Too Close for Comfort

Fear, confusion, panic . . . all those emotions and more overcame Jacinda Montenegro in a horrifying instant.  She was frozen to the spot where she sat; she couldn’t move.  She felt paralyzed, unable to budge, incapable of moving a muscle.    Her eyes searched the room looking for something that might help her get out of her predicament, something that could rescue her from her dilemma.  Finally, with little other option, she cried out, “HELLLPPPPP!  Help me!  HELP!” 

Khari Brevins, her boyfriend of two months, heard Jacinda’s cries from his comfortable position on the sofa in his basement, two floors away.  He had been chilling in his man cave all by his lonesome; watching some college ball and eating a bacon cheeseburger fresh off the grill, some store bought potato salad he had doctored up to give it some taste, and drinking a few bottles of imported ale to quench his testosterone-driven thirst.  He jumped up and bound up the stairs two and three at a time.  Breathless, he reached the top of the staircase on the second floor of his house and made his way cautiously to the master bedroom.  The slight sound of his bare feet on the hardwood floors in the hallway seemed to echo throughout the house as he crept along.  Not wanting to make too much noise; he approached the bedroom with caution.

“HONEY! Help,” Jacinda cried out again, at the top of her lungs. 

Entering the bedroom, Khari was expecting to see a blood bath of dismembered body pieces.  Seeing nothing, he made his way further into the room.  The bathroom door was ajar.  He scanned the room quickly, looking for something that he might use as a makeshift weapon to defend himself but couldn’t find anything other than a pair of Jordans he had kicked off in the heat of passion the previous night and they wouldn’t work against a crazed serial killer, not even in a pinch.  Disoriented momentarily, adrenaline taking over, Khari made his way across the room.  He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.  Summoning up all his courage, his fist clenched tightly, he stepped into the doorway to discover what sort of gruesome crime scene would lie before him. 

“Oh, you’re here.  Good,” Jacinda sighed.  “You’re out of toilet paper. Can you get me some? I was getting ready to use your shower curtain to wipe my behind.”   Seeing the humor in the situation, she burst out laughing.  Based upon Jacinda’s wide-eyed, innocent, and dazzling smile, it was clearly evident that she had no clue that her screams for help might have been even a tiny bit on the melodramatic side.  Backing out of the room and breathing a sigh of relief, Khari went to the linen closet in the hallway and grabbed three rolls of two-ply cushiony, quilted softness and returned to the scene of the crime so to speak. 

“Here,” he said, standing in the door frame with his back towards Jacinda, trying to hand her the rolls of TP with his hand stretched precariously behind him. 

“Uhmmm, I can’t reach, silly.  I didn’t poop, ya know.  It was only pee.  You can come in.  Would you just hand it to me, please?”   

“Jeez, Jay, do you always have to be so graphic?”  Exasperated, Khari closed his eyes and tip-toed into the bathroom like he was a little boy trying to pretend he was invisible, put the rolls of toilet paper down on the counter, and made a quick exit back to his basketball, burger, and brew.

Jacinda joined him about a half hour later, smelling like she had bathed and lotioned herself with every tropical fruit known to man, carrying a plate with a hoagie the size of the state of Connecticut in one hand and an orange-cream soda in the other.  She had spent the morning in bed sleeping and relaxing while Khari was up and about doing his Saturday morning chores.  This was their first real time together since they had woken up.  “What’s the score?” Jacinda inquired. 

Khari glanced over and all she was wearing was a pair of black bikini panties, not a stitch of other clothing.  He practically spit his Samuel Smith Organic Lager across the room.  “Uhhhmm, don’t you want to put some clothes on?  I mean, it’s 2 in the afternoon.”  Because they hadn’t been dating very long, this was the first time they had a date that didn’t end with one of them getting up and getting dressed in the middle of the night to go home.  This was their very first intentional sleepover, complete with a packed bag and everything.  It was clear that Jacinda was comfortable in her own skin, much more so than Khari could ever hope to be.  For a brief moment, Jacinda felt embarrassed.  In her own home, she’d walked around buck naked in front of Khari but, again, they had only been having sex for a couple of weeks so they hadn’t quite worked out all the logistics of coupledom just yet. 

