It stung that Melody had called him a "size queen."
First of all, he wasn't no "size queen" in any possible way. "Size queen" was the kind of terminology homos tossed around.
Demarcus wasn't no "queen" regardless. Even if she intended to say "size king," which maybe she meant (although he had never heard anyone say it that way), it was a preposterous accusation. Second, if anyone was a "size queen" it was Melody herself. Or even more, her roommate Kayla.
It all had to do with a lingering gaze Demarcus had allowed himself at this random girl at the Saturday street fair in Ann Arbor. Late spring day, leaves on the trees grown suddenly green on the side of the closed-off, now pedestrian-only street, the white tents and awnings of the vendors set up with tables of fruits and vegetables, wares, knick-nacks of every description. Lots of local townsfolk were mixed in with the hordes of other University of Michigan students out to enjoy the welcome, warm spring air and take in the scene.
What was he supposed to do? Avert his eyes? Pretend he hadn't seen what was right in front him? Looking don't mean nothing, but he well understood that touching did. "Look, don't touch" - nothing wrong with that motto.
The blonde little hottie had luscious melons, no question, and the pair were hanging - falling out - of her white halter top. And those booty cheeks insinuating themselves past the confines of her frayed, cut-off jeans, the fat overhang of those dimpled cheeks out for anyone - anyone - to see? He was supposed to act like he was a eunuch?
Of course both her sets of attributes were bigger than usual, and everyone, you didn't need to be no "queen" or nothing, noticed things that were larger or otherwise more remarkable, that was just plain human nature.
Those cheeks though.
They rippled something nice as he turned his head to get a little longer view as he and Melody headed for the area with the food booths. The sharpness of Melody's elbow in his ribs caused a sudden intake of breath and brought him up short, and started the whole useless, unnecessary, fucking argument.
"Hey, just looking, that's all babe."
Melody's eyes flashed.
"Maybe you can be a little less obvious about it?" she snapped. "Maybe leave the drool inside your mouth?"
"Big set of tits and you lose your mind," she snorted. "Forget who you're walking with."
They went back and forth for several minutes, loud enough for folks to notice.
Melody was small herself, a good head shorter than Demarcus, with that tight waist, and those little squish-able, pointed boobs which reminded Demarcus of the little mini-footballs he and his brother used to toss around in the street before their hands were big enough to handle the regular article. He noted how the little beauties were nestled braless in her own low-cut blouse, not exactly invisible to anyone who wanted a look. He was about to point out this fact but decided against it.
He kept his voice lower than hers, but a couple people turned their heads to check out the argument. That's when the "size queen" accusation got hurled at him. Tall black dude and a tiny, blonde schoolgirl type with a normally sweet face when she wasn't all worked up - as a couple they got plenty of attention anyway, whether they wanted it or not.
He let the argument simmer a bit, offered enough defense to stand his ground, but even after her last rant subsided, he knew she was still annoyed.
They got some kebabs and sat down to eat on a side-walk curb. Things eased a little, and Demarcus considered it a lucky omen when Rachel and Roger, two university friends, joined them and diverted conversation a bit.
Nonetheless, after lunch he was happy to part from Melody on an errand, heading to the Apple store to return a defective smart-keyboard for his iPad. The walk might clear his head a bit, and separation, he hoped, might quiet matters between them, and maybe by the time he joined up back with her at her place for dinner, the rest of the weekend would go a little smoother.
But walking down South Main to the Briarwood Mall didn't do much calming. Instead his thoughts ran all over the place: why the damn university bookstore didn't carry the keyboard he wanted and he had had to order it from Apple, why the fucking thing didn't work right in the first place and he had to return it, his upcoming exam in Macroeconomics, the toughest course in his Finance major so far. He still found it difficult to let go of the argument completely.
Melody was a sweetheart, he knew it. She was usually kind and thoughtful and attentive, and Demarcus knew he didn't always treat her as well as he might. Some of it couldn't be helped, as a sophomore he had to bust to keep his GPA in territory that would lead to a good internship next summer or a job further down the road.
For the next few years he knew what the drill would be: interviews and cross-examinations with wealthy white entrepreneurs, corporate types, and money-makers, while being an African-American from the inner city was a huge barrier unless he found a way to turn it to his advantage. This meant a lot of his attention had to go - couldn't avoid going - somewhere besides Melody, and his girlfriend thus would be a temporary casualty. But there was no way he was going to do anything but move ahead.
Yes, Melody was a white girl from the suburbs, Bloomfield Hills no less, and had no real clue of what his home place, the Dexter Linwood area of Detroit, was like, and how hard he had had to work for what was easy and expected for dominant, entitled folks. But Demarcus had noted, even by his first year at university, that the "black brothers" had appeal to at least some subset of female students, and Melody was not the first white girl who had made her interests known, come onto him, made hitching up easy.
So he had been happy to be her "score" and had no complaints when he had the opportunity to watch her tiny little mouth with those skinny lips go to work on his tool, her blonde pony-tail bobbing while she held his balls in one hand, worshiped his cock with her slithering wet tongue, and made him cum. And she could do this more than once a night, one way or another, and there was nothing wrong with that.
Yet, still there was this residual size thing. It was crazy that she was calling him on "size." He remembered early on, not the first time they fucked, but soon after, when she confided that she had hoped he was "bigger."
"I thought when I landed a nice six-foot brother with a tight-end's body I'd get a big dick to match." Melody hadn't said this in a complaining tone, more as an observation, but her words had annoyed him and continued to echo around in his head. What sort of nonsense was this? Every black guy was supposed to have a monster python of a penis?
From that time on he made sure she never was disappointed. Fucked her hard even when she didn't want it that way, but there were no complaints.
All these thoughts crowded in on his head while walking to the store. He hoped he could clear his mind by the time he got back to Melody's place. Hoped she had calmed down too, these sorts of disagreements tended to interfere with the main business of the weekend, which was discharging as much sperm as possible into her, onto her, or around her one way or another.
