“What would you think about fuckin a black woman honey?”
It was my first visit to a whorehouse. I was eighteen on my first weekend pass after basic training at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Along with my two best buddies I took the bus from Fort Knox to Louisville. We went to a bar with a sign in the window that said, “G.I.s welcome.” After we had a couple 3.2% beers Tommy, the oldest at 19, asked the bartender if he knew where any whorehouses were. “They’re all over town son,” he said. “Just jump in a cab outside and tell the driver what you’re looking for. For three bucks each he’ll take you to the closest one.” Outside the bar three Yellow Cabs were waiting for a fare. When we got inside the cab Tommy asked him to take us to the closest whorehouse.
“That’ll be three bucks each,” the driver said, “up front.” None of us had ridden in a taxicab before and didn’t know about the meter. He kept the flag down. Without question we all dug into our pockets and pulled out three bucks and handed it to the driver. He started the cab, put it into gear and drove to the traffic light about fifty feet away. When the light turned green he made a U-turn and headed west to a side street less than hundred feet from the light. Making a right turn he drove another hundred feet or so and stopped in front of an old two story house. “Just ask for Marva,” he said, “she runs the place.” As we got out we all felt like suckers but didn’t have the moxie to say anything to the driver for charging us to drive a little over two hundred feet. We didn’t know that the bartender got a buck apiece for almost every soldier who left the bar, most of whom were looking to get laid for the first time in their lives.
“Howdy boys, I’m Marva,” the once attractive middle aged woman said as she sized us all up. I always looked younger than my age and wasn’t surprised when she asked, “Sure you’re eighteen son?” I said yes but she made me show her my Army I.D. I was embarrassed when she said, “You sure look like a baby honey.” Pinching my chin between her thumb and forefinger she shook it then chucked my cheek with her fist and said, “Don’t worry sweetie you’re a real cutie. What would you think about fuckin a black woman honey?” I shrugged my shoulders. She winked and added, “I think Ruby would be just the right girl for you.”
Staring into my eyes like she had thrown some kind of challenge it was like she was waiting for me to change my mind. I stared back. The interesting thing was that she had asked me about something I’d dwelled upon since I was a senior in high school. I had met a black girl at a student council convention and thought about her obsessively since then. In my dreams I had fucked that girl many times, even though I didn’t know what fucking was all about. To Marva I said, “I think I-I think being with a black woman w-would be okay.”
I don’t know why I felt embarrassed about it but the as the corners of Marva’s accusing lips turned upward her challenging look became warm and friendly. “You’ve made a good choice kiddo. Ruby’s going to take real good care of you.” It was as if she was relieved that took her suggestion.
Leaving my buddies as yet unattended she took my hand, led me through the multi-colored beads of the doorway into the adjoining room that was kind of a parlor where four scantily clad women—three white and one black—were lounging and laughing. “Ruby,” Marva said, “here’s another one for you to break in. I think he’s a nice guy, treat him good. Maybe he’ll come back if you make him feel special.” Ruby just raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes as if she were saying why does it always have to be me?
Ruby who stood about 5’6” wore heavy aqua eye shadow and her hair was pulled back in a bun where she wore a flower that looked like a Magnolia blossom. She was wearing a thin scarlet colored wrap that though loose told me that she wore no panties or bra. It was low cut enough to show her generous cleavage and pinpoint large nipples that poked through the thin fabric. Taking my hand from Marva she looked at my crotch to see if there was a bulge, which there wasn’t because of my nervousness. Her hands were soft, not commanding, but there was no question of her being in control. As she led me to the back bedroom she said, “Is this yoah first time for black pussy white boy?” Her question could have been as if she were talking with someone with a bit of experience. As I tried to swallow my oversized Adam’s apple I shyly nodded my head. “Well,” she said, “Yoah certainly makin Ruby’s pussy hanker for that white meat a yourn,” then giggled with playful disrespect.