Jacinda felt ashamed; tears welled in her eyes.  This was the first time in the 8 weeks that they had been dating that Khari wasn’t totally attentive and sweet.  She thought her lack of clothing indicated that she was comfortable in his home but it was clear he didn’t want her to feel that relaxed.  She jumped up, ran upstairs to get dressed, and returned a few minutes later wearing black leggings and a hot pink t-shirt.  She even put on socks and shoes just to be on the safe side.  She made her way back to the sofa and sat in silence as she ate her sub and watched the game.  Khari sat in silence and watched the game, not even bothering to make small talk or look in her direction.  He could tell that she was upset but he just didn’t care.  When Jacinda said she was going to leave to go home, he made no efforts to ask her why or even ask her to stay.  He cleared the dirty dishes and asked her if she needed help taking her bag to the car like she was an unwelcomed house guest who had stayed too long. 

Khari, at 37 years of age, worked as an installer for a cable company.  If anyone were to ask him to describe himself, he would emphatically say that he was a good guy with his own house, his own car, no criminal record, and no kids.  As for the ladies, Khari was a liar and a cheater extraordinaire who treated women like objects.  He had never, not once in his life, had a girlfriend he hadn’t cheated on.  He didn’t even think that was a problem or an issue, it never even crossed his mind that anything was wrong with that fact.  The only person he thought of in relationships was himself, women were a nuisance because he really only wanted sex and he resented having to pretend to care about someone else and their feelings, but that’s what he did, pretend. He was great at pretending when he wanted to; his acting skills could have won him an Academy award. 

Khari had the ability to convince women that he was attentive, loving, committed, faithful, and oh so in love, right up until the minute he decided he was bored of pretending then he would move on, no explanation, no looking back.  When he was in a relationship and his self-centered urges hit, he would do something, anything to fuck up the relationship and he would gravitate back to the collection of mentally-unstable women he kept on retainer who he had romanced in the past and who found his particular brand of emotional immaturity sexy and who didn’t ask too many questions to ascertain his level of fidelity.  Or at least they believed his lies enough to be swept up in the romance of it all. 

Standing at 5’9”, 180 lbs, naturally fit, built like a Pit-bull, with flawless caramel-colored brown skin and a smile that could light up any room, Khari was neither ugly nor overly attractive.  His most “attractive” feature was that he knew how to pour on the charm to get women to fall in love with him.  The romantic emails, the late night phone calls, the dinners and the endless lies were his weapons of choice.  It was especially the phone calls in the beginning of the relationship that lasted hours and hours where he would tell the women how amazing, wonderful, and intense the connection he felt to them and that would usually be enough to seal the deal and make them fall in love. After they fell head over heels, the phone calls would last 20 minutes and he always had something more important to do than talk on the phone.  You see, Khari was addicted to the chase.  When he caught his prey, he would find someone else to romance.  When the women whose hearts he had destroyed would confront him, angry and hurt, he would ignore them like they didn’t even exist, blame them for some made up excuse, and he would take no responsibility whatsoever for his actions without a thought or care in the world.  Khari was totally oblivious of how heinous it was to make a woman fall in love with him and then just snatch it away. 

Jacinda, on the other hand, was a case-study in growth, evolution, and transformation.  She had gone through her 20s depending on her looks.  It’s what Black women who are attractive do.  You use your looks, your big butt, and, if you’re “lucky,” your light skin to get men to do everything for you without you needing to have a thought or a care in the world about being self-sufficient or independent.  She dressed well, was relatively smart, and standing at 5’5” tall, 160 pounds, possessing more than her fair share of tits and ass, there was no shortage of men vying for her attention and willing to buy her things to impress her.  That meant men fell all over her just for the chance to have her on their arm when they were out and about town but ultimately, their only true goal was to get her into bed.  She wasn’t a real person to most of them, just a sexual conquest.  She was more like an erotic game piece to be collected by men in some twisted competition to see who could screw the most attractive women. 

