The Things You Don't Now

I went to college in the Southwest (and this is now decades ago), in the desert, on a sprawling campus of more than 10,000 students. I was a semi-poor kid, cobbling together tuition with grants and loans and still had to work my way through -- as a tutor. On occasion, during breaks, I could fly home, though. One winter break I did, and on the flight back I saw the most incredible girl. She had the creamiest dark skin, full rich lips, and a cascade of dark hair that spilled over her shoulders.

Straight up, I was a smart kid, especially verbally gifted. I also was consumed with lust to an almost pathological degree. By college I had been through a couple dozen girls -- yeah, I was a male slut.

But I had never been with a black girl -- and this one was astonishing. Every once in a while the universe smiles on you and on a plane your seat mate is not the fat Mormon missionary or the grandmother from Topeka. That day it was Alicia. From South Carolina. Studying (I learned later) finance. She was small, maybe five feet tall and a hundred pounds soaking wet. She was wearing all white, gossamer blouse and white toreador pants (very retro). I have a thing about feet and hers were long and slender, exquisitely pedicured with nasty magenta toenail polish and ensconced in white leather sandals. I was leafing through a men's magazine, it's quarterly style edition. I leaned over.

"Which of these shirts do you prefer?"

No preamble, just a casual intrusion. She nibbled.

"The Tuscan yellow is nice. Unusual."

We talked. She told me where she lived.

It was Saturday, three days later, the new semester yet to begin. I walked to her place (just ten minutes from my apartment) and showed up unannounced.

"Ain't you something?" she said when she opened the door.

I shrugged. "There is no time like the present."

She told me her parents' house was not far away. She told me they were back in South Carolina. She told me she liked tequila.

Two hours later the desert sun was setting, and we were sipping tequila. Her parents' home was a sprawling Southwestern-style affair with a natural rock pool. We were immediately electrified. She whispered to me: "I've never done the I.R. Thing."

The I.R. Thing. The Inter-Racial Thing. Sweet Jesus.

How I loved plunging my tongue between her teeth, slipping off the cut-off jeans a hot-pink tee she wore, running my hands over that perfect black-girl ass. Her midsection was poetry, hard and creamy, and I worked my tongue over her prefect hard nipples. She had a Southern girl giggle, and then deftly unzipped me, slid off my jeans, and took me in her mouth. She stopped abruptly.

"There's something I like...."

In the living room was a thick Santa Fe-style carpet, a long, rough-hewn wood dining table, a Georgia O'Keefe on the wall, and an ornate, eight-foot mirror. She positioned my in front of that mirror.

She put a finger to her lips and ran to the kitchen. She returned with sliced pineapple, red grapes, and more tequila over ice. She fed me, then, after sipping tequila, leaned over me and took me in her mouth, staring at herself in the mirror.

I am watching now, too, her beautiful dark eyes staring as she runs her tongue along my shaft, then takes my head between those perfect lips. She seems to really enjoy watching herself suck cock, stroking me, making me quiver, edging me. She does this hot round-the-world-thing, then cups me, flattening her tongue on me, working her way up. She gets this nasty, determined look on her face, like someone facing a difficult job that, when done, she will take pride in, and she takes me deep. I am pulsating and can feel my heart beating in my chest. I reach down and brush my fingers over her perfect, smooth caramel pussy. She gets wet. I part her lips. She's sticky-wet, now. I am watching her tongue, her teeth, her lips, dripping all over my hardness, now, and I cannot help myself. I push her backward, hungrily, just this side of violently, and put my face in that warm, smooth pussy. I am feeling animal, now, and tongue-fuck her, to which she responds with first a surprised squeal, then a prolonged nasty moan. I am alternately licking and stroking her delicate folds, Georgia O'Keefe,

I stood. I wrapped my arms around her, our sweat-slick chests meeting. I reached behind her and cupped that delicious ass with both hands. I lifted her up, and she wrapped her self around me, open pussy waiting, and I slid into her. I feel this incredible vertical swell, and pump into her, holding her upright and passionately kissing those lovely lips.

Where did the impulse come from?

I don't know. I am fucking this gorgeous, Southern black girl, evidently her first taste of "The I.R. Thing." Carrying her, I am moving across the living room. I move to the double glass doors, I can't stop thrusting, push them open with a deft move of my right hand, and out to the backyard, beside the pool where I lay her down and furiously fuck her, my fingers in her hair, sweat dripping from my chin to fall between those caramel breasts. The pool water glimmers and waves, the desert stars glitter. I am in a frenzy, then slow, then vertiginous, then tender, then animal. I discover something in me I cannot name, but I cannot stop, or think. I am relentless, and so is she. Her pussy grips me like a vise, then lets go, then grips, then she disengages and falls on me, taking me deep into her mouth, hungry, nasty, beautiful.

When I let go it happens in a series of shuddering, cascading spurts, eight or nine spasmodic bursts, sticky white all over her, on her breasts and over her mouth from which, eyes closed, she delicately takes a strand and dabs it between her lips to taste me.

There is a moment of semi-quiet save for our mutual panting. A soft sound comes from her. I realize it is a quiet giggle that grows into full-throated laughter.

"Excuse me?"

I nod, perplexed.

She grabs her cell phone and places a call.

"Girl? It's me. You have got to get yourself a white man. They do it outside."