Free Gettin' Buck Wild: Sex Chronicles II by Zane

Pink Lady,” Black told him before he could take off again.
    The bartender looked at him funny and then chuckled. “Sure, I’ll be right back with it.”
    I leaned over closer to Black. “So is that your way of proving that you’re a real man?”
    “No, that’s my way of trying out a new drink that I’ve never heard of that looks interesting.”
    I slapped him gently on the arm. “I like that answer. Now go ahead and describe me.”
    “Okay, but it would help if I knew your name.”
    “Oops, that might help. My name is Tenage.”
    “Gorgeous.”
    “What, my name?”
    “You and your name are both gorgeous. By the way, I’m Black.”
    I couldn’t help but blush. “So describe me, Black.”
    “Tenage is about five-ten with smooth skin the color of the finest mahogany wood in the world. Her eyes are like black pearls, and her hair is like silk. Her facial features are perfectly placed, and she has this little mole on her left shoulder that’s incredibly sexy.”
    I was speechless for a second before saying, “Damn, you do make me sound exotic.”
    We both laughed.
    Black and I danced the night fantastic until it was time for the club to close. He asked me to go home with him, but I explained to him that my pussy wasn’t as readily available as some. I needed to be wined and dined and mesmerized before I gave up my most precious jewel.
    He seemed to be digging that and asked if I’d hang out with him the next day. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I said, “Sure.”
     
    The next morning Black picked me up in a burgundy Infinity SUV. It still smelled new, and it was right on the money. There’s nothing like cruising in a smooth ride. We cruised down to Haines Point. He had a prepared picnic. He won major brownie points for that move, because I had never had a Negro take me on a picnic, much less prepare the food himself. This was the real deal all right. I can tell store-bought food anywhere. I know some sistahs that sneak over to this local soul food shack to get their vegetables for Sunday dinner, go home and throw a chicken in an oven, and pretend that the greens, black-eyed peas, and collard greens are homemade. Some of them even get away with it, too.
    Black had laid it out: po’boy sandwiches with Havarti ham and smoked turkey covered with Swiss cheese, and carrot raisin salad. It was incredibly delicious. He also served fruit salad sprinkled with sparkling apple cider. He had a thermos full of Bellinis, my all-time favorite, for us to drink.
    Haines Point used to be the ultimate hangout. People rode around in circles for hours to see who they could see. My sister met her husband that way. The D.C. police had put a stop to that years ago—shit got out of hand. But our picnic was peaceful. We laid out a blanket down by the statue. The breeze coming off the water was great. I spotted someone fishing on the Potomac, which surprised me because fish often roll up to the shores belly-up.
    Black and I discussed everything from A to Z. He told me about his childhood in Jamaica. Surprised me, too—he didn’t have an accent. He said that he had moved to America when he was ten and made a gallant effort to speak like the people around him.
    I had grown up in D.C. and didn’t consider that a damn thing to brag about. Like most Washingtonian natives, I had never really experienced all the museums or landmarks because it was taken for granted that they would always be there.
    Black was a restaurant manager. His job had transferred him from Richmond, Virginia. That meant he often had to work long hours, and he made sure that I knew that up front. Apparently, he’d had problems in previous relationships because the women felt he was neglecting them for work. I told him that, as a night auditor, he had to be even more understanding about my job. He said that was cool.
    The Bellinis started kicking in, and I was beginning to feel kind of frisky.
    “Hey, have you ever been out to the Bay Bridge?” I asked