wise-ass" and maybe he was right, hell what did I really know? Shit, I was still single. I was just like my late 20-something peers trapped in their monotonous lives of routine going straight from home to the gym, from the gym to work, from work to a friend's crib to burn, from burnin at a friend's crib to back home to sleep, from sleeping to doing it all over again the next day. The online thing wasn't for me; something about it screamed thirsty. There were times like this however, that I veered from my regular routine and could potentially meet a girl, but sometimes it feels like I’m never going to find anybody.
Tony and I talked about everything from sex to politics to belief to the absence of belief to how Black Americans are conditioned to think to group think to finding freedom in eastern philosophies to music to the music industry and back to sex again. There were levels to this shit.
Then there was this sound, animal-like in that it was feral, impulsive, and attention-grabbing. She wore a red and gold mardi gras mask, a feathered rainbow colored fan which she wielded like a weapon, a swirling orange skirt complete with embroidery topped with a fitted vest that flashed her dewy and inviting cleavage, which came together with bare feet. Her skin glowed a nice olive color. Long, pretty eyelashes, oval shaped hazel eyes, rosy pink, plump lips, a soft slender neck, and a sexy, devilish grin. She was about 5' 6" and stacked like an athlete, highlights of dirty blonde intertwined with milk chocolate brown hair; I was hoping she was dirty in other ways too.
"Brrrrrrdakakakakai!" She was at it again, doing handstands that became cartwheels which melted into belly dancing which morphed into an interpretive dance to "Click" by Big Sean; the current song playing on the booming sound system. All eyes in the vicinity were on her, we were in a trance. Her arms moved and our breath stopped, her hips jerked and our hearts shook, she stomped, we jolted. She wasn't just a dancer, she was an acrobat, I was sure of it. I wondered if she'd be willing to climb me.
We locked eyes a couple times and each time it was crazy conversation.
Hello stranger
Wassup sexy, lets be friends
I'd like that very much, but are you sure you can handle me?
Finding out is part of the fun
No truer words have been spoken. I can tell we're going to have fun
For sure, let's.
I was intrigued and couldn't help myself, she's a thrill seeker and I had no problem playing my role as “the thrill.” We winded up audibly speaking somewhere in between her impromptu performances. She was never really done and had never really stopped moving, from her hip rolls to her need to punctuate her points with a tap of her fan on my shoulder. She was an actress, a dancer and had even performed aerial dance on a couple of concert tours, I made sure to ask. She heard about the party from a friend of a friend who said they'd show up, and didn't. But here she was alone, mingling and the topic of more conversations than Tony at his own party.
She told me she lives for good music and conversation. She admitted to finding me interesting. Maybe it was the bald head, full beard and all the ink. I stood at 6' 4" medium athletic build, brown skinned the color of an almond with almond shaped, bedroom eyes, dark brown irises, long dark eyelashes, a thin top lip, a full bottom one, fully tatted arms and a sly smile. I wore rolled up white pants with the sleeves also rolled up on my midnight blue button up shirt, which I tucked into the white pants, and a caramel colored belt to go with my caramel colored Sperry's.
We talked about life and how it should be enjoyed regardless of how much money you have or where you currently are, in it. She’d just finished getting her bachelor's degree in theatre arts with a minor in philosophy. Her philosophy on love was: "do it as much and as hard as you can." Her philosophy on life was: “Travel every chance you get, meet new people, see the culture, eat the food, then find another place to explore.” I love travel. A new experience with a different culture keeps the mind sharp. I told her how I was itching to eventually vacation somewhere in Central America. She mentioned her family back home living modestly in the mountains of Pico de Neblina. She was from Brazil but had roots in Colombia and Argentina. I was from Queens but had roots in the south of America and Botswana, the south of the continent of Africa.
"Ah! You could be related to royalty!"
She was very blunt, which I appreciated; I was very touchy-feely, which she didn’t seem to mind. Being around her I felt there were no rules. Just the laws of attraction.
