Embellishment #27
I'm in love with a beautiful black man.
His skin is smooth and dark like that of a ripe cherry; rugged with poetry. His hands are calloused, but warm in the form of a handshake. Veins scatter from his wrists, across his forearms, biceps, shoulders and finally, plunge into his thick neck.
He works in the sun, his head becoming a shining dome of perspiration by day's end. His uniform consists of old jeans and sleeveless t-shirts. But sometimes, he wears shorts, exposing his defined calves and thighs. On days when the heat is relentless, he will take off his shirt; his body blossoming into a dark beauty of sweat.
I can watch him all day - and usually do. From my bedroom window, I study his body as he works in my aunt's backyard. I scrutinize his every move; noticing the scar on his lower back and the way his buttocks flex when he reaches for tools and distant materials.
He arrives every weekday morning before I awake. After my aunt bathes me, I sit at my bedroom window to slowly eat breakfast and daydream. Sometimes, I picture him as a graceful African warrior, sometimes a soldier. Occasionally, when he pauses to wipe his brow with the back of his wrist, I imagine him as my lover. I'll imagine all of this before noon, when I move into the kitchen for lunch.
Lunch is the only time that I can get close enough to touch him; though I never touch him. I listen to his breathing and gaze into his lucid, chestnut eyes. By lunch, he is ravenous. And sometimes, I pretend that it's me, not food, that he really desires. In mist afternoons, he is silent. After washing his hands he retreats to the backporch to eat, and is gone in less than an hour. But some days he is lighthearted and engages me in conversation. I relish these rare moments.
Depending on the topic, he will nod, grunt or rarer still, smile, revealing pearlescent teeth. When I related how I ended up in a wheelchair he stared at me for an uncomfortable length of time before replying, "I see."
After he returns to the yard, I retreat to my bedroom to write in my diary. I write two entries a day: The day's actual occurrences and an embellishment. The day's actual occurrences is a sketchy outline that I quickly scribble down in about ten minutes. The embellishment, filled with dreams and wishes, can take over an hour for me to complete; after which I am spent. This is when I take a nap and dream; dream of my African warrior, my soldier, my lover.
It is another summer afternoon and I sit at my window, watching. Today, he is bare-chested, scraping the old paint form my aunt's garage. It is a task which proves to be surprisingly engrossing and sexual for me. He's been at it all morning and pauses to wipe his brow with the back of his wrist - like he has many times before. But this time, he catches my stare and smiles that evasive smile. My heart teeters as I retreat form the window into the kitchen to help prepare lunch.
But my aunt isn't home. On the kitchen table, she has left a note an lunch for two. Lunch for two; I should be so lucky. The back door slams on schedule, and he walks into the kitchen, hardened and shiny from today's labor. I sheepishly nod a salutationas he walks behind me to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. The dimples of his ass are so close tome now. I look up, unexpectedly, into his face. Vague and seasoned, yet inviting. He reaches his wet right hand to me ear and smiles. Ignoring my embarrassment, he bends down to my wheelchair. We are face to face, this beautiful black man and I.
I want to kiss him but I'm afraid. He knows this, so he kisses me instead. His lips are textured and ample; a hungry vacuum of breath and saliva. He swallows my mouth in one paralyzing motion. I grab the back of his slick, bald head as his meaty tongue frantically invades my mouth.
Abruptly, he pulls away, smiling. Vividly I see his naked frame before me. Erect nipples highlight his heaving chest, aching for my lips to caress them. I oblige his pectorals without further coaxing. He moans satisfaction, breathing down my neck. I bathe his tight skin with my tongue, stopping at his bitter navel.
We walk to the backporch where I unbutton his denim cutoffs. A humid breeze of musk rushes up to my nostrils. His meat is before me; a thick, sweating shaft, dominated by a swollen vein. The purple head of his penis peeks out of leathered foreskin, shedding a semen tear. I close my eyes and swallow, gently pushing the skin back and accepting his meat. His rich musty flavor fills my mouth. What a wonderful taste this Black man has. A rich, musty flavor.
His hips sway, ever so gently to my rhythm. In, he thrusts and out, he pulls. His dick swells and throbs with blood and semen. I slurp loudly as he snatches his dick out and slaps my face, spreading saliva across my cheeks. He forces my face into his nappy public hair. I slobber and choke, desperately wanting to swallow every drop of his seed. His thrusts quicken preparing to flood my throat with his lust. My eyes tear a I widen my lips to accommodate.
The back door slams, jerking me awake. I'm still in my chair, bewildered and moist from my dream. The sun still shines brightly, but the long shadows reveal the true hour. It's evening and he is gone; home to his wife and daughter. I sigh heavily and wheel myself to the bathroom, knowing I will see him tomorrow; when I will watch, and write, and dream of him, again.