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By Janet Trakin

Ronald had been my lover for eight years–a veritable eight-year one-night stand– totaling over 100 orgasmic evenings which had capped frustrating days as a legal secretary with emotional and sexual fulfillment. He came from St. Lucia bearing thin, dreadlocks to his shoulder and a dumbfounded look upon his face. He declared himself a Rasta. Ronald committed many illegal acts such as drug dealing and also collecting parking tickets on rented cars under my name. He prided himself on his immorality, and I went along with it because the sex was so good. He knew how to tease me with his virile black cock rubbing it first on top of my panties and then against the wet lips of my pussy just enough that I would beg him to fuck me. He had a posse of white middle-class Jewish women, but I had been his favorite. I had put up with his disappearing acts and infidelity because he understood me profoundly. My friend Jane called it his “Mugambe tribe.” He claimed he deserved more than one woman because of his African roots. We broke up a year ago when he got out of jail, and he threatened the life of someone I was dating. “I’m going to pull an O.J. Simpson,” he told Ira Katz over the phone. Needless to say, Ira had been freaked and I never saw him nor heard from him again. Ronald’s double standard was too much to bear. So, after he got out of jail, I packed up all his bags, and put them on the street. His underwear had icicles in them for which he never forgave me. We didn’t see each other anymore. I called him anyway. I needed his help.

I remembered his cell phone number by heart. I dialed. My heart was racing. He picked up.

“Ronald, it’s me, Penelope,” I said.

“Yes, Miss,” he said in his sweetest voice. Ronald had a sweet voice for women and a macho, deep voice for his male colleagues.

“I don’t want to get laid. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Why not miss?” he begged. Ronald often begged me for sex, even one time after I threw a drink at him in a public place. At home, Ronald would often throw up his arms in exasperation when I protested I did not want sex. His charm and dick, however, usually won out.

“Ronald, you know I can’t forgive you for what you did to Ira,” I said, making a feeble attempt at communication.

“I want your pussy,” he continued. Just hearing him say that made my pussy throb. Ronald had had full control over my pussy in bed, talking to me, and inducing me to come with his sexy voice while I would be on top riding his cock. I would look into his brown eyes and hear him urging me on and I would inevitably come.

“That’s not what this phone call is all about, Ronald.”

“Then what is it?”

“I lost my job, and need to make some money. I want to deal drugs.”

“That’s not what a nice Jewish girl does,” said Ronald facetiously. “Why don’t you just go back to being a legal secretary?”

“Ronald, that and your dick are the last things I want,” I snarled angrily. He laughed.

“Let me come over, and we’ll talk about it.”

“No, Ronald,” I curtly replied. That was asking for trouble. I would not be able to resist temptation, and I could not put up with his unfaithful ways again. I had vowed to start a new life after him. And, as he had predicted, it was as a lesbian.

I had always had fantasies as a little girl about women. Ms. Hershey put me in such a tizzy when she would take care of us in nursery school. Annie Shelton filled me with jealousy when she got to put her hand on her shoulder for a school picture. The crushes began in nursery school and continued all the way to high school.

I can recall looking at Donna Springer’s black grayish hair stream behind her as she drove to the basket for a lay up. Not only Donna, but I also remember Robin’s blonde hair falling gently on her shoulders as she sat with me on the bench. Robin had a terrific sense of humor and made me laugh. Oh, how I wanted to tell her how much I loved her in bed! How I wanted to hold her full-bodied figure so I could hear her heart next to mine!

During the year I broke up with Ronald, I managed to fulfill many of my sexual fantasies with women. I went out with Jill Siegel who was a paradigm of my first lady lover whom I met in college. She had short dark hair and mystical dark eyes. She seduced me on our first date by slowly peeling off her bra and pulling it through the bottom of her t-shirt. She led me into her bedroom and undressed for me revealing voluptuous breasts, a flat tummy and curvaceous legs. I lay on the bed next to her and she ordered me to get undressed which I did. She lay down and held my hand. After a pregnant pause, she put her hand on her leg and then I took the lead, became an aggressive little puppy, and penetrated her velveteen goldmine. Oh, how wonderful it felt! I then rubbed her clit with my thumb while the rest of my four fingers were in her pussy until she came quietly with her eyes closed seemingly praying. A hush fell upon the room, and I got my clothes and left. Yes, Jill Siegel more than made up for Ronald’s absence.

“I’ll meet you at Starbucks in an hour,” I said.

“Sure, Miss.” I wondered if he would show up if sex wasn’t involved.