At 70 years of age I’ve led a great life. After enjoying myself for a few years before getting married I lived with the most wonderful wife I could have ever have expected. I had never strayed from her but have often fantasized sex with other women, sometimes even when I was having sex with her. It wasn’t until my 40s when I realized that some women might have considered me rude in the way I looked at them. I still ogle as intently but since that time have honed my peripheral vision to make it harder to read where my eyes are directed. The wisdom I’ve gained from living life has chipped off a lot of rough edges which has allowed me to become a softer, more “rounded” person. Though now a senior citizen I’m still a fourteen year old at heart when it comes to seeing female features such as fabric being amplified by nipples or the puffiness of primary labia when outlined in tight slacks or shorts. Unlike a fourteen year old though, I no longer look like a cartoon character whose eyes spring out of my head as my tongue drags the ground when I see the “Holy Grail” of womanhood, a camel toe.
Throughout my life my fantasies have included sex with women I have known, like those I have worked with or wives of friends. Often there’s some kind of “kink” that finds its way into my fantasy, like being with two women—twins are often on my mind or a mother and a daughter. Throughout my life I suppose there might have been such a thing as bad sex though rarely. But there have never been any bad fantasies. One fantasy has always been prominent though. It was an itch that was scratched long ago at Marva’s whorehouse—sex with a black woman. Even though it was great as far as whorehouse sex goes it was never satisfying in the way I had always hoped for.
The itch itself started when I was in high school just outside of Cleveland, Ohio. I attended a student council conference in Cleveland where I met a stunning, intelligent black girl by the name Chantelle Saunders. Until that time in my life I had never been exposed to any black people face to face. This was in the mid 50’s prior to the Civil Rights Act being passed. When I met Chantelle Saunders though, the pit of my stomach literally hit the floor. I was stunned and giddy.
As luck would have it I sat beside Chantelle at lunch that day. I can’t explain the mutual admiration that went on between us. It seemed that we were in a bubble and were both enthralled with both the difference between one another and out magnetic attraction. I’ve often thought that if ever there were two people who were suited to one another it was Chantelle and me despite our racial dissimilarity. Had times been different I would have followed up with her. But interracial dating was virtually unheard of at the time, at least in northern Ohio. At the age of seventy though, Chantelle Saunders still haunts my mind. She has been my constant fantasy, my Queen of Sheba and the cause of myriad orgasms.
When Ruby led me by the hand through the back bedroom door in Marva’s whorehouse I was dumbstruck. Inside the room, completely under her spell, I instructed to take off all my clothes. Once they were hanging on the hook on the back of the door she led me to the dresser where she soaped up a washcloth in the basin of warm water and washed my dick and balls before drying them with a towel. Taking my fickle penis into her hand she carefully milked it to make sure I didn’t have the “clap” then took off her red silk wrap, exposing her perfectly toned and flawless brown body.
Her breasts were like some I had seen in the National Geographic. They were long and pointy (some called them “tube tits”). Her nipples appeared to be the size of dimes, surrounded by areolas that were larger than a silver dollar. But that was only the half of it: they we dark purple, almost black. Her bottom was slightly larger than I expected but was smooth and fleshy. I remember thinking of the word “cushiony.” While most black women at the time had tight, curly black hair Ruby’s was soft and brown. Her eyes were almost jet black and her sultry smile lit up my universe. As time has gone by I have realized what a genius Marva was. Some people just have ESP. Ruby introduced me to Carnal Knowledge 101. On five subsequent visits she taught me to make love to women in ways few of my contemporaries might never have understood.
She sat beside me on the edge of the bed; the heat radiating from her body reflecting on me like warm sunlight. I was so nervous that my erection was having difficulty being realized, rising and falling in jerky, waggling motions, finally beating its way to questionable stiffness to the throbbing of my heart. I had only been naked in group showers in school with other boys and in the army barracks. But I had never been naked with a woman. I was painfully shy.
In her sweet Negro vernacular the black whore spoke of herself in the third person as “Ruby.”
