Free Killing Johnny Fry by Walter Mosley

defensively.
    “I want you."
    There were maybe three moments of agonizing tension, and then Joelle jumped up.
    “Let‘s go to brunch at the art museum,” she said. “Come on. Let‘s get dressed and go."
    Outside, the stress released. It was beautiful, not a summer day at all. More like late spring or early fall. The light through the trees in Central Park was dappled and dancing. The breezes had a hint of a chill to them.
    Joelle‘s mood lightened when mine did. We talked about a line
of
silk T-shirts that one of her clients wanted to market. She thought that he should have them placed near jewelry that complimented the fabric.
    I didn‘t understand, and she spent half our walk through the park explaining what women thought when they considered buying any garment.
    “It‘s like when a woman is considering a boyfriend,” she said.
    “What does that mean?"
    “There are a lot of aesthetic issues a girl has when she wants to hook up,” she said.
    “Like what?"
    “Well,” she said. “You know most sisters want a black man. Some younger African-American women will settle for a white guy who can think black if he has to."
    Like Johnny Fry,
I thought.
    “And then there‘s how tall he is compared to her . . . in heels,” she said. “And there‘s how he smells."
    “You mean no funk?"
    “That depends. Some girls like a guy who smells like a guy. Others want sweet or spicy, and still others want no scent at all. Those women don‘t really like men too much but they feel they have to have one . . . for appearances."
    “Like a necklace with one of your T-shirts,” I said.
    “Exactly."
    “What do you want, Jo?” I asked.
    We were somewhere near the middle of the park. She put her arm around my waist.
    “I‘m happy with what I have,” she said. And then she whispered, “Is it still hard?"
    “Yes, ma‘am."
    She let her weight loll to the right and pulled me toward a thick clump of trees and bushes next to a stone bridge.
    The leafage partially hid us, but someone could see . . . if they were looking.
    “I know how to make it go down,” she told me.
    “How?"
    “Take it out."
    To her Surprise, and mine, I unzipped, allowing my hard-on to jut out from my pants.
    “Oh God,” she whispered. “It looks even bigger than last night."
    I remembered Sisypha slapping her lovers‘ hard things and wondered if even that would daunt my obsession.
    Jo was wearing a tan skirt and a multicolored striped T-shirt that didn‘t make it down to her navel. She looked around quickly and then hiked the skirt up and turned her back to me while pulling her panties to the side.
    “Are you ready?” she said.
    Before she could finish the three words I was in her. She moaned loudly, “Oh God yes."
    I almost lost my erection then. I was sure that someone would have heard that. I imagined being arrested for lewd behavior in a public place. But then another thought came to me: Johnny Fry and Joelle had stood in this very same spot. He had pulled her into this semisecluded space and fucked her while people walked over the bridge and on the path less than five feet away.
    When I realized this, I began humping her, grunting like Sisypha had with Mel. Just when I was about to come, I spun her around and pushed her to her knees. She took the head of my cock into her mouth and my whole world turned into a grin. I was at the verge of ejaculation when I looked up and saw three Asians, a young man and two young women, on the path staring at me. I smiled at them and then experienced a violent teeth-grinding orgasm. My eyes opened wide, and my mouth could barely contain the smile. The three pedestrians stared at me in wonderment.
    Jo was tugging at my pulsing erection, squeezing it and licking the come as quickly as it sprouted from the head.
    After she was finished, she looked up at me and smiled, then grinned.
    She stood up, pulling down her skirt, and took me by the hand. We walked past the giggling Asian girls and their friend. Jo gave