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Mr. Living on the Edge (Or "Is it true what they say about black guys?")
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Mr. Living on the Edge (Or "Is it true what they say about black guys?") It’s the final day of the music festival in Switzerland; I’ve been up a total of nineteen hours straight and have to power through an additional in order catch my train the next city. The last act, a German rapper used English when he cursed, dapped me up as he concluded the set. I’m front row by the way. I’m flying solo, as I have been the entire trip; my objective is make this night memorable. So far it’s been successful with the aid of tequila...which also happens bring the beast in me. I drink tequila when I want get wild, when my desires are at a peak and need be released down a wet throat; when I want lick from her ass her ear, tasting every burden she carries on her back. Also, I drink tequila almost every time I go . So by the fourth shot, I was pumped and primed the afterparty, which was happening in a venue nearby. Stumbling through the smoke filled chamber I arrived at a disco bar, accented with beer bottles from all across Europe. There were already dozens of sweaty bodies dancing and grinding, laughing loud, touching breasts and hips and between the thighs. I couldn’t wait to enter, but first, a bathroom break. Gaining directions from the Swiss bartender with a great rack but questionable English, I stumbled down the stairs to find the restrooms. Before I went to handle my business, I glanced at the woman standing next to the women’s restroom. Her skin was caramel cashmere, a brunette with her hair shaped in a bob; lips full and cherry kissed. A more petite frame, slender with a portion of weight deposited in the hips; B-cup sized breasts ( “all a nigga needs is a mouthful”). Our eyes met briefly; I feigned ignorance and went inside. While I relieved myself, I thought about the woman outside. How she looked, how she would look if I was inside her. Would her knees bend like straws when my thick shaft splits the walls? Or tremble like a California fault from the way my tongue fixates on her fault , that sweet pussy that probably taste like olive oil and wine. Suddenly, I’m stroking my dick; and I didn’t want stop. I continued to imagine the scenario, feeling the intense heat in my gut, erupting into my chest. I needed to stop. splashes of water the calmed me...slightly. But my throbbing erection was reignited when I saw her again. This time her eyes were focused on me. It was obvious at this point; the connection was established. ( thing I’ve learned is connection requires no explanation or understanding, it does not require words or images or abstract explanations; connection is spiritual, and it is something even the most willful human being can’t deny). It needed an initiation. “Ciao bella? Hola? Hello? Guten uhh mhdms...” I horribly mustered in various languages. She giggled. “Si, ciao. American?” A strong Sicilian accent greeted me. “Great, English; I came Switzerland the festival.” “All the way from America Swiss, this? You must be a big fan.” “I sure am; I listen a of artists on the bill, but there's Dj I absolutely love. They have this crazy dope sample where they mix Bon Jovi with some new age techno. If I can listen them spin, then my night is complete.” “Ah, you like this Dj? They are how you say, the cream of the crop. So, you came not the festival, but her. You like adventure, no? How you say...live life on the edge?” She laughed. “I do. Decided backpack across Europe my birthday.” “Oh! It’s your birthday?” “It was…last week” “And how old?” “Twenty-.” “Buon compleanno, Mr. Living on the Edge. Ah, but you so young.” “Black don’t crack, baby.” Her head turned and commented on the statement. I realized our slang did not translate across the pond. So I spent the next minute explaining some common stereotypes regarding African-Americans; including our hair styles (my locs received a lot of attention), the usage of the N-word (“nigga is just so cool say. But it’s our word.”), and even how our skin degrades at a much slower due our natural protection against the sun (melanin). But then my curious foreigner turned the conversation a direction I’d hoped. “Is it true...what they say…” “About what…?” I already knew where she was going; my body responded by hardening. “You know...black guys. My friend studied in Chicago last summer. She said something about black guys...” “Black guys what...are the best athletes? The most creative artists?” “No,” she teased. “Do black guys have bi-” “You want find ?” Of course, I normally would’ve never made such a bold statement, but the tequila had me on thousand-I was ready burst. I also was free from any societal judgement, I was just a lone traveler making his way across a nation; collecting experiences like souvenirs. Her was astonished at my gesture, the bangs shaking side to side of embarrassment. My feet closed the gap between us, she took a step back, but then met me on equal footing. “Give me your hand,” I asked. Reluctantly, she placed her delicate wrist in my hand. I then guided it to the place we both wanted it to be. Her fingers landed on the thigh first, and after finding comfort, started to crawl to the center. And when she met the shaft, she suddenly jumped. I laughed, looked over my shoulder to make sure nobody was coming, and then welcomed her hand again. This time she did so without my aid, finding the base and eventually the tip. A slow rub naturally occurred and a slither weakened my ankles; she moaned and suddenly I melted. “I want to see...Can I ?” “You can do more than see.” And with that, she led me into the women's restroom. I asked if her friend was here, she responded that she was taking a breather-the German rapper started a mosh pit and she’d been caught in it. We laughed like a ’d known each other years, but that’s the magic of the connection; factors such as time and distance become irrelevant. A connection is just that, a bridging of separate things, conjoining