Online Writing Workshop: WRITE SEX

I’m leading a writing workshop in February.

Crazy, I know.

Usually I take them and they’re led by my fabulous writing promptress – and fellow Barnard alum – Jena Schwartz.

But Dominique Sinagra and her company BOUDICA like my raw sexy beautiful words and think I can help other folks explore and discover their own. So that’s what I’m going to do this coming February in my first online writing workshop

WRITE SEX

There will be introductions and a private online space and laughter and love and writing prompts and sex and support and enthusiasm and poetry and prose and dirty words and gorgeous words and painful words and any words you feel moved to put down somewhere.

There will no doubt also be some of my favorite words: fuck, cunt, suck, and obstreperous

Kidding.

There probably won’t be any obstreperous sightings – I just couldn’t resist adding it to that list since it’s my favorite word ever.

So if you’ve ever wanted to write but never make the time or if you love romance but aren’t sure how to write a love scene or if you just want to try a writing group for the first time, please join me and let’s write.

Reserve your spot today by emailing boudica@boudicatheatre.com and we’ll convene in February for some scintillating, sensual, steamy, I-want-to-fuck-you-right-now-right-here words.

Happy 2017!

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My #BareFacePlay Story

barefaceplay3Confession: I’m not a makeup girl.

In sixth grade, my girlfriend Jennifer Mason gave me my first item of makeup: Mary Kay blush in that iconic pink compact. But I have no idea when I purchased any of my own makeup because for years, makeup and I weren’t really friends.

Even today, I keep it minimal – mostly because I like it that way, but also because quite frankly, I don’t really know what to do with it. And when I venture beyond my most basic capabilities, I feel somewhat clownish. And am certain the rest of the world agrees.

Don’t get me wrong, I have makeup goals, two to be precise: 1) rock some red lipstick and 2) a cat’s eye like Adele.

Have they happened? Will they happen?  Probably not because number one intimidates me and I cannot fathom accomplishing number two on my own nor have I  ever bothered to get someone else to do it for me.

So yeah, back to what I was saying: I’m not a makeup girl. Which is why the last year or so has been kind of interesting because more and more, I’ve found myself unwilling to leave the house, even to do the simplest thing like drop off some dry cleaning or grab some groceries, without putting a little something on my face.

How strange to have spent most of this life running damn near everywhere without anything more than moisturizer on my skin to now making sure I at least run that ice-cold rollerball from Clinique under my eyes to get rid of the bags and dark circles, dab some blush on my cheeks, and fill in my brows.

Fill in my brows?

Yes girl. You read that right. Fill in my motherfucking brows.

It’s because at age 45, I finally feel slightly older – I didn’t say old – and like maybe, just maybe, I want to reconsider exposing the world to my slightly older, unmade up face. Especially those goddamned brows, the same ones that used to be bushy and thick and gorgeous and now, in my forties have thinned and are possibly showing the effects of one or two too many bad threading jobs. (The ONLY part of my forties I don’t like is the hair loss – it’s also the part of the aging process no one really discusses. But I’m putting it on blast: it happens mamas – get ready for it – your gorgeous hair will thin.)

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So the other day I was scrolling through Brown Girl Magazine – have you heard about them? If not, click the link, they’re pretty stellar –  and saw this black and white photo of a  group of gorgeous South Asian women with a tag line about baring their “insecurities” for the camera. First off, my brain was like what the fuck are those gorgeous things insecure about, then I read Jasmin Rahman’s accompanying article, A Group of South Asian Women Dared to Bare Their Insecurities in Front of a Cameraand kind of fell in love.

Rahman is a makeup artist and unlike me, knows her way around some products, but found herself saddened by women’s attitudes about their own skin and beauty when it comes to using those very products, products Rahman believes are made to enhance our natural selves, not cripple us. So she launched the project #BareFacePlay as a way to get women – all women, not just us brown ones – to start opening up about our beauty insecurities and challenging ourselves to love our skin in its most natural form: scrubbed clean and laid bare.