She called me, “white boy.” Though I wondered whether she was really complimenting me she seemed to be doing it in such a sweet, motherly way. Taking charge of my cock she gently kneaded it until I was fully erect and seeping. Chuckling she said, “WOO WEE white boy, yoah manhood is stupefyin ole Ruby,” which helped me to harden myself with pride. I’d heard stories of black men who were prodigiously endowed. Mine was seven and a half inches long and quite thick. But I felt intimidated by this woman who had undoubtedly known lots of those huge, black cocks. She went on with her praise, “Yoah gwine to make so many wimmens happy with this huge thing o yourn white boy.” Though her communication was impersonal she still made me feel special. I had no idea that a professional hooker would say the same thing to man with only a one inch cock. At the time it sounded genuine and that was good enough for me.
She said to me, “Do ya want a blow-job white boy, or a fuck or both?” She had already asked that when she was leading me back to the room but was making sure to sell all of her wares. We’d settled on just a fuck for fifteen dollars, a huge amount of money at the time, particularly since I figured I was going to cum real quickly anyway. She was probably reminding me of other options to drive up the profit for the house, like a waiter pushes desert after dinner.
As she sat on the bed and threw her legs to the middle I couldn’t believe I was watching this beautiful brown skinned woman lying down and getting ready to have sex with me. And when she opened her legs I was astounded by the stunning contrast of her pink insides which was framed by her smooth, chocolate flesh and her jet brown, curly pubic hair. It was my first view of any woman’s sex and it seemed surreal.
As she looked up into my gawking eyes she smiled. The curly, reddish-brown hair on her chocolate pussy lips framed the pink, pink, pinkness of her parted slot. When her delicate, wafery labia folded open I was stunned—their bright pink color was fringed in deep purple that made them appear like a colorful Bearded Iris flower. The veil had been rent in the Temple; I was looking at the Holy of Holies. I could see partially inside and it seemed to be bubbling with a sexual kind of brew that was crystal clear. At the upper limit of her slot there was a huge node that reminded me of a tiny penis (she introduced to me as her “love button”). It glistened, was bright pink and peeking out of its dark purple sheath, seemed almost like a foreskin.
Startling me from the reverie that had overtaken me, she said, “Lie down on the bed white boy, put yoah knees between Ruby’s legs.” While doing her bidding she grinned, shook her head with a, “tsk, tsk” and confidently grasped my rigid cock, pointing its head to the entrance of the Holy of Holies. “Skootch up so’s we can get ya inside ole Ruby’s pussy honey.” I did her bidding and she fitted the tapered head of my cock to the entrance of her hot, mushy hole. “Now jist lean fo’ward and let yoah cock slide inside this black woman’s pussy. When my cock slid all the way inside she said, “Now fuck her Honey bunch.”
Though I told her I wasn’t a virgin it was clear that she knew I was. I got the feeling that she wanted me to feel as good about myself as was possible though. When I was walking back to the room with her I realized that she knew I wouldn’t last long; I think she was happy about it—more clients for her and a better paycheck. I think I made it to seven pokes inside her before I came. She let me lay there for a few moments while my cock shriveled inside her. “First time baby?” she said. I told her yes. “Ruby knows that,” she said, “always does. And just like always she feels honored to be yoah first woman.” She gave me a strong, warm hug. “Bless ya boy.”
Then she said something that surprised me. “So what do ya think about fuckin a black woman honey?” Not knowing what to say I blathered, “There were four women to choose from Ruby and I chose you. I thought you were beautiful when I first saw you. And after ... after w-we f-fucked I still do.” I wanted to tell her about Chantelle but thought she might think I was being silly, so I held back. I don’t know why I felt I had to bullshit her that way—Marva literally had to take my hand and put it in to Ruby’s. Ruby was Marva’s choice. I was glad she made it for me though.
