Caramel Flava

  When he finally picks me up and carries me to the bed, I’m not just pulsing between my legs. My whole body is attuned, my slick skin smells like him, just as he’s tinged with me. Finally, lying on top of him; he puts a hand behind my head and draws me in for an extended kiss. As his tongue thrusts into my mouth I straddle his hips. One hand on my neck, insisting on kissing me, tonguing me, with his other hand he lines himself up and finally, mercifully enters me with a forceful thrust.

  Just like the rest, he takes his time. Pushing into me, rubbing against me, until I have to beg him not to stop. Finally, mercifully, he sets a pace that puts all my hypersensitive nerves on edge. The orgasm builds, and when I come the shock and shiver isn’t just a release in my cunt, though that’s the epicenter of sensation. Tiny shivers sweep across my body, reverberating through my limbs, shaking through my core and up my spine, radiating outward.

  Even after he comes, I can see the devilish glint in his now exhausted eyes as he flips onto his back, one hand reached over, stroking my stomach.

  He says to me, “Cuba. Some say it’s the last romantic remnant of Atlantis. But all our treasures are forbidden to Americans.”

  “I know,” I say. Admitting, “That’s why I came here.”

  “It was worth it?” he asks. “You have found what you were seeking?”

  Outside, the soft misty light of dawn illuminates the quiet blue of the sea, a diffuse glow that’s never able to reveal what’s supposedly sunk beneath. Built for love, then destroyed in vengeance when it became corrupted with power and greed, Atlantis was forever lost. I wander out to the balcony to watch the day begin, filled with a magical hope that I thought had been permanently eroded. Americans aren’t supposed to travel here because of the politics. What could a Caribbean island offer that we don’t already have anyhow? But I did find something here. Something perhaps not forbidden in our culture of haste, but something rapidly getting lost.

  It’s already humid outside, a penetrating, sultry heat. Before long, the sun will intensify and warm the day, but the mild brisa will keep it in harmony, much like the sweetness of rum complements its heat. Then, it will be beautiful. But right now, for a few lingering moments, it’s perfection.

  I go back inside, stretch myself next to Javier. I run my hand along his chest, slowly, carefully.

  I sigh.

  I Want You

  Te deseo

  William Fredrick Cooper

  Te deseo.

  I have to tell her so. The sun-kissed beige complexion, close-cropped black hair and beautiful hazel eyes captured me first, but her magnificent movement on the dance floor has the veins in my dick rearranging themselves, aroused in anticipation.

  Exuding sensuality in every step, she is, simultaneously, divinity and purgatory in motion. I wonder if her sexual inclinations would be as nasty as my fantasies tell me they would be. Longing to bring a bunch of powerful orgasms from her, the thought of us moving through marathon sessions of mutual pleasure has me squirming in my seat.

  Te deseo.

  I am dying for her to know. Igniting my flames with her racy repertoire, that she has me lusting after her is insane. I can’t help it: she is tilting my world off its axis with her rapture of twists and turns. Los Bravos, the persuasive percussion blaring from the speakers, agrees with me. The ocean of motion under that spaghetti-strapped red dress waves fluently, back and forth, fucking with me even more. I wonder if the garden under that outfit is in serious need of watering.

  Our eyes meet, and hold. Acknowledging the spell cast, she puckers those pouted red lips, then bats an erotic eyelash at me. Pirouetting back into the arms of her partner, the look of a seductress revisits me. Her smile is alluringly spicy. Seeing her cute dimples wink as well, the length of me crawls further down my trousers as I yearn to part her paradise with an active, artful, animated mouth. Mm, I wonder if the taste of her cunny is as sweet as caramel syrup.

  Te deseo.

  I pray she won’t say no. My goodness, I love the wickedness of the seduction. The light coat of sweat on this temptress blends perfectly with the spinning colored lights overhead, and steady blue background. That it makes her skin glisten further accentuates her mystique.

  Knowing every man in the place wants to fuck the sense out of her tonight, I notice her enjoyment of her power, working everyone watching her into a sexual frenzy. Cutting through a thick haze of cigarette smoke on deliciously defined stems, the firmness of her ass is seen by all. If she did a zipper check right about now, the congregation of hard-ons would be solid as steel, ready to pop.