Jacinda had gone through her 30s dependent on books, immersing herself in self-help books, workshops, seminars, and retreats in an effort to unpack a little bit of the baggage so many Black women carry around with them that had been keeping her from knowing real joy.  She was way past the “buy me” stage and wanted men to value her for more than her looks, but for her substance.  She didn’t want to hold onto past pain to the point where she exploded in violent anger at the tiniest provocation.  She didn’t want to feel like she was constantly walking around with a cloud of insecurity and self-doubt hovering over her.  Her 30s was her time of reinvention and renewal. 

In her 40s, Jacinda was the top in her field of cooks.  She’d quit her job as a bank manager and she’d gone to culinary school and gotten a job as a food stylist on a TV network.  It was great because she could express her creativity with what she loved doing the most and she didn’t have the dreadful schedule of a restaurant chef.  She finally had gotten comfortable in her own skin.  Everything wasn’t all peaches and cream, however, because it seemed that she was so anxious to love and be loved, not to grow old alone, she would jumped into relationships where the warning signs were there and she found herself overlooking some major character flaws in men and giving too much weight to chemistry and not enough weight to character.  She didn’t date thugs, she dated emotionally immature men.  It wasn’t a preference it was just a reality that Black men hardly ever did any work on themselves and they had been raised in a society that told them that their manhood was to be measured in inches and machismo. 

She figured that if she could just find a good enough man who was committed to her, she could help shape him into a great man with love and guidance.  It didn’t seem all that unreasonable to her.  No relationship is perfect; Prince Charming only exists in fairy tales.  She was doing what she thought was her only choice, to accept what her mother, sisters, grandmother, aunts, and a whole host of elder Black women had been telling her since she was a child.  Men, they said, were never going to be sensitive, nurturing, or understanding so if she didn’t want to spend her life alone, she needed to just suck it up and deal with it.  It was that advice that landed her in a string of dead-end relationships. 

After their little incident, Jacinda let a few days go by, hoping Khari would call her and apologize for the incident, or at least acknowledge that he should have been a bit less rude and a bit more sensitive.  That call never came.  Her mind raced, her thoughts would spin out of control.  She couldn’t figure out what happened to the man who had come to fix her cable and blown her away with his sensitivity and attentiveness.  She saw his postings on Facebook; simultaneously she planned and plotted on what and when to post on her Facebook page so that he would see them and he could be reminded of her presence.   Finally, tired of the childish games, she picked up the phone and called him.  He was emotionally distant.  She addressed the issue head on, he told her that she was over-reacting and that he hadn’t done anything wrong.  Khari never apologized.  He just glossed over that part as if he didn’t owe her anything and he acted as if he did nothing wrong.  Much to Jacinda’s credit, it was her efforts at communicating her feelings without projecting shame that turned the tide in the conversation and before long; things were back on a good footing. 

The weeks turned to months and they were getting along better all the time.  The relationship had a few problems, nothing to break up over, and for the most part they were going extremely well.  Khari’s brothers had been teasing him about settling down and finding someone rather than just the endless string of women that only lasted two or three months so Khari decided that Jacinda was nice enough that he would try to make it work with her.  The relationship really started to blossom when he made that choice.  There was very little fighting, they got along well, they enjoyed the same forms of entertainment and social activities and the sex was . . . very, very good. 

The sex between them wasn’t bad by any stretch of the imagination; Khari made sure Jacinda came every time.  Jacinda just like felt the sex was monotonous, lacked any sort of creativity.  A typical evening would be spent having dinner, watching TV, and when Khari decided that he was tired enough to go to bed and not too tired for sex, they would shut everything down and head to the bedroom.  Khari always wore a t-shirt and boxers to bed and the lights out always had to be out.  Their routine was entirely predictable.  Jacinda would get in bed, usually naked or wearing something semi-sexy, and Khari would follow soon thereafter.  He would start rubbing his dick on her ass and playing with her breasts and talking dirty.  That would go on for about 15 minutes until he thought she was sufficiently aroused and then would slide his boxers off and climb on top of her under the covers and “do his business” as Miss Celie would say. 