#BareFacePlay is a challenge to dig deep within your soul and ask yourself when you’re putting makeup on or getting dressed, questions such as: Why am I making this choice? What would happen if I left the house without makeup on or without covering that imperfection? What would happen if I posted a photo on social media like this? What would happen if I went to a social gathering with my natural face in tow? – Jasmin Rahman

The women of Brown Girl Magazine accepted Rahman’s challenge and published their photos and personal stories and all of them are moving and relatable and got me thinking about my own desire to cover up and enhance a little here and there every time I go somewhere. And whether I’m brave enough to publish my own #BareFacePlay story – not really, but if Rahman’s project inspires me enough to post about it, I should also share my own. And how I’m going to try and love my slightly older face a little more.

Yes. I’m going to try. In fact, posting all these makeup free, fucked-up-brow photos seems like a pretty decent start. And yes, I am patting myself on the back and yes, that is okay. Someone’s gotta do it.

So that’s the scoop. My #BareFacePlay story.

Thanks to Rahman and her campaign, the next time I’m running out to grab some Ethiopian from Walia, and I start to head upstairs to my bathroom and dig through my makeup bag, I’m going to stop and ask myself: do I really need perfect brows to pick up some grub?

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An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 9

I woke up yesterday morning to an empty, freezing house. Empty because The Kid was at his winter dance last night and spent the night with friends. Freezing because my heat never came on. Because my furnace was acting a fool. A fact I discovered when my parents called and convinced me to get out of bed – something I had not done because it was too damn cold –  to see what was going on.

What was going on was that the automatic low-water gauge on the furnace was getting stuck and either not feeding the system enough water or feeding it too much, so it was switched to manual. Meaning I had to feed the system myself. Which I’d been doing the last couple of days, but when I came home Friday night, I forgot to check it and the water level must have gone too low for it to click on in the morning.

Hence the lovely inside temperature of 53 degrees my thermostat relayed when I finally crawled out from under the covers and ventured downstairs. I fed the beast some water and got it back up and running – and the service guy came out to fix the automatic gauge so the manual bullshit could end – but my house is all big windows and old drafty spaces and for real, it was COLD AS FUCK in there  yesterday.

Of course, that would happen on the coldest weekend of the season because isn’t that the best time for a furnace to start being funky? I started drafting this post, seated at my kitchen table, wearing a scarf and gloves, freezing my ass off, thinking maybe a little Amal and Andrew up on that terrace would warm things up a bit…at least for y’all.

Me? I resorted to the fire place. It’s difficult to type when you’re a popsicle.

Oh, and here are parts  ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN and EIGHT for any of y’all newcomers to my messy love triangle. And speaking of love triangles – which I rather abhor – but of course am writing because what better way to test oneself – I just saw this today and had a good chuckle:

okay, enough goofing around – here you go – part 8 of AMAL…


CHAPTER FIVE – AMAL

I jerked to my right at the sound of his voice and there he stood, leaned against the building, hidden amongst the greenery – Mr. Downtown. Without hesitation, I moved in his direction, wanting to be wrapped in all of his everything, cognizant of nothing but him and me and the thrum of desire coursing through my veins. I reached his space and stopped, so close our feet almost touched and waited, my breath trapped in my chest, my skin sensitive to the slightest sensation.

The air between us felt charged and electric, it crackled with desire and lust and all things unspoken. My entire body hummed with a need unlike any I had ever experienced, my reaction to standing so close to that man, that stranger, palpable. He didn’t move a muscle as he watched me and I wondered if my nearness affected him at all, was he as close to coming undone as I? Or was all of this – the smack talk and innuendo and dirty invitations – in my head? Incapable of putting coherent sounds together to relay my worries, air my concerns, give credence to the voices in my head, I did the only thing left to do and the one thing I sensed he would not: I reached out to touch him. And with that small gesture, that breach of space between us, I violated promises made to another.

But I wasn’t thinking about any of that – the reality of my everyday existence, the fact my life was very much interwoven with someone who was not this man – because right then on that darkened roof, high above the city and Jackson and everything, all I was focused on was the odd and intriguing pull of a stranger. 