  Te deseo.

  Would she like my strokes forceful, or slow? Watching her glide on those three-inch black stilettos has me delirious with desire. The thought of hearing her purr “Ooh, Papi” as I massage her bud with my mouth has the throb of my pecker out of control. Scurrying upward in her with my tongue, the exploration of every crevice of her pussy would make her scream praises, as well as the name of her god and son in foreign octaves.

  Now, I’m supplanted in wonderland. Invading her insides with an urgent chocolate stick, the electricity at my waist unites with her well-saturated energy. Working myself deep, then deeper, the strength of my lust made her shudder from temple to toes, causing orgasmic overload. Then, as my release built up, she pays tribute to the passionate pounding with strange guttural sounds, vulnerable mutterings and ecstatic rambles. Through these groans of pleasure, she’ll be admitting that no man had ever worn out the kitty like I had.

  Te deseo. Te deseo, ahora.

  Or shall I say, “Let’s go”?

  “Stop with the obsessive staring and go ask her to dance,” Crazy Hec says, disrupting my vision. “Or are you scared to?”

  “He’s not scared, Hector. He’s a racista,” B.K. adds, eliciting gales of laughter from our whole crew with his translation.

  “Kill that noise, dawg,” I respond. “I don’t discriminate, you know that.”

  Crazy Hec’s other half, Martha, begs to differ.

  “Yeah right, Coop. How come you never go on our Pocono retreats?”

  “Because I don’t want to stand out like a sixth toe, that’s why. Remember, I’m older than you guys, as well as the only unattached one.”

  Anthony, always the comedian, sniffs my black silk shirt.

  “Is that bullshit I smell?”

  Again, laughter.

  “C’mon, Will. You know we love you,” Jahira says. “I just think you’re scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Scared that a Latina will put a hurtin’ on you,” B.K. notes.

  “Debbie and I have been telling him that for years,” Anthony adds.

  Nodding, Debbie agrees.

  “Coop, that woman out there will have you begging for mama.”

  Nothing liked being roasted by the crew on your first night out in eons. It’s all good, for I love my second family like play cousins. After all, it’s been some time since the crew—Anthony Lopez and his wife, Debbie, Crazy Hector and Martha Gonzalez, Jahira Santiago and B.K. Simpson, and yours truly—convened at Tavola’s, our after-work hangout by the Manhattan Courts. Claudia, the world’s sexiest bartender and model extraordinaire, always brings us steamed clams to go along with her over-the-top Long Island Ice Teas. Buzzing with merriment (as well as tipsiness), our posse is akin to the ensemble that meets at that place in Boston where everyone knows your name.

  Now we’re at Cafe Remy, a downtown nightclub near the South Ferry Terminal. In a few, Louis Arroyo and his lovely Torri, Jesus and Aida Hernandez, Mike, Gail Carr, and Icsom and Krista Jones, as well as more party troopers from the legal system, will arrive. Rolling about thirty deep, we usually take over the place, partying the night away.

  Or shall I say they do such, as I am so self-conscious about dancing salsa. This is an irony to all who know me, for when it comes to hoofing, steps to me are effortless, like they were to Bojangles, Gregory Hines, Sammy Davis Jr., and the Nicholas Brothers. Full of confidence and expressio
n while becoming a slave to the rhythms of a neat beat, “a fish in water” is what I’ve been called by many.

  The moves of my midsection command the most attention. If I had a dollar for every time a woman asked me if I moved in bed the way I do on a dance floor, I’d never have to work again. My hip action is innate; whenever a steady beat catches me, the swivel is immediate. Keeping time to almost any rhythm, some may think of me as an exhibitionist when I launch into my gyrations; however, nothing could be further from the truth. Instead of listening to melodious fusion of rhythm and song, I feel it.

  The throbbing of its pulse is enticing.

  The passion of its groove is exciting.

  Like a mouse behind a pied piper, put on a thumping bass line, and my feet are sure to follow. From hip-hop to reggae, house to merengue, I close my eyes and enter a zone where nothing else matters except the music and my partner.

