Making the Hook-Up Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  THREE KISSES

  FOR NITA

  GOT MILK?

  RAIN

  STRANGERS IN THE WATER

  KEEPING UP WITH THE JONESES

  DANGEROUS COMFORT

  PHARAOH’S PHALLIC

  LONNIE’S LICKS

  HUNG

  IRRESISTIBLE

  ALL DAY

  WHEN THE RIVER

  SEX AND CHOCOLATE

  A TASTE OF TYRELL

  WELCOME HOME

  LIGHTS ON A CAVE WALL

  VELVET

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION

  My quest to create this anthology stems from a conversation I had some years ago with Calvin Herndon, author of the bestselling Sex and Racism in America, who told me, shortly before I attempted my first erotic story: “When Black people are allowed to indulge the usual sins, the customary fetishes, and all the regular vices humans are permitted, then they will have achieved total sexual citizenship. Otherwise, they will remain trapped in the usual stale stereotypes and labels the world has assigned to us.”

  I never forgot that statement. With this collection, I sought to expand and broaden the psychological and sexual terrain of the Black community. The reflection of the Black sexual being, as Professor Herndon added, should be just as creative and innovative as the soulful simmer of singer Nina Simone, the barely concealed bite of bluesman John Lee Hooker or the electrified muted moans of jazz trumpeter Miles Davis. As sexual beings, our people should be able to reflect joy, pleasure and other blissful emotions in their lives besides rage and bitterness. It’s there in our music, our walk, our sense of fashion, our art, our literature, everything: that hip element of sexy soul.

  When I sent out the call for submissions, I noted that I was “looking for edgy, stereotype-busting erotic stories with sizzle and soul…. No baby daddies. No tireless studs with anacondas between their legs. No hotties or chickenheads with ‘motordriven coozes.’”

  The stories poured in from all over the world, sexual yarns that were not about the Other or the Outsider, but people of color redefined and redeemed in sensual terms. Writers took risks, embracing themes of tolerance, acceptance and worth, as if the erotic world wanted to be rid of unpleasant generalizations and sexual bugaboos and just get on with the natural business of living and loving.

  These stories feature lovers and partners on a wide range of emotional and sensual adventures. The characters retain their dignity while communicating with and even submitting to their partners’ feelings and needs.

  These stories show lovers and partners going for it all despite the reality that they may not get much in return, that circumstances may lead to separation. That’s what I like about these tales. They insist that lovers and partners reach out again and again to move beyond the loneliness, isolation and boredom. As they take risks and make substantial changes in their lives, they sometimes find intimacy that promotes healing.

  You will find both old friends and new faces in this tribute to the diversity of our fantasies and the potency of provocative sexuality in all of its many forms. Tenille Brown’s “Lonnie’s Licks,” has playful fun with the concept of addictive behavior. Monica Elaine’s “Got Milk?” combines both the erotic and screwball comedy. Preston Allen’s “Three Kisses,” features a casino setting and a pair of devious, horny individuals trying to outsmart each other with raw talk, big cash and a trio of sumptuous kisses. British writer Leone Ross pens a mellow yarn of fantasy and flesh in “When the River,” where things have a way of going awry. A very real river is the focal point where the erotic past is reclaimed in the present in R. Gay’s thoughtful “Strangers in the Water.”

  Zetta Brown tells of a juror named Number Nine with good reason in “Hung,” in which a single woman alleviates the tedium of civic duty with steamy activity. In “For Nita,” Jolie du Pre, editor of Swing, tracks the blossoming of a formerly meek woman who flees an abusive marriage and recaptures her sexual self through the ministrations of not one, but two horny men at once in a fantasy come true.

  The nature of a fetish life is what concerns Shakir Rashaan in “Welcome Home,” a story of a lusty Master embraced by two submissive women after being on the road. If it’s potent romantic love you want, a trio of stories, Garnell Wallace’s “Sex and Chocolate,” Zaji’s “Lights on a Cave Wall” and Asha French’s “All Day” provide warm kisses, overflowing hearts and glowing embraces. Veteran erotic writer Shane Allison contributes a raunchy encounter between two previously unacquainted moviegoers facilitated by a convenient leather jacket in “Dangerous Comfort.”