Mr. Downtown closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as my hand rested on his chest, right above his heart where I could feel it race, that rapid thump thump, and it struck me – he had been waiting. This beautiful man who could have any woman he wanted had spent the last hour and nine minutes waiting for me. He opened his eyes and met my stare. So much unsaid, unspoken, everything and nothing and more than one could imagine passed between us in those seconds. Then his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile and I knew I was fucked.

“Are you always such a bad girl?” he leaned close and whispered in my ear, his breath a warm tease of my senses, “or is this behavior saved just for me?” his full mouth passed close to mine, teasing my lips apart, eliciting a low moan as he ghosted his breath everywhere, making it difficult for me to think, impossible for me to speak.

“Answer me Ms. Naipaul,” he demanded then stepped back and waited.

I wanted to cry out and grab him to me. His heat, his almost-kiss, him, all of it frustrating and exhilarating and dancing along some edge I’d never before dared cross but now, could think of little else worth doing. And even though I knew answering his question, engaging him in any way, was not the smartest thing to do, it was too late – we were way past the point of intelligent action.

“Just you,” I replied, my voice a hoarse whisper of crave and sex and want.

“Lucky me,” he said with a smirk as he studied me and I couldn’t help but wonder what we were going to do to each other, the thought flooding my pussy, leaving me a useless puddle of dirty thoughts and bad intentions. I watched him watching me and thought back to that afternoon in the bookstore, when he stood behind me and did unspeakable things to me without touching me at all and I wondered if this – the party, him, the roof, us – was inevitable and if so, what the fuck.

And if so, could he just touch me already.

“Please,” the word escaped my lips before I could reclaim it and landed in the air between us, a request for so many things all at once. A request I never intended to make and yet there it was, out in the open, waiting for him to make something of it. He laughed and for a second I regretted ever letting him see how much I wanted him. Then he licked his lips and ran a finger down the line of my throat and I forgot every regret I’d ever imagined when it came to him me us.

“So you do have some manners,” he smiled and I smiled because he and I both knew I had no manners whatsoever, “unfortunately, they’re not going to help you tonight.”

He ran his hand up the back of my thigh and over my ass and I never considered telling him to stop because I wanted his hands everywhere.

“Ms. Naipaul,” he cupped my cheeks and squeezed.

“Mmmmm,” it was all I could muster as his hands moved across my skin, our breath tangled around one another, and my body became his to do with as he pleased.

“I had such grand plans for you and your pussy when I invited you to join me in the bathroom,” he said with a smile and I knew he was smiling because I could feel the curve of his mouth against the shell of my ear. He cupped my ass and I lost myself in all of him – his touch, his smell, his goddamned growl of a voice – then without warning, he lifted my skirt and landed a sharp smack on my soft skin, so hard and painful I cried out.

“Shhhhhh,” he whispered into my ear as he rubbed the sting and everything, the pain, the heat, all of it felt so fucking good, “you’ve given me little choice but to teach you a lesson,” he continued as he landed another smack on the same spot, this time harder. My head tossed back as I moved with the pain; my pussy swelled and flooded with pleasure as my brain registered all kinds of shock and what-the-fuck. I had never been treated this way, no one dared command me to do anything, and I’m sure as shit no one ever spanked me as punishment.

But it mattered little.

My body hungered for this man’s touch, both the painful and the tender, I wanted all of him and more. My mind craved his confidence and command, his I-know-what-you-need-right-now-better-than-you. And even though I balked at the idea of anyone telling me what when how to do something, I loved that he did so anyway. I got off on the fact he took control of the situation and expected me to follow his lead. A total stranger knew what I needed without knowing any of my fine details, those little quirks and flaws that made up Amal Warrier Naipaul, and as thrilling and intense and sexy it was, something about it also scared the shit out of me.