Ruby went along with the fib. It was clear by the way she wrapped her legs tightly around my waist and drew me to her that that she seemed to like that I at least told her that I chose her because she was pretty. It was almost like I could feel a different kind of acceptance in her hug and the way she wrapped her legs around me and rocked me back and forth. It seemed to me that her body was growing warmer. And I felt a distinct squeezing of her pussy muscles around my cock that was starting to grow inside her again. Hugging me tightly to her body she said, “What’s yoah name white boy?” I told her it was Peter. She said, “Ruby don’t rightly care ‘bout names honey but yoah treating her real nice.” Pausing she went on, “She can feels yoah manhood growin inside her again he-he. How would ya feel about fuckin Ruby’s black pussy again Peter?”
“But it’s really pink Ruby,” I said. I wasn’t trying to be funny but she started laughing. It became funnier for both of us when her howls of laughter ejected my hardened cock from her pussy.
When her laughter died down and she settled she said, “Let’s get that pink thing o yourn back into this black woman’s pink pussy tee-hee-hee. Ruby can show an unsperienced young fella like yoahself some tricks that’ll make it betta for the next woman ya fucks. I thought she was going to try to charge me more money but she said, “Doan worry ‘bout it honey ... Momma’ll call you Petey, This one’s on Ruby Petey. Just enjoy yoah self and do zactly what Ruby tells ya to.”
I pumped five times when she said, “Stop honey and takes a break. Squeeze that white butt o yourn so hard that you close off them cum muscles.” I rested for a bit while squeezing the cheeks of my ass together. “Now, see if ya can fuck Ruby’s pussy seven times.” I slammed her seven times. “MM-MM that feels good honey,” she said. “Stop fer a bit though and tighten up again.” She wrapped her legs around me again and hugged me to her. “It feel’s good to have yoah big ole cock inside Ruby Petey, yoah a real man. She giggled and said, “Wimmens love swelled up cocks inside em, SHO do.” She giggled again. Easing her arms and legs from around me she said, “Fuck ole Ruby ten times now Petey. “Mmm thas good. Ruby loves yoah big cock amovin inside her.” I fucked her a few more times. “Stop now honey, Ruby’ll show ya somethin.”
I stopped. She pushed her hand against me coaxing me to pull out and get off. As she swung her legs off the bed and slid to her knees she said, “Sit up Petey honey.” When I sat up she took my cock in her hand. It was slippery from her juice and the sperm I’d shot inside her when I was first fucking her. She took me inside her mouth and bobbed on my cock in such an exciting way, her tongue fluttering on the underside and in the lobes on the bottom of my head.
Stupid me I almost said, “I only paid for a fuck Ruby,” but I didn’t want anything to change.
She felt me tightening my glutes and pulled her mouth away. “Lift yoah legs Honey. Get yoah feets off the floah.” I did what she said. “Pay ‘tenshun now Petey.” She slipped her hand under my balls and I felt her fingertip pushing into a soft spot there. “Put yoah fingertip where Ruby’s finger is.” I did. “Now feel with yoah fingertip for the soft spot.” I moved my finger around on the area. Pushing in a little my fingertip sunk in further. “As long as yoah finger keeps pressure where it is Petey ya cain’t cum. Let Ruby show ya.” She put her finger back in the spot and pressed hard as she took me back inside her mouth and bobbed frantically on my cock while she jacked it fast and hard with her other hand. I stiffened, seemed to let out a little cum but her pressing finger held most of it back. I felt like I was shooting. I got all weak like I did when I shot my jizz but nothing came out. She kept her finger there until I seemed to settle.
“Lie down on the bed now Petey and let Ruby ride ya.” I lay down and Ruby threw one knee over my middle and kneeled with the other on the left side of me. She looked up at the ceiling like she was thinking, held the head of my cock against her spongy twat and let gravity take over as she sank it like a glove over my shaft and settled on my belly. “Now let’s see if we is done any good heah honey. She leaned forward enough that her breasts hung down and dragged her nipples across my chest. Tightening her pussy she fucked me slowly at first, for ten pumps. Fighting off the urge to cum I tightened my ass like she’d told me to. I felt proud of myself for holding my load back.
“Yoah doin good Petey,” she said, chuckling both at the playful name she had used and the effectiveness of her lessons, “Ruby’s gwine to do it faster this time.” She pumped harder but stopped at seven. “How’s Ruby’s baby doin now?”