  Any sexual experience expands our consciousness, especially when unrestricted by money, class or custom. Kweli Walker, Fiona Zedde, Deepbronze, Reginald Harris and Jolene Hui explore those areas outside of the classic themes of lust and desire with skill and imagination.

  In Making the Hook-Up, you are invited to fantasize, dream, think and imagine yourself in each story. The stories tell some basic truths about us: how we live and how we love. Enjoy—and put your soul into it!

  Cole Riley

  New York City

  THREE KISSES

  Preston Allen

  Docta Love had it bad for this little PR dealer he met up at the Indian casino, and when Docta Love had it bad, Docta Love hadda get his medicine.

  Got up that morning, took his customized van to the Handy-Wash, had ’em do the Deluxe Super Duper Special on it—$89.99 plus another $39.99 for the buff and wax.

  Motored up to the Indians, parked in the Self Park (another $15.99). Strolled inside. Solid gold swinging on his neck and blinking on his fingers. Looking big and fine in his trademark black Stetson, black polo to show off his tight biceps, and black droop-hip jeans that hung just right on his lean hips to show off his six-pack, his long, strong thighs.

  Walked right up to the floor man and slid him fifty. “What she dealing tonight?”

  The floor man laughed as the fifty disappeared. “Texas Hold ’em.”

  “Then that’s what I’m playing.”

  “There’s a long line ahead of you,” the floor man informed him. Another fifty appeared, another fifty disappeared, as the floor man nodded. “But I’m sure I can fit you in.”

  The place was crowded tonight. Gamblers on top of gamblers crowding the machines for a chance to lose. Gamblers on top of gamblers waiting for seats at the poker tables.

  Docta Love striding past all of them, passing through the velvet ropes as angry heads turned, angry comments hurled under and over angry breaths. Taking the one empty seat at her table, the seat right next to her luscious, lickable Thank-You-Jesus thighs.

  Popping his gum at her in greeting. Giving her that Docta Love smile. Perfect white teeth. Handsome broad-nosed black man with a cleft chin and double dimples.

  The PR dealer smiled back at him, nodding her head like, You again? Shit, you can try as hard as you like, brother, you ain’t getting none of this.

  But Docta Love had it bad, and Docta Love had a plan.

  She dealt him 2-3. He smiled. Folded.

  She dealt him 7-3. He smiled. Folded.

  She dealt him 4-6. He smiled. Folded.

  She dealt him 4-9. He smiled. Folded.

  She snorted, “You ain’t gonna play no cards tonight?”

  She had that chiseled PR face, with sharp cheeks, the almost square jaw, and the raven black hair pulled back so tight on her head that her eyebrows lifted like McDonald’s golden arches.

  “I’ll play…” he said deliberately slow, eyeing her swollen bosom, wondering fake or real, fake or real, fake or real, “…soon as you giv
e me some cards, dealer lady.”

  She dealt him AK, big slick, suited. He smiled. Held it. Called it. Raised it. Reraised it. Raised it all in. Won the pot. A big pot. $190.99. Did the quick math. He was ahead for the night despite the car wash and the greased palms.

  He gave her a nice tip. $190.

  Kept the .99 for himself.

  She liked that. You could see it from her smile. She liked that a lot. But she could also smell the trap. She closed up shop. Gave some kinda signal to her boss. Her shift, she suddenly announced, was over. She got transferred to another table.

  He watched her sexy little walk as she carried her dealer’s tray of chips and cards to the next table. Pretty little thing. Thick delicious lips. Her little button nose almost a white girl’s nose, but for the small gentle wings that screamed Africa. Her skin, about two shades lighter than his, screaming Africa too. She couldn’t be no older than twenty-three, twenty-four. Her booty singing swish swish as it swung in those tight dealer tuxedo pants with the velvet seams. Lord, it looked good. He watched until she looked back as he knew she would. Her eyes smiling like, I told you you weren’t gonna get none, brother. Thanks for the money. How you like them apples?