Technically, Khari was masterful at throwing the dick.  His dick got super-hard, he lasted long, he had a phenomenal down stroke, and he knew how to seal the deal.  The only thing missing for Jacinda was diversity.  He never once sucked a toe, he never gave her a massage, they barely even kissed.  Every once in a while they would augment their evening with a little oral sex but Khari wanted to use sex more as an aide to get to sleep rather than an actual intimate connection with the woman with whom he shared his life. Jacinda wanted more sensuality, more passion, more variety but Khari always had an excuse for why it had to be pretty much the same way all the time.  He was tired, he had to get up early, he had other things on his mind, everything was an excuse for him not to do anything other than exactly what he wanted to do.  Eventually, Khari got to the point where he could silence Jacinda’s complaints about sex by saying, “Babe, I’m so in love with you, I need you.  Sex with you is amazing.  You are all the woman I need.” 

And those were all the words she needed to hear.  The sex wasn’t bad so Jacinda thought it was her responsibility to be a little more accepting of what was good about the sex and conversely try to gently suggest other things they could do together.  Most other women would have been satisfied with a good, hard fuck but Jacinda wanted to incorporate toys, she wanted to try different scenarios and techniques, she wanted to have spontaneous sex at 4 in the afternoon in the shower or the kitchen or the park.  She would have settled for him just being more tactile in bed.  Anything would have been an improvement but she weighed the pros and cons of their relationship and decided it wasn’t a deal breaker.  Lying, cheating,  doing something intentionally hurtful, those were deal breakers and she was assured Khari loved her and that was worth more to her than playing some silly erotic board game, a hot stone massage, or using chocolate body paints. 

On the night of their one-year anniversary, Khari took Jacinda to their favorite restaurant.  They sat across the table from one another and gazed into each other’s eyes, they flirted and talked and fed each other.  Love was in the air.  Khari realized that this was the longest, healthiest relationship he’d ever been in.  He was caught up in it, thinking that he had really changed, that he was no longer a player but he was really, truly a good guy.  He was starting to believe his own lies.  He started to pour on the charm.  “Over this last year, Jay, I’ve grown so much.  You’ve helped me to be a better human being, and dare I say it, a better man.  I am so comfortable with you.  I can easily see myself spending the rest of my life with you.” 

When he heard the words come out of his mouth, something instantly changed within him.  Never stuttering for a second, while he was still professing his undying love, his mind was racing with thoughts that he wanted to end the relationship and end it immediately.  He knew he had gone too far. Khari didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with anyone.  What he wanted was to fuck as many random women as he could, no strings attached, and never have to pretend to care about another woman for as long as he lived.  Fuck what his family had been saying.  He had gotten so masterful at lying, at pretending to be the sweet, sensitive boyfriend that he almost started to believe his own hype.  The minute he heard himself say that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Jacinda, it was like being struck by lightning.  He knew that he HAD to get out of the relationship and fast.  He knew that he couldn’t keep pretending to love her.  He wanted to be as self-centered and narcissistic as he could be.  He didn’t mind pretending to be into women if they were just fuck buddies and booty calls and married women who had husbands to go home to but telling a woman that he wanted to spend his life with her, he had gone too far and the game had to stop. 

Even as he was sitting there, even as he heard his professions of love in his little prepared speech leave his lips, he was planning his exit.  He was holding her hand, softly touching her cheek, and telling her things that every woman would want to hear and he was lying the entire time.  He knew in that very moment that the next time that she brought up an issue about their relationship, he would blow it out of proportion and give her no choice but to break up.  He thought about cheating on her and letting her find out but that was Plan B.  Technically, he had cheated on her before but it but he justified in his mind that it didn’t really count because it was only oral from some chick at his job he didn’t give a fuck about anyway.   He knew Jacinda; he knew that it wouldn’t be long before she wanted to talk about “the truth” or feelings or how to make their relationship better, or something about relationship stuff.  It was just a matter of time. 