There was a knock on the door and Marva said, “Alright Ruby, I know you like that boy but we have other customers, ya know?”
“DAMN,” she said loudly enough for Marva to hear her, “Ruby’s havin fun.” She pulled halfway off my cock, put two fingers on her clit and started grinding it while moving her hips back and forth. She ground for about thirty seconds, breathing hard through her nostrils and grunting in a tense pose. “Ruby wants to cum with ya baby. She doesn’t do it with many peoples. So let go the next time ya need’s to ok? “She started fucking me again, her ass slapping against my legs and abdomen as I bucked up against her.
“I-I’m g-gonna CUM Ruby,” I said. Twice more she slammed me hard squeezing her nipples and leaning her head way back, moaning loudly in a string of high pitched words of religious praise, she fell on top of me, flattening her breasts on my chest.
“Oh MERCY ME,” she said panting. “Ruby thinks that was SO GOOD.” I didn’t realize until later how unusual it was for a prostitute to actually have an orgasm with a client. But I was still too naïve to understand how unusual it was for a black prostitute to be treated with anything but disdain from a white man south of the Mason-Dixon Line at the time. She was already giving me another treat, sucking my cum-covered, wilting cock (I had never realized just how sensitive to sucking lips a freshly ejaculated cock-head could be). There was a louder banging on the door, “TIME RUBY!”
Pulling her mouth off my cock she quickly stood and reached for her robe, “We gots to go baby,” she said, handing me my underwear and pants. “Don’t tarry Petey, Marva is gittin techy.” Once I was dressed she hugged me close and said, “Come seem me agin Petey, Ruby really likes ya ... a lot.” Then she did something I learned was almost taboo among prostitutes, she kissed the tip of her index finger and pressed it against my lips. When we both walked out Marva said to me, “Thank you son, come see us again.” To Ruby she said, “You’re fallin’ behind sweetie, better get movin.” I couldn’t tell for sure but it seemed that Marva treated Ruby with a little more deference than the rest of the whores.
I felt a touch of jealousy when Ruby said “Hi Charlie,” obviously a client she knew well enough to call by name.
During the next three months I visited Ruby five more times. Marva made me give her the money, rather than me giving it to Ruby. I had to pay full price for a fuck and a blowjob. But Ruby always found a way to do something extra and continue my sexual education, for which I always left her a five dollar tip which at that time was substantial. These visits took almost all of my Army pay.
Just before I finally left Fort Knox, on my final visit to Marva’s Ruby hugged me tightly and said, “I’s gwine to miss ya ma sweet Petey.”
It was a strange relationship I suppose, having strong feelings for a prostitute. But to me she was more than that. In five visits she had given me the equivalent of a college degree in sex. I never visited another prostitute before I got married but had sex with enough women before my marriage to Doris to claim a Master’s Degree. In our nearly forty years of marriage I never felt the need for a woman other than my wife. Together we could probably say we earned a PHD in marital bliss. I remember Ruby saying before I left from that last visit in Louisville, “I has teached ya all ya needs to know ‘bout makin wimmens happy Petey. Treat em all special like ya’s treated ole Ruby and you’ll always have happy wimmens.”
It’s been a good life. I went to college and became a history professor. My wife was a music professor at the University also. We bought an old home right near the college and through the years became a well-liked couple, visited by our students and revisited by numerous alumni. When we retired we liked to sit on our front porch and watch the students go to and from classes ... some of them got to be friends while we were there and a few of them became our dinner guests. Two couples met at our home and married.
It was in our 39th year of marriage when Doris got cancer. It was too far advanced. I lost her just before our 40th anniversary. Though I never had anything but happiness in my marriage, which includes an adventurous sex life that the two of us shared, the memory of two women never dimmed nor faded in my heart. The first was Chantelle Saunders who I knew for only one day. I had always wished that I could have at least dated her and gotten an idea why my feelings were so strong for her. The second was Ruby—I never knew her last name. One was a Christian girl, the other a prostitute and a Christian woman. Both were black.