them into unit. It didn’t matter that we didn’t know anything outside of this moment, we knew this moment...and in this instant we wanted fuck. I let her do the honors of unbuttoning my black pants; my crotch smelled of day old sweat and musk. She inhaled a deep whiff and salivated as my dick was freed from the boxers. My mysterious muse lifted her wrist and placed it next to my dick; a giddy smile painted her . And then she pressed her head against it, noting that it nearly stretched from chin forehead. strokes of the hand released a droplet of precum from the tip; she licked it like a curious cat . And then, her tongue swirling around my cock. I could feel each taste bud grazing against my skin, the sensation of her cheeks compressing during the inhale, the irresistible wetness that continued to flow like a leaking fountain. Of course I wanted to bust inside her throat, but I wanted to let my curious cat experience more than a mouthful. So, I pulled her lips away, watched a thin of saliva connect her my dick, and then thrusted my tongue down her throat. Her hands quickly shuffled down her pants, the belt clinking as she wriggled away. Her panties were frilled, I think; they were moist as a marsh. “What do they say about Italian girls?” I asked. “They say we taste like oil and wine.” She used her native tongue, which I knew very little (“ciao”, “prego”, “gratzie”.) Her panties were slipped to the side and the young woman licked her fingers than loosened her lips. I pulled a condom out from my satchel (which accompanied literally everywhere this entire voyage, because you can never be too prepared). “Ready?” A moan exhaled from my teeth as I lifted my hips. She was tight, so tight that the first few strokes the tip could fit. But once she was nicely lubricated by her own juices, the rest of the shaft entered. Well, about 88.6% of it because it was hitting something. I could feel a wall, a fleshly lining that had been constructed prevent any abnormally large object from penetrating too deep. Her body quivered with each thrust, so I went gentle; the slow and steady stroke caused her nails to claw at the railing, the walls, and then my arms which were supporting her lithe frame. She did her best to keep the moans to a minimum, but as her orgasm flushed my groin they eventually slipped . Like my dick, which was bouncing with the anticipation of a climax. She could see it in my eyes too, the primal lust that possessed me-the lust that pervades all beings born with human qualities, sex is of the first, and natural, acts. Sex has always been both a cause and effect of connection, and we were both at the mercy of this primal passion; this carnal desire the flesh of another. The condom was removed and she popped back on her knees. This time she sucked as if she were on a suicide mission, pulling all the stops, twisting her head counterclockwise with each gulp to create a whirlpool of pleasure. My curious cat even managed to deep throat and take the dick to the base; when she did that, I couldn’t help but quiver. My hands gripped the back of her neck and my hips flexed forward a dozen or so times, each pump of my penis into those puckered lips bringing me closer to that fated moment. That moment when an individual is called of their body and granted a moment of respite from the human vessel; when the eyes roll back and bless the mind with a chance peer at the inner universe; when the body can condense every sensation into centralized shot. A shot that was aimed at her tonsils. My contents flowed like an aged geyser, coming in spurts rather than continuous stream. The curious cat licked her hands and then laid her head on my knee; those inquisitive eyes were once again on me. I let them stay there, basking in this silence, the kind of silence that happens when strangers manage connect on a near spiritual level without having deal with the fussiness of all the pre-work. After that, we dressed; she washed her and I fixed my hair. We laughed at the sight, as if we’d been doing this years; like it was just another night in the city. Our hands clasped as we exited the bathroom with childish giggles as a of coked up Dutch girls gawked at us. On the way up the stairs, before we reached the realm overrun with loud ass disco music and cigarette smoke, I turned my guest. “So...is it true…?” I asked. “Is what true?” “What they say about us? About black guys?” “Hmm...I don’t know. I think I have try a second time.” A mischievous grin crawled across her cheeks. “So...Mr. Live On The Edge. Will you be here tomorrow?” “No can do. I’ve got a train to catch in hours. I’m pulling the all-nighter here at the festival.” “Then you need someone stay up with you, make sure you don’t miss your train, no?” “I...you’re right, I do.” “I come find you after I this set. Don’t .” I tilted my head in confusion. “ this set?” “I am Dj’ing the afterparty.” Suddenly, it all made sense-no it didn’t. I couldn’t wrap my head around it, the way that she couldn’t wrap her lips around mine. Sure enough, she went the backstage booth where additional DJs were waiting. They all looked a tad irritated at her late arrival but a well-timed smile charmed them of their frustration. The turntables were passed her, and a pair of studio headphones popped over that bob; the bob that had been bouncing up and down on my dick minutes ago. As the first track ignited and a very familiar sample harmonized (Bon Jovi’s Livin On A Prayer), I immediately felt the urge dance. release the rest of the energy we’d worked up during our initial interaction, and simultaneously build the tension again by staring at her from the dance floor, dipping and moving remind her how agile my body can be, sweating show her that and sticky is my preference while on tequila, grooving prove that what we have is a connection, and sometimes that’s all you need have a memorable night. That and a stereotype that naturally inclines women of various races ponder about the status of your dick; but hey, a win is a win. ~D. Darko |
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