That time came before he knew it.  When they got back to her apartment, they settled down to watch TV as usual.  Jacinda had been overwhelmed by his professions of love.  She knew they had been getting closer, that the relationship was getting stronger and stronger with each passing day, week, and month, but she hadn’t expected him to start talking about a future together.  He had always been so adamant about not wanting anything long-term.  She was happy, for the first time in her life, she felt like, “This is it, this is my happily ever after.”   The relationship wasn’t perfect, the disparity in emotional maturity was offset by the ease, fluidity, and comfort they shared in so many other aspects of their partnership, but it was, or so she thought, healthy and happy and stable and just perfect for her.  She figured it was the ideal night to talk about the lack of seduction and variety in their sex lives again.  In her mind, he had taken a huge step towards her and it was really a game changer in their relationship.  She chose her words carefully.  Tentatively, she said, “Khari, I need to ask you a question.”

“What?” he responded, his voice dripping with defensiveness, preparing himself for the showdown.    

“I’ve been thinking a lot about us, well, about you know, about our sex.  I was just wondering if . . .”   She hesitated.  She wanted to be as gentle as possible.  There was never going to be an easy time to bring up the topic but she took a deep breath and decided that if they really were going to spend the rest of their lives together that they had to have this discussion.  “It seems like you have never feel comfortable being naked around me unless we are having sex.  You aren’t even comfortable with me being naked unless we are having sex.  I was wondering if . . .” 

“Just say it,” he said, pretending to be growing frustrated and annoyed with her stalling but really not caring one way or the other what she was about to say.  Whatever she said, he was going to turn it into a reason to break up. 

Jacinda summoned up the courage to ask the necessary questions.  “Well, I was wondering,” she said in her sweetest voice possible, “I have been thinking about all the women in your past.  And I’ve tried to make sense of the patterns in your life.  Do you think the reason why you are so uncomfortable with being naked around me, and the reason why you seem to enjoy more of a wham, bam thank you ma’am is, I was thinking maybe the reason you aren’t so comfortable with exploring our sexuality more is . . .  maybe because you . . .  you know . . . aren’t . . . well, truly comfortable with your . . .”  She took a deep breath.  “Black men are perceived to be well-endowed and I was wondering if you might feel a bit uncomfortable because . . .” 

Before she could even finish her thoughts, Khari yelled, “DA FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!?”  He jumped up and stormed across the room, staring out the window into the dark street.  “You trying to say my dick ain’t big enough for you?  Trust me, I have never had anyone complain.  I got plenty of women who want to get down with me.  Way hotter women than you, in fact.”  Jacinda’s word cut him like a knife.  He was hurt, truly hurt, and he was trying to hurt her back.  This wasn’t part of his master plan, this was the real deal.  “So what, I don’t have a foot of dick between my legs.  I still blow your back out,” he added. 

Jacinda ran to his side, tried to reassure him that she wasn’t complaining, that she wasn’t trying to hurt his feelings, she just wanted to be open and honest and discuss what might be behind the reason he was so unwilling to explore their sexuality more. 

The truth was Khari had been ashamed of the size of his dick since his earliest memories of knowing what sex was.  He was on a little league team when he was 11 and he was the only Black boy on the team.  In the showers after a game one day, one of the boys started making fun of him, pointing at his penis and saying how it wasn’t big like Black guys were supposed to have, telling him he wasn’t really Black.  His dick wasn’t smaller than any of the other boys on the team, it just wasn’t hanging to his knees either and they made sure to remind him of it every chance they got.  They told him that he would never get a white girl with his little dick; they said that he must have slave master blood in him because he didn’t have a big, black cock like the other brothers in the hood. It didn’t really matter that none of them had even been to the hood or seen another Black penis in real life.  They were basing their comments on the interracial porn stashed in their father’s porn collections.  Khari never told anyone.  He never told his parents, he never told the coach, he never told his friends or a girlfriend.  He couldn’t bring himself to say the words that they were making fun of him because his dick was average.  In his mind, they were saying, your dick is too small and he carried that pain with him deeply. 