While I was teaching I felt friendly toward some of my black students but could never actually call them friends. In retirement though, we met two students on separate occasions. It was during our porch-sitting times and it happened on separate evenings. The first was a black student by the name of Sharon Sowell. Both of us were attracted to the almost imperial way she walked. I was the one who called out “Hello.” She stopped. Her smile held a world of happiness and long conversation ensued. I couldn’t get the feeling out of my mind that she was the representation of Chantelle Saunders. We quickly became friendly, invited her to dinner once and became friends. Along the way she and Doris became dear and tight friends. She became a frequent Sunday guest of ours and met Ash Balfour another such student friend. They married and had a child who received a full scholarship to Stanford.
I went through a difficult year of mourning after Doris’ passing. Then about three months into my second year without her I met an art professor who was at least twenty years my junior. It was a nice relationship which lasted over six months but she accepted the post of Department Head at a large Florida University and moved away. I missed the sex, the best I’d had since Doris.
One night when I was just finishing with the dishes the phone rang. “Peter?” the voice on the phone said, “This is Sharon Balfour.” The image of my former student and friend flooded my mind. She was a stunning black girl from Kenya. I had never met a queen or princess from Kenya but if there were one Sharon Sowell Balfour would have been it. As a child she lost her family and had been displaced during the devastating tribal wars in her country. She was rescued by a Methodist minister by the name of Balfour and his wife, adopted by them and taken back to Baltimore where she grew up. She was 5’8”, slender and the last time I had seen her—twenty two years ago—she had a gorgeous, wasp-like figure. She had clear hazel eyes on the yellow side—the kind you might see on a lion. Though slender her proportions were normal for her size. She moved like some kind of primal being but elegantly, like some kind of primitive royalty.
“SHARON,” I said in shocked surprise. We had been close when she was in college. My wife Doris had stood up for her as matron of honor at their hastily planned wedding –she was four months pregnant at the time. “I’m thrilled to hear from you.” We corresponded for a while but as life has a way of doing we grew apart. “How’s Ash?”
“I lost Ash two years ago Peter; he was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) four years ago.” Her voice was sad and weak as she said, “He just withered away and died Peter ... just withered away. I’m still sad. He was such a great man and a wonderful father to Enoch. But I don’t want to whine about it, I did that for a year and have finally grown to accept it. How’s Doris?”
“I’m not going to whine either Sharon. Doris died of cancer eighteen months ago.”
“OH, I’m so sorry to hear that Peter. I loved Doris. Sometimes she was like a mother to me.” A fine daughter I thought, you haven’t kept touch very well. Then I felt badly about my thoughts. Doris and I let the friendship lapse and apparently didn’t think enough of it to try to rekindle it. “I’m shocked to hear of your loss Peter. I guess I have to say that Ash and I haven’t been very good friends to you and Doris.”
“Don’t beat yourself up Sharon. Even though we wanted to and talked about getting in touch with you and Ash we dropped the ball as well ... just an example of getting caught up in life and letting important people slip through our fingers. What has it been now, twenty-two years?”
“Yes Peter, exactly. I’m forty-three and you’re what, sixty-two?”
I heard a sniffle. “Your news has caught me up so short that I don’t quite know what to say.” She paused then went on, “I’m in town Peter. I’ve come for a publishing conclave at the university and will be here for a few days. I was hoping to reconnect with you and Doris but...” I heard her sniffle again.
“Are you at the Inn Sharon? Maybe I can come over for a drink.”
She cleared her voice again. “Yes, a drink.” She sounded distracted. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby for you Peter. I’ll be the one in the dark skin. She chuckled then said, “I wanted to see you and Doris so badly. Now I feel like I’m in an almost desperate need of seeing you face to face ... and um talking with you and um ... reconnecting.”
