I was hoping he'd call the next day, at least in the evening after his work was done, but he didn't. He didn't call the next day—Thursday—either, so I bit the bullet and called him that evening. He answered, and I made sure we were still "on" for dinner on Friday. He said he might not be able to get there until about 7 p.m., and I said that would be fine.
"Do you like pot roast?" I said. I didn't want to assume that he was just a meat-and-potatoes guy, but what man (aside from a vegetarian) doesn't like pot roast?
He sounded enthusiastic. "You bet!"
"Good. Pot roast with all the fixings it is." Then, after a pause: "Dwayne, you'll stay the weekend, won't you?"
"Sure," he said, but there was hesitation in his voice. "If you want me to."
"Of course I want you to, you silly man! So bring some changes of clothing. Can you stay till Monday morning?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"Good. I'll see you here tomorrow then."
He showed up pretty much on schedule that Friday evening, and I had pot roast with potatoes and vegetables, a salad with all kinds of things in it, and—beer. I had made a special trip to the grocery store to stock up on some good beer, some of it imported and some of it some local IPAs. I hoped to heaven he was at least something of a beer connoisseur and not a guy who just wanted Bud Light or Miller. Thankfully, he was, and he gave me a warm hug to express his appreciation.
That weekend was a blur—it seemed to go by so fast. We had meals at home and meals outside (not anyplace fancy, of course—but several cuts above McDonald's or Denny's), walked around in parks when weather permitted, caught a movie at a nearby cineplex, and did all kinds of other things that couples getting to know each other—but perhaps not ones who had already been so physically intimate—tended to do. It was a dream, and I have to say that Dwayne's enthusiasm and stamina were nothing to complain about.
There was one time—I think it was late on a Saturday afternoon, after we'd just come back from an outing—that Dwayne began to stare at me as I was tidying up in the living room. His expression was unreadably blank, and it was making me a little nervous.
"Dwayne," I said, "is something wrong?"
He said nothing, but just continued to gaze at me.
"What's the matter, Dwayne?" I cried. "What's gotten into you?"
He walked slowly over to me, made me put down whatever was in my hand (I think it was a little liqueur glass that we'd used the night before), and then led me silently to the back of the sofa.
"Dwayne, come on," I said. "Tell me what you want."
He did, but without speaking. He gently bent me over the sofa, so that my face was almost down to the cushions, while my legs were hanging over the back. I finally realized what was happening, although I could scarcely believe it. There was not the least violence or force in his actions, but as he calmly lifted up my pleated skirt and pulled my panties down to my knees, I said:
"Oh, Dwayne, you can't be serious! Right here? Right now?"
Yes on both counts. He first knelt down and shoved his face into the crack of my bottom until he found my sex, which was already getting wet with anticipation. You've got to remember that he'd already done me about three times the night before, but evidently that wasn't enough. He licked me all over (including, I'm embarrassed to say, my anus), and then, standing up, unzipped his pants and let them fall to the floor. He entered me slowly and gently, then almost at once began pounding me so hard that we both grunted in tandem to his thrusts. At one point he took one finger and inserted it into my anus. Frankly, if he had pulled out of my pussy and plugged my ass with his cock, I probably wouldn't have minded; I was already dizzy and disoriented with both desire and confusion, and perhaps I might not even have noticed. But he respected my wishes and, aside from that finger, left my bottom alone.
But as he seemed prepared to finish, he abruptly pulled out, seized me by the shoulders, forced me to spin around and fall to my knees, and shoved his cock into my mouth. His come went mostly into my mouth, although some of it fell onto my cheek and one stream even went up into my hair.
After he was done, he pulled me up and held me. I clung to him, being pretty unsteady on my feet. After I'd gotten control of myself, I said:
"I have to cook dinner, you naughty man. And you"—I pointed to him accusingly—"you wash your mouth out right now."
And I rearranged my clothes and stalked into the kitchen.
Don't get the impression it was all sex. I remember just sitting in a park—something like the one we're sitting in right now, Nina—with the warm late summer sun beating down on us. I felt so at peace with the world that I could have stayed there forever, Dwayne by my side. We just held hands, like some old married couple, and felt no need of words. It was one of the moments I'll treasure forever.
That Sunday night, I sensed such an overwhelming tidal wave of emotion flowing over me that, after a particularly strenuous bout of lovemaking, I lay panting on top of him, the sweat from both our bodies mingling and making us slip and slide a bit as I clung to him. In my post-coital exhaustion I could scarcely get the words out; but I held his head in both my hands and cried:
"Oh, Dwayne . . . I love you . . . I love you so much!"
His only response was to give me a look that suggested I was some kind of apparition that had suddenly come up from hell to plague him.