As Khari got older to the age when everyone was experimenting with sex, he was afraid to approach girls.  Senior prom, he got up the nerve and asked a young lady to the prom.  After the prom, they got a hotel room with a bunch of other kids, some alcohol, and they were off to make memories.  Immediately upon completion, his heart racing and his mind full of doubts and insecurities, he asked her how it was for her.  Her response was to be etched in his subconscious forever.  “Well, I thought it was going to be different.   You know, all my friends said it would hurt but it didn’t.  I thought it was going to be . . . better.” 

With those words, she sealed Khari’s fate.  From that moment on, he decided that if any girl showed an interest in him, he would pretend to be in love with her so that if and when it got to the point of having sex, she wouldn’t complain that he wasn’t some super-hung Mandingo.  It was his insurance policy.  He didn’t care who showed him attention, fat, ugly, younger, older, married, dating, nothing in common, he didn’t care if she had slept with every man in a 50 mile radius, as long as she showed an interest in him, he would say whatever he had to say in order to get them to be infatuated with him so he could fuck her.  He didn’t realize that he all of the pretending that he was in love was unnecessary, that most of the girls would have slept with him regardless.  He never realized that his dick wasn’t too small at all, it was average.  But having an average-sized dick for Black men is often times a source of shame.    

When he got to college, he made sure to never shower or undress in front of anyone, not roommates, not girlfriends, especially not anyone on the baseball team.  At the first opportunity, he got an apartment by himself off campus.  The only time he got naked in life was to shower and to have sex.  He never even looked at himself naked in the mirror.  Did he equate any of that with his insecurity about his dick size?  Not once.  Never having made any conscious connection between what happened to him when he was on the little league team and his behaviors with women for the last 25 years, the only thing Khari knew in that moment was that he was angry with Jacinda and he didn’t need an excuse to end the relationship, she had nailed the coffin shut herself. 

Khari calmly denied her accusations and stood there, stoic and outraged, in silence, ignoring Jacinda like she didn’t even exist.  Jacinda was crying hysterically, trying to calm Khari down, reason with him.  She was falling all over herself, apologizing.  It hadn’t come out at all like she had wanted.  She wanted to reassure him that he was more than big enough for her, that she was satisfied with the relationship and the sex; she had made a stupid attempt at bringing up a subject that most Black men are terrified to talk about.  Kicking herself, Jacinda knew she had made a huge mistake.  She knew Khari wasn’t the sort of man who would ask himself the hard questions.  She knew that whenever it came to bringing up any issue where he would have to reveal something about himself that was ugly or painful, that he would react negatively and deny, deny, deny. 

“I’m out.  I’m not going to do this anymore.”  With that, Khari grabbed his jacket and walked past Jacinda like she wasn’t even there.

“Wait, where are you going?”  Sobbing uncontrollably, Jacinda pleaded.  “Stay, we can talk about this.  I’m sorry.  Babe, we had a wonderful evening.  We love each other.  We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.  We can work through this.  I will admit I wasn’t as sensitive about the issue as I should have been.  Let’s talk, this is a misunderstanding, let’s not ruin the evening. Sweetie, I am so very sorry.  Please don’t go!” 

Khari made sure to shut down any hopes of working things out as he put his hand on the front door.  Without even looking back, he mumbled, “I don’t want to be in a relationship with you.  I didn’t really love you.  It was all a lie,” as he shut the door behind him to the unhinged and irrational screams of Jacinda behind him. 

Jacinda cried for weeks.  She sent texts, emails, cards, she made phone call after phone call, all of which were ignored.  She sent links to articles about penis size and a woman’s pleasure, explaining in detail that bigger does not mean better.  She sent diagrams showing that a woman’s g-spot is located about 2 inches inside a woman’s vagina and that even an average sized dick is more than sufficient to give a woman a vaginal orgasm.  She could have sent Dr. Oz himself to say that Khari’s dick was more than big enough and he wouldn’t have cared one iota.  Khari was too emotionally immature to email or call Jacinda back so he just let her keep emailing and texting him until she eventually got the message.  He had erased her out of his life like she didn’t exist.  In his world, anyone who made him face his insecurities was dead to him.  Unable to wrap her head around the fact that she was in what she thought was the happiest relationship of her life one minute, and literally, an hour later, it was gone, Jacinda struggled with depression, anger, confusion, loneliness, and a sense of betrayal for months. 