Another smack, the sting so sharp I felt it everywhere – my fingertips, my nipples, my thighs, the soles of my feet – brought me out of my thoughts and into the moment. He captured my cry of pain with his mouth, his lips so gentle and tongue so sweet as he caressed and soothed my sore spots, his touch like magic. He broke away from my mouth and I felt him watching me but I wanted to live in that dichotomous moment of pleasure and pain, command and obey a bit longer, so my eyes remained closed as I reveled in the aftermath of everything he created and stirred and stimulated.

“Amal,” he whispered as he ran his thumb along my jaw, speaking my name with such reverence, touching me with such tenderness, all of it sending me into sensory overload, “you still with me?”

I opened my eyes to meet his dark stare, seconds earlier full of fire and lust, now concerned and almost worried, perhaps wondering if he had stepped over some imagined boundary of mine. I smiled – I couldn’t help myself. This man was oblivious. Completely. He had no idea that what just happened between us was something I’d wanted to happen for years.

Needed to happen for years.

“Yes,” I replied, noting how he even affected my answers, drowning out the usual snark that escaped my lips, “I am most definitely still with you.”

He smiled, his eyes flashed all dangerous again, and my pussy quaked as a moan escaped my lips, so low and so goddamned desperate. I wanted him to touch me, kiss me, command me. I wanted everything he offered and then I wanted more.

“Spread your legs, hotness,” he licked the shell of my ear as his voice growled through me and my body responded without consideration of anything or anyone else – that moment was all about him. I did just as he asked and spread my legs as his hand moved up my thigh and my pussy dripped and the air around us smelled of lust and desire and sex.

He trailed his lips along the line of my throat as his fingers grazed the satin of my soaked and useless panties and he sighed.

“God, you are heaven.”


Amal is totally going to fuck Mr. Downtown.

She better fuck him.

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#Poetry – DICK FOR A DAY

This post could also be called “That Time I Won Bowery Poetry’s Open Mic Night” because that’s exactly what happened Monday night when I met my girlfriend Corey, and her wife, Brady, for drinks and some words at the East Village poetry club.

It was fun and the crowd was supportive and maybe I’m being annoying by talking about winning, but honestly – it feels pretty fucking awesome. As a friend texted me to say, winning is damn sexy. And fun. And exciting. And makes me feel like here and there, I do a stellar job of putting words together in ways that move folks.

At the end of the night, I received several questions about my poem DICK FOR A DAY and whether it was published anywhere and that’s when I realized it wasn’t because unlike a lot of my poetry, I never posted it on my blog – I’ve only read it live, first at The Boudica Series, and since then at a couple of open mics.

I’m going to share it here, but first, a little of it’s backstory: DICK FOR A DAY is a writing prompt from my girlfriend, Alessandra, after a bunch of us drank a lot a alcohol one night at her place and got going about 24-hour penises and what we could do with them. She messaged me a few days later and told me to write it, and I did, so really, I owe my first open mic win to her – love you, cunt face.


DICK FOR A DAY

let me start by declaring
for all to hear
I love being a woman
just so we’re clear

my tits and thighs
my hips and smile
magic in my fingertips
making folks crazy
as I lick my lips

power in my mischievous eyes
love in my arms
my wit full of surprise

open
warm
intelligent
sophisticated
can pay my own rent

but here and there
i must admit
there’s an idea
a wish
i simply cannot quit

it’s nonsensical
impossible
i know it cannot happen
doesn’t mean i haven’t considered it
from time to time
in some way
in some fashion

it’s straight to the point
a rather simple desire
it won’t hurt anybody
or set the world afire

stated bluntly
so my wishes are heard
and nothing is confused
not one idea
not one word:

I would like a DICK FOR A DAY

oh my!
what the fuck
did she just say?
I must have heard her wrong
i am certain
my ears betray

nope
nope
you heard me loud and clear
i want a thick long penis
and I want it right HERE

only for 24 hours
like i said
just a day
then I’ll happily resume life with my vagina
she’s fucking gorgeous
i love her
and would never trade her away

but a dick
are you sure
can you be certain?
how about a car
a massage
maybe some new curtains?

