The slender arm stretched out. The wrist furrowed through crumpled bed sheets. The calm afternoon sun coated the slightly Asian, slightly tanned skin. The black, smooth hair was strewn all over the pillow. The face was buried somewhere deep underneath in hypo-allergenic goose feathers. A foot, colored lighter than the rest of the body, kicked up a blanket sleeve to snuggle under. The other knee was pulled up high, partly to get a refreshing stretch for limps that had been lying too hard and partly too lazy to move it into a more comfortable position.
Black lace panties drew ornamental shades on her butt, that tender, compact twenty-five-year-old butt. An all-encompassing back tattoo was painted on the back. A Buddha on red petals was meditating. A series of waxing moons was inked with deep black into the fresh skin. The vertical Japanese kanji writing flowed down her spine. A rising Chinese-red sun promised a future and rising power.
Her fingers crawled under her hair and scratched the roots vigorously to stimulate her scalp into throwing off the slumber. The wood covered clock with the large digital letters on the nightstand said 2:30 PM. She pushed her arms straight. Her spine was stretched back into cobra pose. Her shoulder blades poked out. The young skin slenderly wrapped around the elevated shoulder blades. The shoulder blades were like a crust of bread lifted out of a cheese fondue. The skin was pulled like cheese string. Her ribs revealed themselves. The belly was a tiny handful in front of her spine.
Her face was puffy. Her bare feet plashed on the worn hardwood floor. The place was still a mess. The brown leather Doc Marten's, knee high boots, were still lying on the floor with the long laces undone and running across the floor in a wild maze. The tree in front of her window fluttered its leaves. She walked to the closet with the antic door. Half the things were lying on its floor.
She pulled tight shorts out of the pile. She wiggled the black fabric over her butt. The tights went a hand width beneath her butt. She folded a black bra over her tender Japanese sized boobs. Her eyes looked like that of a white girl. Her eyes were dark and dominating like a Filipino. Her tan was lightened by Dominican blood. She threw a short dress with a motif over her head. She clipped big golden hoop rings into her ear and shook her hair out.
Dressed in wooden wedges, she banged down the stairs of the old walkup. The day was quiet, because everyone was at work or at school. She got on the rusty bike with the big black seat that was spring loaded. The handles were bent parallel to the bike frame for comfort. She kicked the bike to speed standing high on the petals. The fresh air hit her puffy, sleepy face. The airstream played with the strands of her luxurious hair. The pink plastic bike propeller happily spun on the handlebar. The parked cars on the empty side street passed her by.
Down Roscoe, left on Burlington, and stop at 422 Woodroe. She jumped off her bike. She walked it across the walkway through the center of the front lawn. She stopped to bend over and pick up a daisy. The dress rode up to reveal a bit more of her skin-tight black shorts. With a smile of Hawaiian peace and innocent joy, she ran up the stairs, round and round until she reached the fourth floor.
She banged on the steel door. The steel door slid open. A curly haired black male leaned against the door post, the bare chest shining in the afternoon sun, polished muscles, creamy-rich chocolate skin color, big lips, and dreamy smile. He only had pajama drawstring pants around his waist. They were blue, striped, and made from combed cotton. "Yo, what's up, dirty," riffed his scratchy voice.
"Hidin' any hoes in there, babe," Jhene said with a fake tone and big make-pretend eyes looking past the man's shoulders.
Still taking up the entire door space with his full body and arm leaning against the door post, he cooly replied, "Yeah, got a couple under the bed. One's behind the couch. But she might have jumped out of the window by now. Oh, also got one hiding in the fridge. She's mighty cold with no clothes at all."
Her hands caressed over his pumped deltoids. They wrapped around his neck. She jumped her legs around him. The ankles scissored into a tight lock. For a second, Gambino staggered into a wider stance. Then, he walked away from the door carrying the girl half his weight swaddled around his body. He rolled the metal door shut. He walked past the polished kitchen counter. Her lips were caressing up his neck in many mini-kisses.
He grabbed the glass bong from the kitchen counter and walked to the couch. A packet of marijuana buds was on the coffee table. The windows behind the couch were tall. The apartment was tall, almost tall enough to call it a loft. Tasteful accents of metal graving and treated wood highlighted the open kitchen space. He let himself fall backward on the couch. Jhene was kneeling on top of him, resting her hands on his chest.
"I love pretty things," she moaned at him.
"Got some boo boo bama from Cambodia," said Gambino. He was rolling herb in his fingers behind her back. He was peering past her shoulder and ignoring her index finger playing with the skin on his face. She poked at his cheeks and ran her fingers down his nose to stop at the tip and push it flat. He placed the groomed bud down on the bong.
"Ain't you overdressed, girl," he said and pulled the hem of her dress up over her head. Submissive like a dove, she raised her arms to let herself get undressed.
She squeezed his nipples and twisted them. "Do you like that," she asked. He swatted her fingers away to continue setting up the bong. "Oooh," she exclaimed with an excited face and twisted his nipples again, only harder this time. "Ou," cried Gambino out. "Let it be woman!" The excitement in her face grew. She squeezed one nipple even tighter. Then, she smacked her hand away with the free end. Excited to see the reaction of a vice grip ripped away, she stared at him with big eyes. "Ou," Gambino cried again, "what is it with you women that you always like pulling hair, squeezing pimples, and shit?"
He leaned forward to put his lips around the big glass pipe and suck bubbles into it. With a big sigh, he let the smoke waft out of his mouth, while leaning back. "Hit this girl! You are way too frisky," instructed Gambino. "That's right! Just use drugs to tune out," replied Jhene. She took the bong out of his hand, while still straddling him, she took a deep, long lung inhale out of the bong. Then, she put her lips in a wide O around his. While she slowly exhaled into him, she felt her lungs being emptied by him. Like the slow roast of a dragon, the smoke streamed out of his nostrils. His eyes glazed over and reddened.
She took another hit and slowly hovered her opened mouth all over his chest and belly, covering him in soft smoke. Then, she jumped on her feet on top of the couch. Her crotch was at his face level. She bounced her butt left and right. "We need music!" she hollered. "Why does this shit never mellow you out," complained Gambino. "At least, we gotta get you out of this clothes." His hand pulled down the center of her shorts. She let herself be undressed docile like a lamb. "You are such a horn dog, always!" she dished right back.
