Alyssa Brown


About Her


 Her poem:

      Functioning defectives.

      Who giggle at your fears.

      Touching things clumsily with poignance that only we can hear.

      We quickly go to smash the circle in the square space.

      Things in us began to race.

      Then she screams:

      I’m not wrong mama!

      I’m not wrong!

      I love her and that’s not wrong!

      The crowd is as confused by this crying mess as I am. She has to be ushered off the stage. And since I’m a masochistic jerk, nosy to boot, I go to see what’s wrong. To see if I can help. Its been well, never since I’ve seen or heard emotion so real.

      “The first part of the poem was amazing,” I began, snaking around to her side. Her creamy shoulder bare and mahogany. The tears spilling out of her black eyes the stuff of fairy tale beauty. I knew she’d be the one that I’d love.

      “The second part confused me.”

      This coffee deity flung her tears off into the crowd of the poetry slam. She wasn’t secretive about her break. She didn’t care who witnessed her anguish.

      She opened her small mouth to a huge huff of breath. I moved closer as if to kiss her. Her hand went instantly to my throat. Warding me off when I wasn’t even going to touch her. I just wanted to be in that breath.

      She shoved me off and swayed back to the stage. Her crimson red dread locks dancing on her back. Playing peek-a-boo with a massive owl tattoo.

      “Sorry about that. Well I’m not really sorry because I feel better. So fuck it.

      Eve’s children are the enemies of Satan.

      So does that mean we can’t be friends with each other.

      Lovers.

      Sharing the same skin.

      What sin?

      I must be flawed to ya.

      Always trying to do everything different.

      When you just want the dick in.

      She finished her random rants that formed a story of brilliance and pain. Love and family betrayals. Nothing made sense. Everything did. Things that would rhyme one minute followed in the next breath as bullshit by her rhetoric. The crowd was entranced. Feeling it. I was ready to yank her thick ass off the stage.

      Her voice was doing me in. So breathy and full. Crooning to everyone in a way a lover would late at night after the loving. After satiation ended and new hungers began.

      I.

      Wanted.

      This.

      Woman.

      “Alright! Damn! Y’all that was Fred with Violent Random. Give your girl a round!”

      The crowd thundered to…Fred, who was off sipping a steaming cup of something. She nodded at everyone, as if she hadn’t just shifted their worlds. Or mine.

      I made my way over to her, and her eyes assessed me. She wasn’t seeing much. And Fred seemed to take my thoughts in, because she sat down her drink and made a distinct exasperated sound.

      “Ugh.”

      I wanted to die.

      “What do you want little girl? An autograph?”

      This from the woman who’d just shamelessly told her business to a crowded poetry club and crumbled under the strain by weeping into her very delicate hands.

      “A number maybe,” I shot back.

      She grinned. Her teeth white and crooked.

      “You look like a boy, little girl. I don’t give my number to men.” She sipped her drink.

      Had to be tea. She had to be insane for drinking it in the ninety degree heat. Added by the bodies of everyone in the room.

      In my pause to think of a response to spit to her, she lost interest in me. I was failing!

      So I took off my oversized polo, and wiggled out of my oversized shorts. Underneath, a tight black tank top and bike shorts in black. I folded the clothes and put them next to her drink at the bar. Kicked my feet up to tighten the laces of my Nike’s and tore the tight pony tail I’d just sported out. Hair spilled around my face.

      “I won’t change myself for you, but is this better?”

      I knew what she was seeing. Some frail little girl trying so hard to be a man and failing. Just like my under age game. Failing because I was so clearly a woman. With woman assets.

      Fred nodded at me. Her hand reached out to touch my hair.

      “Pretty,” she whispered. She leaned over and inhaled. Shuddered. “Your name?”

      “Not Fred I know that,” I whispered back. We were getting intimate. That shook me. It was fast. I wasn’t as ready as I thought.

      Fred waited for me to stop smelling myself. The pretty comment threw me.

      “Angel,” I mumbled.

      Fred barked with laughter.

      “Is that a given?”

      I nodded and blushed as her hands curled around my neck. Bringing me closer to her curves. When I sank into that space between her breasts and thighs it was I who shuddered.

      Damn these clothes. They were a second skin. I felt everything! Her white linen halter dress told me and the world that she was nude underneath. And indeed thick as hell. And red of hair. Heh.

      We moved together to the words of a female siren on stage. Her poem was about…I couldn’t even think what it was about.

      My hands traced the owl on Fred’s back. Hers dug into my shorts.

      “Whoa!” I jumped back.

      Fred was grinning. After that she patted me on the head and was gone.

      That was five years ago. When I was sixteen and new to my sexuality. To women. To myself.

      I thought I’d conquer Fred, when she was the one who frightened me. She was intense and obviously older. While I was indeed the little girl trying to be too grown.

      “Angel, where are you?”