  He liked them apples a whole lot. Liked that ass, too.

  He called the floor man over. Whispered in his ear, “Why can’t my love and me be together?”

  A hundred appeared, a hundred disappeared, as the floor man said, “I’m sure it can be arranged.”

  Three minutes later, Docta Love was transferred to her new table, smiling up into her pretty brown-skinned face, his seat right next to her lovely lovable Thank-You-Jesus thighs.

  She dealt him 2-9. He smiled. Folded.

  She dealt him 4-8. He smiled. Folded.

  She dealt him A-A. He smiled. Held it. Called it. Raised it. Reraised it. Raised it all in. Won the pot. Another big pot. $294.43.

  Gave her a nice tip. $294.

  Kept the .43 for himself.

  Oh, she liked that. You could see from her smile. She liked that a whole lot.

  She fell into the trap.

  An hour later, she was dealing and smiling and talking with him about things a virtuous woman with a good husband and happy children at home should not be talking about—bra size 44DD, all natural just like her mama’s; virginity, lost it when she was fifteen, but regretted it ever since; orgasm, always from oral sex, almost never from the penis, unless it is a really big penis; swallowed, only once, didn’t like it; anal, too painful, does it only to make her husband happy; cheated, no, never cheated on her husband, well, never with a man.

  And he whispered, “I ain’t kidding around. You do it for me, baby. I been loving you ever since I first laid eyes on you.”

  “But I have a husband.”

  “It’s too late for that. I’m too far gone, girl. Look what you done did to me. I got a nice clean van waiting outside.”

  “It don’t make no difference to me.”

  “Your husband don’t make no difference to me.”

  “He does to me. I’m an honorable woman.”

  He sighed. Those tits were honorable. That ass—that ass was honorable. He laid his cards out on the table. Or at least he pretended to. “And I am an honorable man. My intentions are honorable. I think what happened was you misunderstood me. It ain’t what you think it is. I don’t want nothing from you, dealer lady, but a little kiss.”

  She replied, laughingly, “But I can’t kiss you. I’m married.”

  Docta Love answered, “But what if it was a business transaction?”

  “I ain’t no ho,” she rebuked him.

  He put up his hands. “You misunderstanding me again. What if the kiss was like part of an arrangement to fix something in your house? You and your husband so young. Young people always need money.”

  She shook her head. “We both have jobs. He is a police officer. We got enough money to fix whatever breaks in our house.”

  Docta Love splayed his fingers on the table so she could get a better look at his expensive golden rings. Compared to the cheap bauble she wore on her wedding finger. Hubby loved booty, but he was not, apparently, a wealthy man. “You tryin’ to tell me there ain’t nothing in your house need fixin’? So young. How many kids did you say you got?”

  “Two.”

  “Two young people with two kids…ya’ll live at home with your parents?”

  “We have our own house.”

  “Two kids and a mortgage. My, my, my.”

  “And we can take care of it.”

  “I can too.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You know how much money I won last year?”

  “How much?”

  He leaned in and whispered the obscene sum into her ear. He was slain by the whiff of perfume. Her soft skin. He whispered it slow.

  “Wow,” she said. She was thoroughly impressed. Three hundred thousand dollars ain’t no joke.

  “You smell nice,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “You look damned good too.”

  He leaned back in his seat, let her check him out real good. Long, strong, lean, and sexy. He looked damned good too.

  She dealt a dozen more hands. Even when he got good cards, he folded them. Just kept looking at her. Making his cheeks dimple. She was thinking it through.

  A half hour later, he folded another hand, and she said. “To be perfectly honest, we have a bathroom that needs remodeling.”

  He said, “Done deal.”

  “But I haven’t told you how much it costs.”

  He grinned, displaying those perfect, perfectly white teeth. “Money don’t mean shit to me.”

  “Forty-five hundred.”