Over on the other side of town, Khari struggled with no such conflict.  They broke up on a Wednesday, he was fucking another woman by Saturday, and it would have been Friday but he had plans with his co-workers after work that night.  Within weeks, he had a different woman for every night of the week to play with and manipulate.  Most were women from his past he could call up and manipulate easily, newer women required more time and finesse to seduce but he was up for the challenge.  He was single and had not ties to anyone.  He would have tried to romance the homeless girl who sat on the bus stop all day if he thought she would give him some.  Before work, during work, after work, all night long, he was trying to romance someone to get them in bed.  He felt no compunction using them, degrading them, taking out his anger and frustration on them sexually. 

Truthfully, it wasn’t anger and frustration Khari felt, it was insecurity and fear.  He heard Jacinda’s words over and over again in his head every time it came time for “that moment” when he had to undress in front of a woman.  He hated her for making him feel like that little boy being shamed in the locker room, like the young man on prom night all over again; memories he had intentionally shut out.  If there was one thing in life that Khari had prided himself on was making women infatuated with him to stroke his ego.  He became so terrified someone was going to tell him that his dick was little that he began to overcompensate by doing his level best to hit it, stab it, kill it, to brutally and savagely fuck every woman he could.  And the women ate it up.  They showed up in the middle of the night or 5 AM in the morning, they were at his beck and call whenever he needed to silence the voices in his head.  He loved the dysfunction and the drama.  He loved lying to women, convincing them that they were the only one when they were one of so many, he couldn’t keep track of them all.  They didn’t seem to want to know or care about other women in his life, they just seemed grateful for the emails, phone calls, dinners, concerts, and the good dick. 

For the better part of a year, Khari was on a sexual rampage; a slave to his dick.  He was sticking it in anything and everything without a care for disease, pregnancy, common sense, or standards.  Sex was his drug of choice and he was self-medicating and numbing his feelings of insecurity in all aspects of his life, demons he had never faced, with women he manipulated into bed.  He wanted and needed to sexually dominate them, to slap, choke, degrade, and humiliate them in order to feel good about himself.  And because they loved it, each and every one of them ate it up in fact, and came back for more whenever he told them, he felt high off the adrenaline. 

Everything came crashing to a halt one day when, before work, he was overwhelmed with emails from all the women in his current rotation of fuck buddies that he composed an erotic story and sent it to all of them, which wasn’t unusual or uncommon.  This particular morning however, in a rush, he accidentally didn’t BCC them and by noon, his phone was blowing up with calls and texts from a half a dozen women all wanting answers.  They started emailing each other, confirming times, dates, and commonalities in seduction.  They all started to piece together that the restaurant that was “their special restaurant” wasn’t so special and that he took all of them there.  They started to figure out that in far too many instances, when one woman left in the morning, there was someone else there that same night.  And they all figured out that there hadn’t been a condom used between all of them.   

Two of the women had a modicum of self-esteem, cursed him out, and walked away.  Three of the women believed him when he said that it was all a contrived plot by a nameless ex-girlfriend who had hacked his e-mail and made up the other email addresses to cause drama.  They “sort of” questioned his sincerity but they were just as addicted to his level of dysfunction, lying, and hot sex as he was to the adrenaline rush of manipulating them into being infatuated with him so they simply chose to ignore the obvious truth and keep on with the way things were.  One of the women however was never really mentally-stable in the first place, and while she was sweet and oh so pleasant as long as she was in the dark, she became a psychotic lunatic intent on exacting painful revenge after finding out the truth.  She stalked him, she called him night and day, she showed up at his job unexpectedly; she was intent on making him pay and pay dearly.