Maybe I was imprudent in saying those words so soon. I mean, we'd hadn't even known each other a full week! But I couldn't help myself: I felt as if I was going to burst if I didn't say them. But I may have compounded my error by further babbling:
"Dwayne, dear, I don't expect you to say it back to me—not now, not ever. I just feel so much for you! I've never felt this way about any man, and never expect to again. You mean the world to me, Dwayne, and I just hope we can go on being together and getting to know each other. You're such a treasure—I never want you out of my life."
It was all silly and even a little degrading, almost as if I were saying, "I hope you'll let me love you." But I was truly besotted. And yet, I was convinced it wasn't just an infatuation; what I felt for him was true and genuine.
At least he didn't bolt from the scene like a frightened rabbit. Uneasy as he was with my little speech, he just held me close and rubbed my back—and, of course, my bottom. That was enough for me.
And so we began a pattern whereby he could come by for dinner (and spend the night) on Wednesday, then come over Friday evening and stay till Monday morning. This schedule worked pretty well for both of us. I also began very gradually introducing him to my friends, most of them married couples about my age. I had to be pretty careful with that—not because he was black (none of my friends cared a whit about that), but because I feared that at times we might venture into conversational topics that might make him uncomfortable. But try as I might, there were still times when he lapsed into a sort of moody and resentful silence as my friends and I chattered away. I desperately sought to turn the discussion back to something he could contribute to, but sometimes it seemed as if he was just determined to stay silent.
That said, I think my friends did like him as a whole. Maybe they were just glad I was with
somebody,
since most of them knew I hadn't had a boyfriend for a while. And I think they also noticed my own rosy complexion and general cheerfulness and attributed a large part of that to Dwayne. One of them had the bad taste to say with a chuckle, "It's a wonder what regular sex will do for one's disposition."
But Dwayne resolutely refused to let me come over to his house; I didn't even know where it was. After a couple of months, I told him this was really ridiculous and that he really should invite me over to his place. With sullen resignation he finally did so, claiming that he could make a meal for me as a tiny recompense for all the meals I'd cooked for him at my house. So he told me where he lived, and I was to head over there on a Wednesday night.
The address he had given was in South Seattle, and of course it was in the part of town where African Americans mostly congregated. I didn't feel any discomfort being in that neighborhood, although it saddened me to see that most of the houses were pretty old and in some cases a bit dilapidated. Dwayne's house was a small one—only two bedrooms and one bath—down a side street, and when I entered it I saw that it too could have used some renovation. It also could have used a feminine touch, as it was almost entirely devoid of paintings on the wall or other ornaments that signified a home rather than just a place where someone slept. It was pretty clear, from the way Dwayne refused to look me in the face as he let me in, that he was ashamed of having me see how he lived; but there was also a paradoxical defiance in his expression, as if he were saying,
I'm damned if I'm going to live anywhere else!
Dwayne, incongruously, wanted to prepare barbecued ribs for me, even though it was now November and there was no chance he could fire up the grill in his back yard. But he contrived to set up a little grill on his stove, and he began the work of cooking the ribs with all the care and precision of a surgeon conducting a delicate operation. He also made mashed potatoes (out of a mix—but with some interesting additions to enhance the flavor) and some baked beans (out of a can—but, again, with the addition of barbecue sauce that made it quite tasty). It was a fine, if heavy, meal, and I enjoyed it to the full.
Dwayne, with naïve pride, provided me with some red wine, as I'd said I generally preferred red to white. He had chilled the wine. I didn't have the heart to tell him you didn't do that with red wine; and when, after initially filling my glass, he was about to put the bottle back in the fridge, I told him just to leave it there, as I'd probably want another glass. In fact, the wine didn't taste half bad chilled.
After dinner was over, I said, "You do want me to stay the night, don't you?"
"Yeah, of course," he said.
"Good. I've brought a change of clothing with me." In fact, I'd only brought some fresh underwear, figuring that my co-workers wouldn't know or care that I was wearing the same clothes that I'd worn the previous day. Most of them knew about Dwayne, anyway.
But that was the last time I was ever at his house.
At some point I suggested to Dwayne that he should move in with me, but he violently rejected that idea. I couldn't come out and say, "Dwayne, I have a much nicer house than you, so why not just move in?" But I did say:
"Dearest, you spend a lot of time at my house anyway, and I hope you feel at home there. Don't you?"
"Yeah," he said, but he didn't sound at all convincing.
"It's silly to keep up two houses, isn't it? I mean, we
are
a couple, aren't we?"
"Sure." But that wasn't said with resounding confidence either.
"You aren't planning on leaving me anytime soon?" I teased.
"No, 'course not."