      My eyes rolled up from where I was to look at Boricua Morena. I bit into her thigh and licked the spot until she had no more words.

      “I’m here baby. Can’t you feel me?”

      “Ay papi,” she moaned.

      I was teasing her to hear those Spanish love words. Bilingual bitch. She tasted like sorifito. Good with, on, and in everything.

      When she started to growl at me I got excited.

      “Fuck this pussy! Fuck this wet pussy bitch,” she taunted.

      I shrugged. Ok.

      Later, when she was too tired to keep her eyes open, and when I was too bored to hear her scream…did my thoughts return to Fred.

      I played my hand in Boricua Morena’s swollen lips. Separated and absently delved into her inner goodness. She shifted and rolled her hips with me.

      “Angel. Stop it.”

      I didn’t. Because she didn’t want me to. When I came to see her it was always about one thing. And she never wanted me to stop.

      “Ahhh. Ahhhhhhh. Mmmmm.”

      I played with the idea of breaking up with her on a foolish quest for the one who got away. The world was small. The city smaller. I was bound to find her. Either in this life or the next.

      I wanted to see what she would have done if I’d let her soft hands dig down deeper into my shorts. To see how her red hair would have looked with my black when we pushed up together.

      I shuddered. Boricua Morena thought it was because of what she was doing with her mouth. It was all the incentive she needed.

      She yanked my thighs open wider and spayed her hand against my center. Her middle finger massaging that point. Her thumb rotating inside.

      I jumped. Cursed. Shit. Yeah.

      Talented thing. Doing two opposite actions at once. Talented!

      She replaced my thoughts with her actions. I felt like she was taking me somewhere important.

      She’d move her hips in time with the beat of the song playing on repeat. Her clitoris rubbing into mine as if it were going on a trip.

      I sighed. Boricua Morena was pleased.

      Matsayuri however wasn’t. I was late for our HentaiCon date. She liked to show me yaoi. It turned me on to see two sexy men loving each other. Yuri I was living in the flesh. It did nothing for me.

      Matasyuri, my Japanese girlfriend liked to sex me in public. Pull down my pants, lick up my leg, watch me come type public. Push me up against a brick wall rub clits type public. She was a Japanese Lolita who sold her panties online. I met her through a friend who worshipped her pictures.

      Gracias Boricua Morena.

      And NekNek was my hood chick. Had my name tattooed on her neck, halos on her long acrylic nails, and she rocked clean Air Forces or Jordan’s daily.

      NekNek was down always. I could call her at a moment’s notice and chick would be in her mom’s ride in an instant. Coming to see me.

      Her body was a gift to mankind. One of those sexy yellow chicks that men hated to see me with. Because they’d rather she be with them. Not holding my hand, all proud and rocking the rainbow.

      “Fuck them niggas Ang!” She’d yell if I got down at their comments. “They just hating cuz you get more pussy than them.”

      She’d kiss me. They’d howl in outrage. I’d blush and feel like the man.

      NekNek was a dancer. Her apple bottom, small waist and juicy lips would hypnotize. She liked to strip when we made love. Her hip control was crazy. I’d always start kissing them in reverence just to see if I worshipped them enough, if I’d be able to do the same thing with mine. When that didn’t work I settled for licking.

      NekNek cried when she came. So I’d always kiss her. Tell her lies. And wonder what happened.

      “I was raped,” she admitted. It was why she didn’t date men. She was afraid of them.

      Then there was B Girl. My best friend. My ace boon. The straightest bitch in creation. The only woman I really loved. The tease. I guess I loved her because she embodied so much of what attracted me to Fred those years ago.

      B Girl liked to get fucked up around me and let her pent up desires loose. Then front like she didn’t just kiss the shit outta me. Like her hand didn’t just have breast in them a second ago.

      B Girl just didn’t know. I won’t get too deep into her, cuz she’s a chasm. I’d go on for days searching for an exit if I got into her. But she was a magnetic character. Drew people to her without meaning to. Her boyfriends when she had them, never lasted long.

      “She’s extreme,” they’d tell me.

      I’d only nod and call them bitch niggas because they couldn’t hang.

      Why all these women you ask? Why not, I ask back. No really…

      It all lead back to Fred. In the hopes that I’d never be patted on the head as too young and inexperienced, that a beautiful woman would never find me unworthy, I took them on when they came. The beauty. The freak. The victim. The nerd.

      I didn’t chase them.

      Call me Bossley with my Angels.

      When I was twenty-two I was deep into the game of juggling my three mains. It was putting a strain on my professional life. So I was fired for sleeping on the job.

      Fuck you TSA.

      After a considerable amount of time getting tore down at Dugan’s, I dragged my sorry unemployed ass to my car.

      “Hey Pretty Angel.”

      I squinted from the sun’s glare. It wasn’t even three yet.

      Screw you after five happy hour!