  Maybe it’s just me, but the connection between dancing and sex is fiercely intense. Intoxicatingly arousing, synchronicity in motion unleashes primitive, passionate impulses begging to escape the bondage of everyday routine. The inhibitive storm set free, when coupled with a woman that gets down, sparks really fly. Melding into one, the joining of like spirits on the dance floor is the perfect precursor to the primal carnality we both desire. Sometimes, all that stands in the way of such is confidence.

  Something I lack when it comes to the most sensuous dance. Every superman has his kryptonite, and mine is salsa. While not green with envy while watching Anthony, Jesus, B.K., Hector and Louis lead their ladies with the right combination of machismo and grace, I long for the day where I can share chemistry to the sounds of Tito Puente, Eddie Palmeri, Johnny Pacheco, and Willie Colon, as opposed to R & B grooves I mastered.

  Maybe my Spanish Fly leaving the dance floor will show me someday.

  Not now, however.

  The club just went old school.

  It’s Shabba and Maxi’s “Housecall,” a dancehall groove from back in the day.

  Damn, it’s been a minute since I heard this jam.

  Head bouncing, my torso is turning.

  It’s time for a house call of my own.

  Scanning the establishment, I see her.

  The chocolate woman in the bar area, wearing that sexy black dress and matching fuck-me pumps, bobbin’ her head, fits the bill.

  She’s been checking me out on the low all night.

  The Cosmopolitan she’s nursing needs a time-out.

  With the boldness of a cobra, I strike. Using nary a word, my hand tickles her fingertips, then abducts them. Deaf to her feeble “Wait, can I finish my drink” plea, she’s my prisoner now. The direction of our escape is to the left, where the hardwood floor will supply everything we need.

  Okay, I see that she needs this liberation as badly as I do, for her sway intrigues me.

  Let me reel it in by pressing her backside against the fire-storm at my groin.

  The purring sound leaving this lady is nice.

  Decoding her movements, I can tell she’s wavering between nice and nasty. The aggressive language of her body waves tells me that she doesn’t want to leave the spot alone tonight, yet her hesitance to look at me indicates she wants to remain a lady.

  In case I didn’t understand her mixed message, her hands caress the nape of me.

  She wants me to ride her ass through the whole song.

  Okay, I’ll play along.

  My hands and arms form a waist wrap, and our bodies are one.

  Rocking and rocking, anyone watching us can tell we’re balanced on the tightrope: one that separates a one-night stand where bodies move in concert in bed from a night of fantasizing about what might have been, had the right words been said. The former thought consumes her; she rotates her hips in a slow circular motion, ticking her pelvis like the second hand of a watch. Glancing back, she looks amazed that I keep up with her. Doesn’t she know that when she’s too bad for everyone else, she’s just right for me?

  Her frame shudders.

  I can tell I’m getting to her.

  After the cut, she faces me.

  “Damn, baby. You’re too dangerous for me,” she says, and leaves me stranded on the island of grooves.

  Oh well. I guess freedom isn’t for everyone.

  The deejay feels my disappointment;he’s got on soca now.

  Continuing my naughty wind, I saunter back to my table, where B.K. approaches me as if he’s on fire.

  “You have an admirer, Coop.”

  Pointing left, I see her, and my eyes widen.

  It’s the lady in red, staring deeply at me while hypnotically moving in place.

  Swerving seductively with an authentic sexiness, her body is a vision of polished perfection. I could see her legs pulse, enhancing the musculature of her chiseled calves. Her well-placed curves excite me with their generosity, but not as much as the rose tattoo above those perky breasts. Look at it sitting there, begging for me to pick its petals. Mm, I love her hazel eyes. Passionately penetrating my senses as they smolder with sexuality, they are stalking me with a look of want.

  A man extends his hand, inviting her to the floor.

  She politely says, “No, thank you,” while never once looking at him.

  She’s already dancing with someone in her mind.

  Me.

  “Man, you better go get with that,” B.K. says.

