Five o’clock on a Friday
afternoon. Weekend here I come! I slip the keys in the ignition and push the
button to let the top down on my convertible before I inhale the air
deeply. Ahhhh. Nothing like the smell of wet sand after a fresh rain. I smile at the sun before pealing out of the parking
lot, tire squeal covering up my laughter.
I tell you, Monday through
Thursday I’m as low-brow and conservative as they come. But Friday
after lunch, I strongly resemble a kid going to Disney World. I can’t
wait to leave. Can’t wait to forget about work for two whole
days.
I pump up the radio’s volume as “Got to be Real” blares out the speakers. Uh uhm! I love me some old school R & B.
Whenever I hear this particular song, my body just starts bopping to
the beat on its own. I don’t care where I am, my hips start swaying and
my head dipping.
I wink at two young guys in an Escalade smiling at me.
They station search until they find the one I’m listening to and we bop heads in unison. One thing about our people, we love us
some music.
Dog! I should have known they weren’t going to act right. The driver is now mouthing the words, his facial expressions
exaggerated. The passenger is—oh, my goodness!—sticking his finger in
his mouth then running it down his chest. Uhmp. Wonder what that
means?
I just shake my head before twirling my hand—index finger
extended—in the air on the long “Reeal-eal-eal-eal- eal-eal-eal-eal-eal-eal-eal-eal-eal!” Then I shoo-doop my butt off
with Cheryl Lynn. Ain’t no young busters gonna steal my joy. The
Escalade’s horn is now beeping at me. I ignore them while I twitch hips to
the final “Da-dump!” We both stop at another light, them beeping, me
ignoring.
Wait a minute! Ah snap! This is my jam! I writhe like a snake as “Let’s Do It Again” oozes out the speakers. Ain’t no
other song in the world can get me in the mood like this one
can.
“Sweet love in the midnight. Good sleep come morning light.” Sang, Mavis!
My husband’s face swims before me. I feel the
meltdown in my body, hoping fiercely that he is home ’cause I’m sure ready to do “it” again. The Escalade gives me one last beep
before speeding past. I’m glad. I was tired of chaps invading grown
folk’s space.
“I like the ladies. So fine with their pretty hair.” Pop
Staples is doing his gig now and I help him along, cruising
and smooving to the groove. I reach home but sit out in the driveway
waiting for the last “Woo-hoo-a- hooooo.” I’m fired up by this time.
Davante’s car is here so y’all know it’s on now!
I spring
through the door like a bunny on crack. “Baby!” I yell as I drop my
keys and walk through the foyer looking for my hunk of burning
love.
I hear, “Don’t take another step,” coming from the direction of the den. “What?” I ask, confused. Did something happen? Is
something wrong?
The next sound I hear is the opening bars of
that set-the- church-on-fire song from The Color Purple, “God Is Trying to Tell you Something.” Now, whereas old school R & B gets me
hot, gospel music turns my husband on! Yeah, he’s a deacon, teaches Sunday School and the whole nine yards, but I tell you,
after church, we don’t go out to eat. Uh uh. We got bizness to tend to at the
house, if you know what I mean.
Davante’s shoulder dips around
the corner before pulling back. I hear him moaning with the song and my
lower body starts leaking. “Speak, Lawd.”
The shoulder dips
back into view then the other one. I now realize that he is
“choir-rocking” his way to me. And, as I look further, he is wearing
only a hip towel. Yeah, baby! “Speak, La-aw-awd. Speak to
me.” Step. Sway. “I want you to speak to me.” His husky tenor ad libbed.
“Open your shi-ir-irrt. And let me see.” I rip my blouse open, my
see-through bra visible. “Speak, Lawd.” Step. Dip this time. Sway.
I
became the background singer for his lead vocals. “Speak to me.” I
step, sway with him. “I was so bli-i-ind. Now I just wanna see.” I unhook
my bra. “Speak to me.” “Speak, Lawd.” We are only five feet apart when he
drops his towel. “Ah yes, speak to me, baby. Speak!” I yell as I looked at
all that nakedness that was soon to be mine. “Then you spoke to me.”
He swivels his hips.
My blood pressure spikes my brain cells. “Speak to
me! Speak to me! Yes!” I was all off beat but didn’t care ’ cause I felt a touch of the Holy Ghost as I watch him swivel
again. “Ah, La-aw-wd! You spoke to me.” His fingers trace between my
breast.
I didn’t know what he told him, but something told me to grab ahold and work him for all I was worth. I jump up and wrap my
legs around his waist. He backs me into the wall, lips fused with mine.
The song speeds up and he starts grooving me to the beat. By the time
we get the fast part where they sing, “He is trying to tell you something!”
Davante is pistoning like a champion. My mind floats away as I
“speak” and tell him plenty of things with my hips and lips.
I
knew he was nearing the end of this short journey when he shouts in my
ear, “I’m telling you something, baby! Do you hear me? Do! You! Hear!
Me?!” His hips punctuate the words.
“Yes! Baby, I hear you! I
hear you!” I scream as the shivers run down my spine and my pelvis
staccatos him to the beat.
He grunts. I moan. Loud.
Then louder…
Finally, my legs are let down to the floor and we
stand hugging, sweat coating both of us. We rock and hum to “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” cooling down. My body is still
throbbing, still tingling as he rubs my back.
Then…the beginning strains
of his latest favorite gospel song, “The Devil Don’t Like It Cause I’m
Blessed Like That.” His hips began swaying and the “heavenly stick” begins rising.
Ah sukey, now!
A smile creeps onto my face as
he rubs his chin across my cheek, kisses my neck. He whispers, “Baby,
want to go for a two-fer?”