uh-uh
no way
that’s all so goddamned lame
I want my 24-hour penis
stop being so shocked about it
sit back and enjoy my game

morning would find me groggy
kind of hazy
needing coffee

I’d stretch
roll over to discover
something long and thick and veined
quite gorgeous
rather like my lover’s

a penis! i would whisper
as i looked down
at my slightly flaccid display
the gods must have heard my request
I’ve got a dick for the day!

once the shock wore off
and my hands stopped all their shaking
i would smile wide and say “oh yes”
this is better than a lifetime
of guilt-free bacon

i’d stroke myself to climax
ejaculate everywhere like a teenage boy
i’d revel in the mess
and squeal with unbridled joy

then i’d do it all again
because I’m a dirty girl at heart
and sure
me and this dick have some fucking to do
but self-love is the best place to start

the mirror would be my next stop
to stand in and admire
my new appendage
god he’s huge
and holy shit, he’s full of desire

Peeing! a wondrous experience
i get to stand
aim
shoot and fire
no more dreaded disgusting toilet seats
bloody tampons
and other grotesqueries
of the women’s bathroom quagmire

getting dressed in jeans
would take on a whole new meaning
when one must decide
which way the balls and dick are leaning

Man i look good
that slight bulge is so hot
i’ve just gotta control this thing in my pants
keep it limp
don’t wanna get shot

I’d walk down the street
with authority and swagger
knowing I have this gorgeous thing between my legs
a modern day Mick Jagger

Sitting on the train
I’d be that asshole
knees spread wide
taking up two seats
for the duration of the rush-hour ride

In the office
I’d lead my meetings
with bluster and bravado
I’d be aggressive
I’d be obnoxious
a total asshole
utterly macho

Amazingly no one would ever complain
or say “wow, what a bitch”
instead they’d think
my behavior was normal
and the work day would go by
without a hitch

I’d think to myself
on the subway home that night
men in the workplace have it so easy
as a woman
using the same tactics with my team
I’d have suffered
a wholly different plight

I’d be whiny and insufferable
all would complain
I’d be too moody
they’d all hate me
and say working for me was a pain

but alas
I digress
my female status is hardly the reason
for this poem
this verse
come on folks
it’s dick season!

time to rejoice and celebrate
all things thick throbbing and phallic
i want to fuck
i want to suck
i’m not trying to be enigmatic

because for real
what’s the point
the purpose
the reason
for being gifted a dick for a day
besides reveling in my personal fucking season

i would check my watch for the time
as the clock
it was a ticking
eight hours left
on my countdown
plenty of time
for loads of dick sticking

I’d shower
dress
and hit those streets
determined to knock some boots
determined to hit those sheets

the sex party in Williamsburg
would be a whole new experience
my dick would be in demand
the uproar around me serious

men and women everywhere
falling at my feet
begging for just a taste
goddamn, this dick is sweet

but alas
my hour would draw near
as you’ll remember
my dick was a loaner
so I’d say my goodbyes
and head home all alone
to admire my very last boner

now looking back on those 24 hours
when I was treated like a fucking messiah
I have to say thanks for the dick
it was fun
it was great
but god, how I love my vagina

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An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 8

love-triangle-l

There is a serious funk going around that has managed to get its nasty long fingers all over me. I’ve been fighting it all week because for real – I never get sick – and although I’m keeping it at bay, I’m sure as hell not succeeding in making it creep off into the sunset and leave me the fuck alone.

I tried sweating it out in a hot yoga class and a spin class – no luck. I tried drowning it in bottles of DayQuil – no luck. I even tried being nice to it and feeding it spice tea and bourbon.

Maybe that’s why the motherfucker doesn’t want to go anywhere – that tea and bourbon is really really good.

Woke up this morning to The Kid and The Pup lying on top of me, and still sick. Thank goodness fighting slimy nasty decrepit germs has not been the sole excitement of my week.