  “Whatever.” He didn’t even blink at the figure, but then he leaned close to her face. “Now let me tell you how we gon’ do this. While you had me sittin’ here, playin’ me with this little waiting game, I been thinkin’ it through. The kinda money I’m offering you is worth more than one kiss. One kiss ain’t enough. I gotta have three.”

  The dealer nodded her head. Three kisses. Okay fine.

  Then Docta Love added, “Three kisses across three nights.”

  Three nights? The dealer, missing the sly smile playing on Docta Love’s lips, considered the expansion but another trivial amendment and she quickly agreed to it.

  “Deal?” said Docta Love.

  “Deal,” the dealer answered. “Three kisses across three nights, and I want the money in cash.”

  Having sealed the deal, Docta Love laughed, folded a losing hand, and got up to leave. He flipped her $500 in chips as a parting tip and strode out of the noisy, crowded casino.

  The dealer was thinking, Well, it’s not so bad. It’s only kissing. And at least now we will get our bathroom remodeled the way we like.

  And Docta Love left the casino thinking, 44DD, my favorite size.

  Naturally, the kisses were to take place in the parking lot of the casino in Docta Love’s hooked-up customized van, out of sight of management because a dealer, of course, would be immediately fired if she got caught kissing gamblers on casino property.

  On the night of the first kiss, the beautiful, top-heavy, and happily married dealer took her ten-minute break outside in the parking lot.

  “To smoke a cigarette,” she explained to her friends, though everyone knew she was a nonsmoker.

  Docta Love, sitting behind the tinted windows of his van and watching her approach, felt his heart leap into his mouth. She was a Coca-Cola bottle with glorious hair and shapely legs. She adjusted her bowtie as she climbed into his van, after which she closed the door and sighing, turned to him with her lips in a fixed state of pucker.

  Lord, they were juicy lips.

  But Docta Love said, “No. The first kiss gotta be with you sittin’ on my lap.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I knew you were up to something. I knew this was a trick. I did not sign up to be groped and fondled, sir. I’m a happily married woman and my vow
s are sacred to me. Open this door and let me out of this van before I start screaming rape.”

  Docta Love fanned the thick wad of hundred-dollar bills in his hand, kissing it, waving it under her nose so she could smell it, resting the wad on her ample chest. “I promise I ain’t gonna fondle you and I ain’t gonna grope you, but for forty-five hundred dollars, I gotta at least be able to smell you when we kiss. I ain’t no animal. I’m a sensitive man. So let’s go in the back of this van so you can sit on my lap and kiss me as this kinda cash deserves. My money is honorable, too, girl. As honorable as a wedding ring.”

  The young dealer glanced down at the bills in his hand and then peered into the back of his customized van, which was set up like a bedroom.

  Draperies on the walls. Velvet paintings over the draperies. Leopards and panthers. Supple, long-limbed black-skinned people in various poses of sexual suggestion. A velvet painting of the Last Supper—Jesus, Judas, Peter, the disciples, all of them, with brown skin, curly hair, and thick noses and lips. There was a long bed with satin sheets and satin covers for the big, soft pillows. Over the bed, a velvet sign that read “The Love Mobile.”

  She said, “Okay. I’ll sit on your lap, but no more than that. And hurry up. I only have another five minutes of break.”

  With that, she went into the back of the van, the good Docta Love following behind.

  She was thinking, For a remodeled bathroom, it’s worth it. Let’s get it over with.

  And he was thinking, That ass. Lord, you know I gotta tap that ass.

  And she did sit on his lap. And he did inhale her perfumed essence. Closed his eyes. Kissed her. Tongue to tongue. One of those real good kisses. Lips all slopping together. Teeth all crushed together. Tongues wrestling.

  After that, her voice was breathy when she spoke—“All right. I did it. That’s kiss number one. And if you were a fair man, you would call that number forty-three or forty-four, as much as you kissed me, but whatever, I see your little game. I see how you’re going to play it. Fine. Just give me my money and let me get back to work.”