Читать книгу Love and a Gangsta - Erick S. Gray - Страница 8

1

Life is not always a matter

of holding good cards.

But sometimes playing a

poor hand well…

America

2006 Jamaica, Queens

Finally the day I thought about for four long years was here. In the shower, the water cascading off my brown skin, thinking about his touch made my nipples swell in anticipation. I remember his hands caressing me night after night. My thoughts left my thighs shaking in excitement

I wanted to be oh so fresh for him. I kept myself pure for years just because I love him. My girlfriends thought that I was crazy, going without dick for so long. When you’re strongly in love with a man why fuck another. I was longing for only one to be inside me. The thought of him coming back to me soon was sexual satisfying. Don’t get me wrong, I love sex, but if it wasn’t with Omar, then I was cool and did without until he returned.

Omar captured my heart the very first time we met. He was from the streets, but had a strong aura and I accepted him. Soon afterwards, he took my virginity and I wanted to have his babies.

On the streets, he was known as Soul. He rapped, played the piano, and the guitar. His musical gifts were phenomenal and he was a great dancer. Soul played basketball like he belonged in the pros. Most of all, he was a gentlemen. Despite his street reputation, my baby knew how to take care of me inside and outside the bedroom.

Omar wasn’t perfect. Like every other man on this planet, he had flaws. The streets possessed him, and sometimes hustling and hanging with his homeboys got in the way of his talents.

Soul was a crack dealer. He got into too many fights. He drank too much. A rumor was floating around the hood that he was cheating on me. I looked beyond his bad qualities and wanted us to be together forever. Soul was my first, and I wanted him to be my last.

I met him when I was fifteen and he was seventeen. Back then he’d hangout with his boys in front of the bodega on the corner of Supthin and South Road. Soul was hustling and getting into trouble like all the youths on the corner.

He was cute and his style was different from his peers. They wore their pants low and sagging off their butts, but Omar rocked khakis and wore his jeans with a belt. They sported Timberlands, but you would catch my baby in Gucci loafers or soft bottom shoes, sometimes he would wear a suit and wing tips. While his friends wore cornrows, Omar took a trip to the barbershop once a week and kept his low shadow in style. His boys wore jewelry like they took advice from Mr. T. Omar sported a thin gold chain and a small cross his mother had given him.

One cool summer day, Omar bumped into me as I was coming out of the bodega carrying groceries for my aunt. We locked eyes briefly. I remained silent and walked passed the same group of boys who lingered in front of the store on the daily. I was walking down the block and heard someone running behind me. Startled, I spun around and saw Omar jogging up to me.

“Hey hold up, youngin’.”

“Youngin’?” I snapped. “Please, you’re barely older than me.”

“Yo, let me carry that for you,” he chuckled.

“Why?” I answered reluctantly.

“It would be the polite thing to do. Besides, you’re too small to be carrying that huge bag.”

“I was doing fine for half a block without your help. Does it look like I’m struggling?”

“Yo, you got some mouth. How old are you?” He smiled.

“Old enough.”

“You feisty, girl. I like that,” he countered.

“Whateva!” I said, walking away.

Omar was persistent. He then said, “Being a man, I’m not going to let you carry these bags to your crib by yourself. My mama raised me better than that.”

“Oh, she did, huh? And did she teach you about harassment too?”

“Harassment? Yo, why you coming at me like that, shorty? I’m just tryin’ to help you?”

I stared at him with a grim look.

“You don’t trust me, huh? I look like a guy who’s gonna take your bag, huh?” He asked with the warmest smile. It spread from ear to ear and was contagious.

“See, there’s that smile I was lookin’ for.”

“Oh just shut up about it,” I joked.

He took the bags from me and we walked side by side to my home. I was attracted to the swagger of this lanky six-foot frame cut with six-pack abs and nice arms. He wore denim shorts, wife-beater, sporting new red and white Jordan’s.

“So what’s your name, beautiful?”

His onyx eyes went around my curves. He licked his full lips. I paused not wanting to tell him. My mother, before she passed away, named me America. It sounded patriotic, but I dreaded the first day of school when the teachers would do roll call. They would reach America and I saw the perplexed look on their faces. It was as if they weren’t reading it right.

“America…?” Teachers used to ask incredulously.

All the kids would laugh. The first week of school, my name would be the butt of everyone’s joke. That was the only thing they could joke about with me because I was cute, and popular with the boys and some of the girls liked me.

“My name’s America, okay?”

I was waiting for him to laugh. Surprisingly, he didn’t.

“I like that, America… God bless America,” he said.

I smiled.

Omar stayed awhile when we got to my crib, and I took the groceries to my aunt. We talked for hours that day and many more. Soon, we became inseparable. He became my heart. We spent days together, talking, laughing, and falling in love with each other.

My thoughts were with him everyday of his incarceration. I visited him often trying to keep his mind at ease and reminded him what he had waiting for him when he got out. I couldn’t wait to nestle in his arms again. Part of me was missing every day without him. I yearned for his touch, and to feel his breath against mines. I hungered for our bodies to be entwined, and for him to devour me. My pussy throbbed uncontrollably, and my panties were saturated with escaping juices thinking of him.

I was trying to cool off in the shower, but it got no better. I was so fucking horny there was an ache in my body that refused to leave. It got intense because in less than twenty-four hours my baby will be loving every curve, shape and inch of me until my pussy put him to sleep.

Four years of waiting, and being faithful to my boo. I sighed ready to explode. This scene had repeated so many times, I lost count of how many times I masturbated alone in the dark with the toys I had purchased over the years. Visions of Omar grinding and gyrating between my legs kept rewinding in my mind. Many nights I had stayed up sleepless, thinking of Omar, a pillow between my thighs while fondling my tits.

There were many nights of long cold showers. Being horny and alone without my man around was a most unbearable situation. I’d pour my pain into songs and poems, many days and evenings. The words were so emotional, repeating them filled me with sadness and became unbearable.

I smiled removing the showerhead and putting one leg up on the porcelain tub. Then I positioned the spurting water next to my animated kitty-cat, setting the speed just right as the water rushed against my pulsating pussy. Moans escaped my lips and I moved my free hand in between my thighs, masturbating my clit. Moving my fingertips faster in a circular motion, I was losing control. The spurting water against my over-excited pussy lips did the trick.

“Ah, hmm… Hmm. Ooh yeah! Oh God, I missed you so much, dear Omar,” I cried, having an explosive orgasm.

Thoughts of my man making love to me were embedded in my mind. His dick prints were etched on my vagina walls and made me feel like he was inside. But tonight there’d be no further need for pretension. My man finally will be home after four long years of keeping his pussy pure and tight. I peed while my lips purred.