I’ve also been editing book covers for DUTCH and JUMA – yes, you read that right: I’ve seen drafts of my book covers from St Martin’s Press and to say I’m a little excited would be the understatement of the year – and drafting blurbs for the back covers of the books.

This is really happening, y’all. My books are being published. Dutch and Juma – they are coming. Very very soon.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

And on that note, how about some more AMAL?

Here are parts ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX and SEVEN in case you need to catch up on the sexiness.


CHAPTER FIVE – AMAL

“That is precisely what I plan to do to you, Ms. Naipaul,” he replied, his voice a low growl that robbed me of breath and essence and left me pooled somewhere at his feet, begging for whatever he offered, incapable of putting my desperate need into words, so confused and shocked by it, “but first I’m going to make you come using my voice and the barest of touches.”

“No,” I stated firm and short, suddenly cognizant of what he intended and how it could not happen, in this lifetime or any other.

“Yes,” he whispered in my ear, his breath hot on my skin as thoughts of his lips pressed along the curves of my body filled my brain.

“You’re going to meet me in the bathroom in the back of the library so I can run my fingers all over your pussy and tease your clit until you come everywhere. Then you’re going to watch me suck every last drop of your desire from my fingers.” 

I groaned despite myself, aware the words that fell from this man’s lips were wrong. 

“That’s what I’m going to do to you right now, Amal Warrier Naipaul,” he stood and straightened and buttoned his jacket before his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk.

“I’ll fuck you later.”

His words, his tone, his confidence, every aspect of his person at that moment honed in on me and my body and mind and I reveled in all of it, all of him. I thrilled at his control of the situation; his sheer will overpowered my senses, and for the first time in forever, I gave myself over to another.

“Close your mouth, hotness,” he winked, “folks will stare,” as if he hadn’t just told me he wanted me to ride his fingers to oblivion.

“I’m not following you anywhere.”

Correction.

I almost gave myself over to another.

“I don’t even know your name.”

He laughed and even though it was at my expense, the sound was sexy and delicious and shot straight to my pussy. 

“Knowing my name hardly makes a difference when I have you pressed against the wall, my hand up your skirt, my fingers under your panties.”

I licked my lips and wished I was alone so I could touch myself as his filthy words washed over me, finding places to burrow into my soul, tempting my darker selves, turning me on in ways I had never experienced.

“But if you insist,” he said with a smirk as I watched his mouth and wondered how his lips would feel pressed along the inside of my thigh.

“I do,” I replied, probably a little too fast and a touch too eager, but I had to maintain an ounce of control over the situation.

“You do?” he cocked his head and asked.

“I do,” I repeated after a long pause where I studied him and me and considered what the fuck we were doing to each other and why we were doing it in a room full of hundreds of people, and he watched me watching him and had we not been studying each other as intently as we were, I would have never seen him shift, but I did and he knew I did. I relaxed a bit and smiled because goddamn if just then I didn’t manage to wrest a little control from him.

“Well, that is too bad, because I don’t,” he recovered and seemed not at all thrown off kilter by our madness, “nothing about your orgasm requires my name, all it requires is my hand.”

Then he turned on his heel and departed. 

I watched him take a few steps without looking back, so confident that I would follow, so certain of himself and myself and that thing happening between us. 

My hand works just as well,” I couldn’t help calling out to him, one final demand he acknowledge the power I wielded in this bizarre back-and-forth. 

He stopped and considered my words, his jaw clenched and eyes dark, all of him a little wild and I flooded with a need so carnal I could barely contain it. I crossed my legs and his jaw twitched and I knew he was thinking about my pussy and his fingers all over my swollen lips, drenched in my desire. I certainly was. His eyes darted back to mine and he smiled, but it was full of danger and dare.

“Miss Naipual, do not even think about touching yourself,” he growled and then vanished into the crowd.

I watched him leave as thoughts of his hands under my skirt, over my panties, under my panties, inside me, fucking me slow while he rubbed my clit clouded my brain and left me a hazy, heated mess of need and desire and despair. I couldn’t want him – I was a good girl with an even better boyfriend – but at that moment there was nothing I wanted more than him. A perfect stranger who spoke dirty to me a couple of times, who demanded I give him control – something I never gave to anyone – who filled me with fire so consuming I feared if anyone touched me they would come away scorched. 