Hours had passed and we were the last ones there other than Tony. He was cleaning up while we chatted all whilst the sun began its early morning ritual. I mentioned to her that we'd watched the moon brilliantly streak across a dark sky and now we were going to watch the sun do cartwheels all morning together and how this was the stuff of romance novels and first dates. Now that there was more light, it became even more noticeable that she was barefoot. She had small pretty feet, a different color polish on each toe, both things I found to be peculiar since she was a dancer and dancers tend to have feet like cauliflower. She told me it was because she wasn't really a dancer but a “mover.” We'd talked all night and I just realized I hadn't asked her why she was barefoot. “Your feet look like they could use a good foot rub, you wanna get up outta here?" I asked through a sly grin.
She ran off as soon as the question left my lips and hit her ears. While helping Tony clean up, I remember weighing just how offensive my question could have been to cause a 25 year old woman who flirted with me half the night to literally run away from me. I kept glancing wistfully at the door, hoping she would wave her fan just once more and saunter back in. "Who was that?” I mumbled and kept shaking my head. “She's amazing, and sexy as hell." Unfortunately, Tony didn’t know her and I wondered if I’d ever see her again.
Her name was Katilla Riveros and she was a goddamn individual. The energy, the temperament, the fire under her ass.
She wound up finding me on Facebook a few days later and sent me a message, "Sorry I ran off like that. I hope we can be friends." Three mutual friends; Kerra Frantz a girl I went to college with who was into theater and acting, Dan Johnson a guy I barely remember meeting at a party last summer, and Clay Robinson; one of Tony's old “dates,” as he euphemistically calls them.
Our topsy-turvy beginnings ran through my mind as I half laid up, half sat up in bed waiting for Katilla to get out of the shower and come back to bed to get sweaty all over again, after her impromptu midnight workout. One week later and here we were in my room, soon to be spread out on my twin mattress. She had a fat, juicy, Latin ass and a flat, stomach like she belonged on a far off beach somewhere. She was Brazilian, Argentinean and Colombian. Brazil is known for having the sexiest women, while Argentina's and Colombia's women are known for being as beautiful as they are crazy. Men from the south are known for our manners and making women feel safe, while Botswana is known for having the kind of men who adore women and that I did. But it didn't matter where she or I were really from, sex, and even love, is universal.
She got back into bed as swiftly as she'd gotten up and I couldn't keep my hands to myself. They had a mind of their own, although they were ever in sync, one making up where the other lacked, both doing a waggle dance much like bees, instructing Katilla's body where to go and what to do once it got there. She moaned deeply in this uncontrollable alto way and my mouth watered. You see 'cause I love to eat and feast and when I'm done there's never ever nothing left.
Don't get me wrong, she was no docile sheep in the bedroom she was more like a powerful panther right at home in its colorful labyrinth that is the jungle. She knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get it. She gripped, sucked and pulled until she had me right where she wanted me; she climbed on top and fucked me stupid. That surprised me, which she enjoyed: she loved seeing me sweat. We both purred as we ceased. Our duet made up for where words may have lacked. The room was spinning. Was I falling for her?
I had this gnawing feeling inside. Like cupid was inside my chest relentlessly pounding away at my heart or like forgetting what it was you forgot at home but knowing you forgot something. What was it?
Tiredness finally took over, then down, down, down into healing rest which carries lovers to new mornings’ dawn. My left arm under her neck, her right leg on top of my left leg, my right hand on her right titty, her right hand palming my privates, we were a spider's web of limbs. We drifted off to sleep that way, caught in each other's lust-filled clutches. I woke up the next morning expecting another round in our erotic roundabout. Katilla was gone. All that was left was her scent on my pillowcase and my clothes everywhere: evidence of a night well spent. She was fun. Best sex I've had in…ever. There was that goddamn tugging feeling in my chest again.
I called her, and she took her sweet time calling me back, but then she demanded to see me right away. We’d get together, talk, eat, flirt, fuck, and fall asleep in each other’s arms; but her mysterious disappearances were confusing. After our nights together, most mornings, she was already gone when I blinked awake, with nothing but wrinkled sheets on her side of the bed. When I asked her why she was always MIA, she looked at me like I was a lead weight, dragging her down. “Because I’ve got ambition. I can’t sit around here all day waiting on you.” Being questioned or pinned down wasn’t her thing. She was a “fuck the rules” kinda girl and it was none of my business what she was doing or who she was with when she wasn’t around.