  I peer back at my crew sitting at the table, and see twenty-plus different shades of skin, the looks on their faces screaming in unison, “Well, what are you waiting for, stupid?”

  Well, what are you waiting for, stupid?

  Why am I standing here, four songs later? Hasn’t the messenger from Oz returned with my nerve? And why is the essence of my fantasy still waiting, and smiling? For the past twenty minutes, men have begged to invade her majestic presence on the dance floor, and all have been turned away. That she does so while looking in my direction makes me sweat.

  Does she know something that I don’t?

  Maybe she does. Maybe, just maybe, she came here to share her exotic femininity with me. Maybe she’s chosen me to drink of the warm juices that lie in abundance between those smooth thighs, and quench her insatiable lust. Maybe it’s me that’ll have access to what everyone craves.

  Wait, what’s Hector whispering in her ear? He’s always starting something. Why is he pointing in my direction, and why is she laughing?

  And why are they headed this way?

  My heart, threatening to come through my chest, is beating fast as she nears. Damn, her shoulders are round and ripe, and I love the muscular definition in her arms. I can tell she works out. Mm, those lips are so sexy. Smiling with anticipation, she’s licking her bottom one as if famished. That heated gaze is making my dick stiff.

  There’s no time to sweat.

  Be cool, Will, like the other side of a pillow.

  “Estoy enamorada de la azúcar negra,” she announces sexily while extending her hand.

  She’s in love with brown sugar, I see. Nervous, two seconds seem like two hours before I respond.

  “Gracias, señorita.” Feeling the soft texture of her touch, I kiss her hand.

  I’m entangled in the web of a spider, a red widow.

  “I’m Alicia. Alicia Morena,” she says.

  “My name is William.”

  “Ooh, Guillermo. That’s such a strong name.”

  Guillermo, William, Ed the Baker from around the way…whatever. The tree trunk at my groin is encouraging me to be anybody she wants me to be.

  “I hear you want to learn how to salsa,” she says.

  Startled by my blown cover, I look at Hector, who’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. Don’t you just hate tattletales?

  Embarrassed, I nod yes.

  The deejay must be smiling from his booth while sensing the attraction of our different worlds. The calypso cuts cease, and “No Soy Para Ti,” a salsa cut by Ismael Rivera, fills the air.

  “Guillermo, quieres tocarme?” br />
  Hell yeah, I want to touch her, all over. Damn, the way she says my name in Spanish has my blood on fire. This woman is sexy. And she knows it.

  I want to rip that red dress off her and suck on those thick, eraser-sized nipples, but the dance will suffice, for now. As I grab her hand, she feels my insecurity, but allows me to lead her to the hardwood floor. Hopefully, our flames won’t burn the place down.

  The combination of beats and brass create a mild rhythm to the song, one we both feel instantly. Capturing her size-six waist, I follow the fluidity of her hip roll and flawless footwork. Back and forth, side to side, I feature her to the nightclub through a series of seductive turns and sumptuous spins. Taking her on a sensuous trip by my table, I notice my posse with their mouths agape.

  Anthony and Debbie start clapping, and the rest follow suit as I pull Alicia close.

  “Papi, you never danced salsa before?” she asks.

  “A little bit, Alicia. My crew shows me things.”

  “Well, let me tell you that you’re a natural. Seeing a black man dance Latin well turns me on. It shows me he’s aware of all cultures.”

  She has me blushing as the bongos, maracas, trumpets and cowbell of Hector Lavoe’s “Mi Gente” quicken the tempo.

  “Time to step it up,” Alicia announces.

  Peering at me, she launches into a torrid display that has Selena beaming from the heavens.

  “C’mon, baby, control me,” she commands.

  I’ll try. Reaching for her hand, my freefall into a passionate inferno is now complete. Not much spinning this time, I let her freestyle, occasionally matching her seamless steps with my own.

  My God, it’s working. Feeling my lead, she’s working with me. Hmm, let me try some hustle turns. Damn, I’m rolling siete with my dancing. Our hips are close now. I release her, and watch her go. Seeing her cha-cha-cha while I clap has my crew going crazy.

  “Do that shit, Coop!” Martha screams.