The University Inn is one of my favorite places. It was Doris’s too. As a fixture in the academic town it exuded an almost womb-like ambience that nurtured members of the academic family. So much of my life had been conducted there that it served as a social club, a kind of second home. As I walked into the colonial styled lobby my heart fluttered as I saw the elegant woman of color sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire. Though twenty two years had gone by since I had seen her the young African princess had morphed into an elegant queen. The angular lines of youth had been fleshed out. The woman in the chair, while not matronly, was pleasingly proportioned in such a way as to as to make the observer want to touch her smooth mahogany skin and embrace her mature body to savor the ripeness of her fruit. As I continued toward her through the lobby she watched me walk as if she was trying to piece together the progression of a forty year old professor she had once known as a middle-aged friend who had gracefully negotiated the path to sixty-two. Upon completing her assessment her dazzling white smile verified that she had not only recognized me but approved of the end product. As her smile morphed into a grin she stood.
On her feet she was even more impressive than seated. Dressed in brown slacks and a complimentary ecru sweater, her black hair, now antiqued with palomino streaks looked softer than I remembered and her ebony eyes seemed to sparkle like black diamonds, which a clearly recalled. Standing in three inch heels her once wasp-like body was now somewhat thicker but still well defined as an hour-glass. In her elegantly chosen sweater her formerly youthful breasts were now slightly larger and rounder but without the appearance any slackness. I was trying to imagine what kind of sheer bra she could be wearing to allow her substantial nipples to be so clearly defined through her sweater. Just as had happened when she had walked into my classes years ago my fickle penis rebelled against any discipline and pressed to attention against the fabric of my silk boxers and trousers. It was spontaneous; our arms opened as before for an enthusiastic embrace. This time though, as we hugged, Sharon pushed her tummy against my hardness. “Professor Billingsly,” she said in her husky voice, “It is so good to see you.” Her familiar, sexy giggle filled my ears as she said, “And I can feel that your enthusiasm is still there.”
Her meaning was so obvious that I was taken aback but was able to say, “I never realized that you felt that way.”
“HA-HA-HA Peter, I don’t know what makes males so lame. Maybe you shouldn’t have worn boxer shorts when I was in your class ... or tonight for that matter but I’m not complaining.” Her giggle was so infectious that even though I was so embarrassed I couldn’t help but respond with more laughter than I thought appropriate. She had completely flummoxed me.
We sat in the bar for an hour catching up, commiserating on the loss of our spouses, what our children were doing and the irregularity of our love lives. We confessed to each other that we had both had sex since our spouses had passed. She said she was with one man three times. I only owned up to the fact that I had spent nights with two women, one with whom I had a six month affair. I made no mention of my monthly visit to a brothel in a nearby city. Having gotten so comfortable with Marva’s when I was in the Army and visiting various whorehouses before I married Doris, it was a noncommittal way to clip my horns and not be burdened with the pressure of unpredictable affairs.
We decided to have dinner at the Inn. A few people came by the table to say hi. The men were mostly gawking and the women, particularly the women who knew Doris well seemed to be assessing Sharon with a critical eye. None of these people had ever seen me with another woman before and were obviously questioning in their minds whether or not Sharon might be a permanent choice for me. One couple with whom Doris and I had been so friendly that we went on a couple of foreign trips together, seemed truly happy that I had found someone so attractive and friendly as Sharon. I could tell that they were hoping for me that she might be permanent choice. After it appeared that all of the people who knew me well enough to scope out who one of my possible choices for couple hood might be, Sharon looked at me and with a wry grin said, “Well, do you think this colored lady might have passed the test or are you friends still betting on an outcome?”
“Personally Sharon,” I said, “the only opinion that matters is my own.” I laughed. “Besides, sitting down for the first time in twenty-two years with a former student doesn’t really do a lot for mapping out my future.” I raised my eyebrows. “And who knows, maybe this is the perfect time in my life to find out what it would be like to be connected to a ... um... colored lady.”
She stared at me so intently that for a moment I thought I might have offended her. Having held her breath too long she let out her exhausted oxygen then sucked in another breath and sighed as she said,
“Here we are Peter, two lonely people—at least I am—who have each lost the most important person in our lives and ... I have to tell you my friend though you were older and you were a retired professor I had a crush on you when I was in school ... a serious crush. Had you not been married to Doris, who was such a friend to me, I think I might have embarrassed myself over you.”