I debated whether I should put make-up on. We are brainwashed as women to believe we look better in make-up. It’s something our mothers harp on and shove down our throats. That was the great thing about Ronald. He loved me fat and ugly. When I got too thin, he’s order me fried shrimp from the Deerfield Beach diner. We would chew on the shrimp and then open our mouths and French kiss with the food traveling from one cavity to another. We would taste each other’s saliva and food, and then we would rip each other’s clothes off, leaving the underwear embedded in the jeans, and make passionate love. It was all about drugs, food, and sex. So, I ditched the idea of make-up. I did manage to put on a bra because I did not want to entice him. He loved my breasts. Lift and separate.

I looked at the clock and had managed to expend just five minutes. I had fifty minutes before I would see him. Was I really going to be a drug dealer? Doubt reared its ugly head like a sealed pistachio nut.

I did not want to ask my mother for money because then she would own me. I wanted to be my own person. Unemployment was out of the question because I could not live off of it. Prostitution was something the goyim did. And looking for a job? I had had it with interviews–the promises and disappointments. Yes, I would lead a double life as an unemployed writer/drug dealer. Now that I made up my mind, the next thing to consider was how I would deal with his advances.

Sex had deteriorated once I started taking the Risperdal. I started to stress out while Ronald was in jail. Once he was out, I could not come no matter how dirty Ronald talked to me or how long he kept it up. It was so depressing. What was once electric was now stale and dry.

However, I was so horny. Even if I did not come, I would have that black dick inside of me, and his warm soul close to mine. What did he even look like? It was a year since I had last seen him. The anticipation drove me to drink some orange juice so sloppily, that it dribbled down my sweatshirt. I had to change.

I changed the red hooded sweatshirt into the green hooded sweatshirt. Another minute killed. Starbucks was around the corner, five minutes away next to Winn Dixie. I had fifty minutes to kill. The clock wasn’t moving. I surrendered to my anxiety. I sat on the sofa and began to chain smoke. After I finished the last one, I went through the exit strategy which consisted of putting my cigarettes in my fanny pouch, slipping into my shoes and locking the door behind me.

I got into my car, and drove the familiar drive to Winn Dixie. I still liked the trees along the way. I passed what was once my place of employment, the green and white sign gone, and pulled into the parking light. The green circle of Starbuck’s stood out like the one breast of an Amazon.

Of course, Ronald wasn’t there yet. I’d have to wait. I started pacing in front of the store, and got weird looks from the white, heterosexual couples gayly dancing through the doors. I went back to my car and sat inside and listened to the rap music station. All of a sudden I heard a knock on my window. He appeared like the ghost of Christmas past.

“Miss, let’s go somewhere else…this is just too boogie, boogie,” he said. “Can I get in?”

“How did you get here?” I asked because I knew his old car had been impounded and he never bothered to get it out.

“What are you? The FBI?” he said. I never got a straight answer from Ronald.
“All right,” I said in a resigned sign. “Get in.”

“We’ll drive around,” he said. “Florida is so boogie boogie.” That was Ronald’s slang for bourgeois. And I didn’t even live in Boca.

“You mean there isn’t a place sleazy enough for you?” He was silent and his eyes just stared into the universe. He was so guilty of everything, but he managed to appear innocent.

“We’ll go to the beach then, find a bench and talk,” I said.

“Okay, Miss,” he said sweetly.

We instead drove down 441 in Margate where all the signs were of bright orange–pawnshops, check cashing places, bail bonds men and the like. This was the perfect place to talk drug dealings.

“Ronald, I need money. I want to do a drug run.”

“Miss, you sure?”

“I’m sure. I give up on society. I’ve tried everything. I’ve accomplished all of my career goals, but something is missing–excitement.” Just saying that lifted a burden from my shoulders.

“I can send you to Amsterdam. The new government is cracking down on the drug trade so we’ll have to be careful. But there’s a shitload of stuff I got to move. And quick.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said surprised by my air of certainty.

“Y’ know, I’m proud of you. It’s about time you stopped being the nice Jewish girl from Long Island who does whatever Mommy wants her to do,” he said in a tone that was at once taunting and loving. Only Ronald could pull off such contradictions.
I was at once angry and humiliated. But I had no choice but to put up with the feeling. Humiliation can be a warm feeling. It means the other person really loves you, but in a twisted way.

“Now, Miss, let’s go home now that you are married to the mob,” he said. “I’m jones’n for you.” He rubbed his crotch. This always had turned me on, and it did this time too. I could handle another time of sex with Ronald. In fact, I wanted it. I needed penetration. I could always finish it off with the vibrator. Although I would have to endure his accusations of my being frigid. That hurt.

We headed home, reaching the familiar confines of Hillsboro Boulevard with all of its fast food chains. I passed the Tire Kingdom, a place that had tried to rip me off, a blemish in the otherwise smooth skin of the street. I pulled into my parking space, the last one near the mailbox which the neighbors usually saved for me. I was home. Home sweet home.

