With apologies to Glee, I was inspired to write this story by Amber Riley's rendition of "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." Enjoy!
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I was laying in bed. Alone. On a Sunday morning.
Now some of you might say I should be at church, but I'm glad to say I was working to the late hours last night, getting my work done. So it's a lot to ask for me to get my lazy bum out of bed on a Sunday morning.
Grumbling slightly, I rolled over and looked at the clock. Nine-thirty, almost ten o'clock in the morning.
I tried to roll over on my tummy, but I couldn't, because of my strong erection.
Normally my girlfriend Mercedes would be here to help me get rid of this erection. But this morning at least, she wasn't here.
I figured she was at church with her family. I didn't begrudge her time with her family at all. My dick disagreed.
I was about to take matters into my own hands, so to speak, when I heard the front door being unlocked. Less than a minute later, Mercedes herself entered my bedroom.
And she was pissed off.
I could tell by the way her flip flops hit the floor quick and hard. Even with her sunglasses on I could tell she was Pissed Off with a capital PO.
Silently, she came in the room and threw her little white leather draw string purse on my dresser with a hard sigh.
I said, "You're back early."
Mercedes smiled at me as she stared into the mirror above my dresser. "Yes."
But her smile had a strained quality to it.
I took a minute to compose my words, as I gazed at Mercedes. She was short and built like an hourglass, but not fat, wearing a white strapless floor-length dress and pink flip-flops that contrasted beautifully with her chocolate-milk skin. Her long shiny black hair was done in curls that brushed her soft brown shoulders and cascaded down her silky back. The only jewelry she wore was a tiny gold cross on a long gossamer thin fine-gauge gold chain.
Oh yeah, guess I should mention that Mercedes is black. African-American. And hot.
And I'm white. Quite caucasian. Five-ten. Blond hair. Green eyes.
Mercedes and I have been dating for several months now. And during those several months she has had to endure ocasional snide remarks from her family, mostly from her father.
I feel responsible.
So even as Mercedes sighed hard, with her hands flat on the dresser, I took a careful breath and said, "Do you want to talk about it, hon?"
"Not really, baby." Her voice, which was usually so soft and silky yet still husky, was sad and heavy.
"Let me guess - you were treated to more sermons about how evil I am because of my white skin and your relationship with me is akin to sleeping with the enemy?"
Mercedes smiled and almost laughed, despite herself. This time the smile reached her eyes. "Yes. That's exactly what happened. And so I walked out of church today."
From laying flat on my back with my hands clasped behind my head, I sat up a little. "No way."
She turned away from the mirror and nodded. "Way. For the first time in my life. I couldn't stand my father's hypocrisy. Talking about God and reading passage from the Bible all about inclusiveness, while he can't stand to see people of two different races together."
"How does the rest of your family feel about us?"
Mercedes considered that for a moment.
"That's a good question. I think most of them are OK with it. They just don't want to come out and say so either way, and possibly disagree with my father. God forbid they should disagree with my father."
I grinned at her dry, sarcastic tone. But my grin faded quickly. "I'm sorry."
That made her take off her shades. "What on earth do you have to be sorry for?"
Her voice had softened.
"All this drama with your pops. Sometimes I feel responsible."
Mercedes took the three steps necessary to cross the room, and she sat on my bed.
Then she looked at me, placing her right hand flat on my chest, her fingers spread apart, showing off her long peach fingernails.
"Zachary. Baby. Look at me." Her voice was patient and affectionate.
I raised my head to gaze into those soft brown eyes.
"Don't you ever feel responsible for what my father says. Yes, I'll grant you, I've had to deal with more than my fair share of drama these last few months. But don't you ever feel like any of this is your fault. My father is the only one responsible for his behavior."
I smiled, faintly. "Thanks."
"And besides which, the comments I get from Daddy would have to get downright evil for me to consider leaving you."
I smiled wider this time. "Really?"
Mercedes ran her nails through my wheat-blond hair and smiled back affectionately. "Really, baby. There's no way I'm living without you."
My grin reappeared. "Is that right?"
