While this story involves a black woman and a white man, I chose not to categorize it as interracial. Their coming together had nothing to do with the color of their skin, and everything to do with attraction and the plain, human desire for sexual connection.
It was one of those serendipitous moments confirming that nothing in life happens by chance. I was on my way to a conference in New Orleans, a favorite place for fun and frivolity. While it rarely happens, that day the plane was over-booked and they accepted volunteers to wait for a later flight through Miami. As I wasn't expected in New Orleans till late that evening, it was no loss and some airline travel dollars gained.
Several hours later we landed in Miami and transferred to the New Orleans flight. As I had volunteered for re-routing, the airline bumped me up to first class. Those who travel know there are advantages to that first class seat. You get on early and have a drink before take-off; you get off first, and there's a wildly better meal. So there I was, coolly sitting in first class, sipping champagne watching the passengers go by.
I'll admit I'm a people-watcher. I love to watch people and find great delight in the diversity they present. Whether you're a man or woman, you've probably experienced this yourself – an attractive person walks by, you share momentary eye contact and there's an immediate connection. She was a pretty, young, black woman, plainly dressed in a white golf shirt and khakis. Her hair fell softly in curled strands to her shoulders, charmingly framing a glowing face. She had a wonderful smile and an aura exuding sensuality, despite her frumpy attire. But she filed passed me to the nether regions of the plane while I remained comfortably sipping bubbly up front, nothing exchanged between us but a smile.
Now, I'm not the kind of man who looks at an attractive woman and thinks, "Man, I'd love to take her to bed." But something in that fleeting glance had me flush with lustful feelings. I dismissed them, knowing I would be off the plane and busy at a conference and never see this woman again. I love being wrong!
The next days passed uneventfully. I attended conference sessions, chatted with contacts, visited exhibitors, collecting T-shirts and other equally useless items. It was Tuesday evening and a software vendor was taking a group of clients, myself included, to dinner. It was a marvelous meal with good wine and quiet conversation. After dinner we wandered Bourbon Street, taking in the great jazz and drinking a bit more than the evening required.
New Orleans will do that to you. It is a city of excess, where it seems perfectly natural for women to bare their breasts in exchange for fifty-cent beads, and men to consider topless clubs fine entertainment. You either love New Orleans or it frightens you, but there is rarely an in-between. I love it for its joie de vivre, its in-your-face sensuality, and the never-ending party.
Finally, I had reached the point where bed and sleep beckoned far more than another round of drinks. I left the group and began walking down Bourbon Street in the direction of my quaint little hotel on Chartres. As I'm walking along – well, you already know – who is coming in the other direction but my close encounter of the best kind from the plane! She is being harmlessly pursued by one of the New Orleans street people. Being ever the gallant gentleman, I stopped to say hello as we caught each other's eye. She smiled and took my arm saying, "Let's get a drink!" Wonderful! All thoughts of sleep vanished in roused memories of our sensual connection.
We wandered into a little corner bar with three musicians playing sweet jazz. I love a guitar trio, and these guys were liquid music. We sipped our drinks and chatted nonchalantly about the conference, about life, old loves, all the while moving physically closer. She would touch my hand as we talked, I would reach over to brush something from her hair, the small intimacies that promised more.
"How old are you?" I asked. I am almost 50, but have been told I don't look it. Still, I'm no Adonis and was surprised by the attention of this attractive woman.
"I'm 36. Why? Does it matter?" she responded.
"No, I was just curious. You look much younger. You know, when you walked past me on the plane I hoped we would meet again. I felt an inexplicable connection."
"I was drawn to you as well." she replied, "There was something in your eyes and your smile that attracted me."
Now we were close to each other, fingers gently caressing hands on the table as soft music swirled seductively about us. Thank goodness it was New Orleans and 1997, where a white man and a black woman quietly becoming intimate with each other are less likely to draw intolerant stares and ignorant remarks.
"May I kiss you?" I asked, as our hinted intimacies grew bolder.
"Uhhmm, I would like that." she replied and leaned over to me. I tenderly brushed her lips with mine, kissing softly but with feeling. She responded and placed her hand on my thigh, pulling closer and letting her tongue play inside my mouth.
In spite of what you've read, women don't usually like the "trying to taste my lunch" kisses men so often think is passionate. A woman's passion builds more slowly. A gentle kiss encouraging her to be the aggressor will often raise her level of excitement. Willy was ready for this role and her kisses foretold sweet things to follow.
We chatted a bit longer, now holding hands, occasionally leaning closer to let our lips and tongues explore. "Come to my room with me?" I asked tentatively. She smiled and got to her feet, leading me by the hand into the nightly tumult of Bourbon Street. As we walked down the side streets toward my hotel we held each other close, letting the heat of our bodies meld us together. I could feel her voluptuous breast against my arm and found my body responding to the thought of this beautiful woman naked against me.