“Ahem.” When a person is stunned as much as I had just been a good ahem came in handy. The fact was that one day a week I taught the class as a favor to a friend who had a conflict on Tuesdays. Sharon had already become a friend to Doris and me. When I was teaching that class and she was there I always chose to speak from my desk rather than standing in front of the class. Being in her presence always gave me a hard-on and I had to stay seated to hide if from being seen by her or any other member of the class. “Well Sharon I suppose you might have had an inkling that my feelings for you might have made me a little ... um shy about standing up in front of the class. I have to say that you were the only student who had ever affected me in that way. It was a problem every time you came over to the house too. But I had easier ways of hiding it there.”
With a devilish giggle she said, “I didn’t hear about that until after the class was over. Doris told me all about it he-he-he and I always did things to make it happen whenever I was over at your house. Doris loved it because she always got a little nookie from you after I left.”
I could feel the rims of my ears heat up. “I didn’t realize you two talked about such intimate stuff Sharon.”
“She was my matron of honor Peter. We were very good friends; we both shared intimate secrets. I’ve never had another friend like Doris.” She went quiet, sniffled and dabbed her nose with her handkerchief. “I-I just didn’t realize she was gone Peter. What kind of friend have I been to find out that my best friend has died and I didn’t even know she was ill?”
Her telling me this gave me confusing feelings. On the one hand I felt in a way betrayed by Doris. On the other hand I wanted to know what Sharon Balfour really knew about me. I thought about her and the way she used to walk into my class. And once again I felt my rising penis pushing against the fabric of my pants. “What else do you know about me Sharon?”
She smirked, wrinkled her brow and rolled her eyes. “It’s my understanding that your desire for a connection to a colored lady has been on your mind from early in your life. Not to mention that you’ve had more than a few “connections” with a ... um ... very connectable black woman. “
Doris was the only adult who knew about my fixation with the Chantelle Saunders of my youth and my “connections” with Ruby at Marva’s whorehouse. Jesus I thought what kind of friends were Doris and Sharon to have such intimate conversations about my sexual life before we were married? And what about while we were married?
She saw my mind working. “I’m not sure either of us is ready to talk about the relationship between Doris’ and me at the moment Peter. But suffice it to say that there is very little about my life and Doris’s life that she and I didn’t discuss in depth. I can see the look of betrayal on your face but it was no such thing. Doris and I were each other’s confidants.”
“This makes it even stranger that you and Ash dropped so completely out of our lives Sharon.”
“Neither Doris or I ever dropped out of each other’s lives Peter, except for the last couple of years.”
I was confused by what she was saying. “Let me have that again Sharon, I’m not sure I understood what you said.” I had a very unsettled feeling.
“It’s simpler than what you might be thinking Peter. Few women have had a closer relationship than Doris and I. It was like she was my most adored aunt or at times even my mother. At the same time she saw me as a rival.”
“But twenty-two YEARS.”
“She told me all about your teenage fantasy Peter. And she told me about the black woman at the brothel in Louisville. But did you know about her past?”
“I knew that she was a Hippie that she smoked marijuana as a young girl and was involved in promiscuous sex. She called it free love.”
“Did you know about the women?”
“What women?” I asked.
“The women she had bisexual relationships with.” Sharon knew I was stunned. “Free love at the time involved both men and women ... I mean same sex relationships.”
“You mean homosexual relationships, don’t you?” I tried to put it in perspective. Yes, Doris was a hot number when I met her. I knew she had lots of sex before me. But I never thought of her having sex with other women.
“There is a difference Peter. Homosexuals only want to have sex with members of their gender; bisexuals enjoy sex with either gender. Most bisexuals prefer the opposite gender but enjoy sex with members of their own gender. With most women it’s more of a pastime than a need. But with Doris and me it was a need.”
“Are you saying Sharon that you and Doris had a bisexual relationship?” She answered by merely nodding her head.