Ronald followed me to the doorstep, in his laid back way, his belly protruding from all the alcohol he consumed. I fumbled for my key. I knew it was the point of no return.

We climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and entered. I was always uncomfortable having company as lonely as I was. Whenever I had friends over, I could not wait for them to leave. But there was a sense of purpose to this visit.

We sat on the black leather couch, and Ronald pulled out a joint from his pocket. Drugs were the foreplay of sex. I inhaled the pot, and immediately coughed. Ronald made fun of me. He or she who coughs when he or she takes a hit is uncool. However, the cough enhanced the high. I felt weightless and unencumbered.

“Let’s get to bed,” he said. I obeyed.

I undressed and took the left side of the bed. Near the ashtray. Like a song I once heard said, sometimes I had an ashtray heart. Ronald wanted that side of the bed because he did not want to be next to the wall.

“Does it matter what side of the bed you are on? You’re not going to spend the night anyway,” I said. He would fuck me, we’d eat, and he’d split. This was his M.O.
“Oh, miss,” he grumbled. “You ain’t easy.”

“I’m lying next to you naked. What can be easier than that?” I replied. He was silent.

“You’re such a lessie.”

He started sucking my nipples. Ronald never kissed me or gave me head. Then he paused and stuck his tongue in my ear like a puppy would. It tickled.
“Ronald,” I whined. He continued.

“Take off your panties,” he ordered with a very serious, Bernard King-like game face.
Just the word turned me on, coming from his thick black lips that almost reached to his nose. His nose took up the rest of his face. He often referred to himself as “an ugly nigger.”

I obeyed, my lips starting to throb.

He took off his clothes like a curtain opening before the first act. He revealed his dick which was hard and erect.

“Get on top,” he ordered again. This was our position. It had proven to be the charm for nearly eight years. Ronald had always given me orgasms. For this, I was grateful. I had had the hardest time coming with anybody but black men. Ronald was no different. With him, I came every time and became a sexual being. Then, even the Xerox machines made me horny.

I sat on his erect black dick. It felt so good, having him inside me. I started pumping up and down and getting into it. My juices flowed. I worked up a sweat.
“Talk to me Ronald, talk to me,” I said. I was not there yet so I needed guidance.
“Make your pussy come,” he said softly. “Make your pussy come on my big black dick.” This turned me off momentarily because Ronald’s dick wasn’t big, it was average, and I had told him once before. He knew. But what did I expect in the heat of passion? Come on my puny dick?

“Oh, Ronald,” I cried, as I could feel myself on the threshold.

“Make it come for me!” he said louder. I loved the control Ronald had over me in bed. I loved how my body responded to him.

I felt the netherworld of the state where your mind and body are one-before an orgasm. I screamed and then the final release. I rolled over exhausted and sweating, my whole body shaking.

“Did you come?” he asked.

“What do you think?” I asked back angrily as you would to a lover of sixty years. That was the dumbest part of men. They never knew when you came. Women know when other women come. That is what is so precious about having sex with a woman.

Then it was Ronald’s turn. Like a lesbian lover, we took turns. It was the part I dreaded. I guess I was a selfish lover. I flipped on my back, and he penetrated me. I just lay there, while his face grimaced. It was the same grimace as when he took a hit off a joint.

“Oh, baby, your wet pussy feels so good,” he cried.

“Come, Ronald, come,” I said. Somehow imploring Ronald to come was not the same as his imploring me to come.

He held his breath. I was getting impatient. Come already. Get this over with so we can eat.

He let out a little holler, pulled out and came in a little pool of semen on my belly. He grabbed the washcloth in the bathroom and wiped it off. He was good about that. He knew how much I hated the shit. I could never understand how women swallowed it. It disgusted me. Like moth diarrhea.

We both got dressed, and ordered two shrimp parmagianas from the local New York-style pizzeria. It was funny in Florida. If a restaurant billed itself as New York or even Brooklyn style it generally did well. Not only was that because most people were transplanted New Yorkers, but everybody knew that New York food was the best in the world–so filling and satisfying–like a full tank of gasoline, except better. Granted New York style food put you to sleep, but nothing felt better than lying on your bed with a full stomach. So unhealthy, but so good.

“So, Miss, are you ready to go to Amsterdam?”

“Sure as shootin’.” I flashed back to the section of Our Bodies Ourselves that had a picture of Dutch dykes. They seemed to be having such a good time and were so happy. That would be me.

About the Author
Janet is a freelance writer based in Southern California. She has published in Bareback Magazine, Freestylevision.com, and the Advocate, among other nationally known and internationally known consumer and trade magazines. She has also written for LGBT newspapers. She also has a B.A. in English from Colgate University.

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