“He got under your skin,” Jackson slipped in beside me, handed me a bourbon and sipped his scotch, brow cocked and an amused gleam in his eye.

Jackson knew I needed a drink right then and there because he knew me inside and out, through and through, oftentimes better than I knew myself. I sipped my drink and touched my throat, as random words spoken like smoke and gravel accosted my senses and made my blood simmer.

Bathroom.

Skirt.

Pussy.

Fingers.

Hotness.

“He was hardly worth my attention,” I met Jackson’s stare and replied, “but knew just what to say to get me all hot and bothered.”

My play on words went over Jackson’s head but settled right between my legs, stirring up heat and desire all over again. 

“Let me guess,” Jackson shot me a look as he placed a hand behind my neck and pulled me close to whisper, “he didn’t share your love of pegging?”

And just like that, he distracted me from Mr. Downtown.

Of course, he did. He was Jackson and he was perfect.

I snorted in amusement – I couldn’t help myself – listening to the word “pegging” fall from Jackson’s lips, the same lips that recited Whitman and Hughes, sang Charles and Holiday, argued international human rights law and the politics of the personal, always amused. I even gawked a bit – Jackson Rashard Davis was the ultimate Renaissance man. Da Vinci couldn’t hold a candle to him. 

“What?” he asked, “am I wrong?” and he kissed the top of my head as I laughed.

“He absolutely did not share my love of pegging. I fear I shall never meet a man who will let me peg him,” I pouted.

“Do not even look at me with those eyes, Amal,” Jackson replied and leaned away from me, as if I might try something dirty with him at that very moment.

I batted my eyelashes and pleaded my case, “please, baby, I promise it’ll feel really fucking good,” and Jackson groaned because he was thinking about all the wicked shit I had done to his body over the years, each time swearing to him that it would feel really fucking good.

“I see my mom waving me over,” he changed the subject, his eyes full of laughter, and kissed me. Then slick as shit, Jackson angled our bodies so no one could see what he was doing and brushed his fingers between my breasts, the touch such a  surprise I gasped.

That is what really fucking good feels like, Amal,” he whispered in my ear as his fingers teased my nipple until it was peaked and rock hard, “really. fucking. good.” 

Then he released me and was gone. Swallowed by the crowd. 

I watched him for a second and breathed deeply before I downed the remainder of my bourbon in one gulp, collected myself, and mingled. It was expected of me and I worked the room like a pro – I could do this shit when I had to – and as much as it displeased Jackson’s father – I could feel his eyes on me as I moved from conversation to conversation – I hoped Jackson noticed and appreciated the effort. 

I also hoped loads of mindless, pointless conversation would distract me from the very distinct void in the room, that absence of heat and sex and danger that lingered and clung to Mr. Downtown. That distinct scent of tobacco and soap with a hint of bergamot and a touch of grass. That low growl of a voice. All of it painfully missing and most likely to remain that way since I wasn’t going to meet him in the bathroom and apparently, he wasn’t going to return to the party. 

I pushed any shoulda-woulda-couldas out of my mind, because the fact remained there were no shoulda-woulda-couldas that needed to take place between myself and that dirty-mouthed stranger, and headed for the solitude and fresh air of the terrace, somewhere I could clear my head and gain some perspective. I stepped into the quiet night, closed the door behind me, and let the fall chill seep into my bones. The air was clear and crisp and up this high, almost still. I closed my eyes and inhaled as my arms goose-bumped and the cool of the night slipped under my shirt and up my skirt and everywhere around my body that needed to chill. 

I sighed and rubbed my neck, the sound almost mournful in the darkness of my solitude.

And then it happened. 

“Ms. Naipaul, you are one hour and nine minutes late.”


I know folks love Jackson, but I’m rather partial to Andrew and his dirty mouth…

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