      The sun only showed me jewel tones of crimson and onyx.

      “Huh?” I asked in stupefied belligerence.

      Then she walked out of the sun and the words dried out on my tongue. It was none other than Fred. Poetic Dream made flesh. Creator of Violent Random. The manuscript to my soul.

      I played it cool since I was drunk. Like I didn’t know who the hell she was. When really I was jumping up and down at the chance to show her how much I’ve grown. To show how much of a lover of women I’d become. Enough to ensnare even her.

      “Hello,” I breathed finally.

      Fred grinned and dipped her head. Her locks where to the middle of her back now. They spilled out of her head band.

      “Pretty Angel has become a boy huh?” Her hands on her wide hips. She laughed at her own cleverness. The motion pulled at her bohemian brown wrap dress.

      She meant my shaved head. My baggy uniform.

      “Shit,” I mumbled fighting with my buttons.

      “Undressing again? I know you’re a woman. Try as hard as you want to hide it. I can smell it. And if I wanted to see it I’d undress you myself.”

      “That got me wet.” Wait…I’d said that aloud. “Shit.”

      Fred laughed and walked over to me. Floated more like it. My brain felt fuzzy. She didn’t seem to move at all. I wondered if she even had on shoes to move so smooth.

      She pulled me to her car and drove me in silence to a place.

      She hummed old Erykah Badu songs since her radio seemed to be smashed.

      “Where?” Was all I could muster in question.

      “Wherever.” Her hand went to my thigh.

      I took a nap after that. Hoping to sleep off some of the liquor flooding my system. When I awoke it was dark and I was by a lake. Fred was no where to be seen. And I was sober.

      Then I heard it. Splashing. I scratched my face and followed the trees to the lake.

      Fred looked like a pagan goddess rising out of the depths of our every desire as she stepped out of that water. Her ebony body glistening in the moonlight. Making stars jealous as droplets kissed each curve.

      I jumped out of the car and ran. Stripping as I went. My hope was to tackle her into the water and get her…her mouth on my mouth. Her taste in my mouth. Her skin on my skin.

      Fred met me half way.

      “You’re sexy as fuck and I want you to know it. I’ve dreamed about you in those stupid little shorts. And I’m highly upset you cut your gorgeous hair,” she said as she ripped my panties off.

      I panted.

      “I’ll grow it back.”

      Our bodies collided in a hard rush. Our hands fighting. Her mouth, that small thing, was a devil. It was a sweet confection that was making my blood pressure high. The way her thighs pushed into me, the way she held me close to her…

      I sighed as she pushed me to the ground. Trembled when she looked down at me with her black eyes.

      “You were too young,” she whispered as she kissed my breasts.

      I gripped her locks.

      “I’m glad we found each other again. You don’t get second chances often.”

      I sighed as her hand brushed through my pubic curls.

      Fred tickled me until I squirmed under her.

      Her fingers brought me to a screaming, unheard of for me, orgasm that had me spasming on the ground like a dying fish.

      Fred giggled at me. Her lips pressing into mine in velvet brushes.

      “Stop calling your God Pretty Angel.”

      Fred did things to me that I was not prepared for. Which made me want to cry. I’d lost and gained so much. For nothing. Or was it everything? I couldn’t tell which with her against me.

      In the span of six years, one little encounter had altered the kind of person I’d become. And I’d let it just for the chance to be with this one woman. And she was…incredible. Amazing. More than I’d expected. And still, I wasn’t enough.

      My girlfriends meant nothing. They’d dissolved in the face of Fred. My high paying, good benefit job, gone. I was broken. Fred’s touch made me whole. That scared me.

      Again I was sixteen, pushing her away.

      “Come now Pretty Angel, gimme what you got.”

      I pretended she was Boricua Morena slinging Spanish words at me as I ate her desire.

      Fred keened.

      The sound piqued my ears.

      “More,” she panted.

      I leaned her up against a tree like she was Matsayuri. Rubbed into her like I was trying to find entrance.

      Fred hollered.

      “Not enough,” she moaned.

      I rolled my hips in figure eights against her. Making her feel my control over myself and over her. Moved in time to the song she’d hummed earlier. NekNek, thank you baby.

      Fred came keening and hollering and crying. Holding onto me like I were the only thing in the world.

      I was flushed and tired. So wet it was insane. So content that I could finally BREATHE.

      We bathed together in the lake. And fell asleep kissing in the back of her Toyota. My black and her red pressed together. Trying to fit the circle in the square space.

      “I’m old enough to be your mother,” Fred whispered as she kissed my temple.

      I laughed and traced her nipples with a finger. Fred sighed and bumped her forehead against mine.

      I inhaled her fragrance and got real young on her real quick.

      I didn’t chase them. But with Fred…I may just follow at a sedate pace.

Alyssa Brown is currently a starving artist.