One would think that at damn near 40, Khari would have learned that pretending someone doesn’t exist, ignoring them like the emotional pain he had caused them meant nothing, is really only appropriate if you are 7 years old and you are ignoring your imaginary friend.  But ignore he did and he paid the price for it.  Had he simply faced his victim with a bit of humility and remorse, if he hadn’t acted like she meant nothing to him and that her pain was insignificant to him, he could have saved himself a world of trouble.  But Khari was arrogant and stupid.  For every email that she sent him that went unanswered, for every text he deleted, for every phone call from her he rejected, he sent her into a fuming rage, infuriated that her voice wasn’t being heard, her pain wasn’t worth addressing.    

Treating women like disposable game pieces and ignoring the pain he caused them was a lesson he would learn with near fatal consequences.  As he pulled into his garage one night, lowered the door, and grabbed his bags of groceries, the sensation hit him quickly.  At first, it was warm, then, almost instantly, it became a burning sensation.  He couldn’t breathe.  It was surreal.  He reached around to his side and felt the warmth.  He held his hand up and could see the blood, but it was almost like it wasn’t his own.  Crumpled to the floor, he managed to call 911 just before he passed out. 

Had she stabbed him an inch to the left, she would have punctured a lung and Khari would have died instantly.  Talk about a close call.  As he recuperated in the hospital, Khari thought it was almost comical.  “I damn near lost my life over some pussy.”  But it wasn’t pussy that almost got him killed; it was the heart of the woman who was attached to that pussy that he should have never fucked with.  Even after a woman had played sushi chef with his insides, he still wasn’t willing to acknowledge that he had done anything wrong.  He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that it had even happened to him.  Things like this weren’t supposed to happen to him.  For all of his lies and manipulations, he was so great at lying, he’d avoided any drama like this up until this point.  He was the guy that women loved, not hated.  The physician at the hospital, hearing bits and pieces of the story and able to figure out pretty much the rest of it, recommended therapy for Khari and he vehemently refused.   He didn’t think there was anything wrong with him and he certainly didn’t want to change.  He liked being “free and independent” as he called it, meaning, egotistical and self-absorbed. 

In the months following the stabbing, there was a trial.  The young lady was convicted but she brought out the infamous email and all the women were called to the stand to testify.  Khari’s family, hell, everyone in the city learned all about the type of man Khari really was because it was the opening story on the local news for weeks.  He distanced himself from his loved ones and friends even though they still supported him but he was ashamed of his actions and just wanted to hide out in his basement and sit in front of the TV. 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch as they say, in the weeks following the trial, Khari found that his libido had started coming back and his need for sex was returning.  Only problem was, he was afraid to initiate sex with anyone.  Khari was sure that every woman in the world knew of his womanizing ways and that the next time one of them got close to him they were going to try to cut off his dick rather than stab him in the back.  He would never admit it to anyone but he was even more afraid after the stabbing that women were going to ridicule him for having a little dick if he didn’t lie to them and convince them that he was in love with them.  Therein was the root of his conundrum.  He was terrified of lying to women to get sex but he felt like he had to lie to get sex.  He had a six inch scar to remind him of what lying had gotten him in life. 

Isolated from friends and family, with no one to talk to, and most importantly, feeling like he had no opportunities for sex unless he moved to east Mozambique, he pulled out the card for the therapist he had been given and made an appointment. It was the last thing he wanted to do and he didn’t even think it would help.  The only thing that made him keep the appointment was the vague memory of Jacinda and how she had said that maybe, just maybe, that his need to use women was tied to his concept of manhood.  Something about that had resonated with him.  He’d gone to counseling before and it didn’t work because he, obviously, lied the entire time.  He planned on lying this time as well.  He just wanted a quick fix, some magic pill that would allow him to get back to fucking women again. 

For the first three months, Khari lied so much that he couldn’t keep track of the lies.  His therapist was a man and not distracted by or attracted to him so he would call out the lies and they would have to start over from scratch.  Finally, lonely, isolated, scared, horny, and hating himself, Khari started to tell the truth.  It started spilling out.  He talked about the boys on the baseball team and how he pretended to his buddies that he had a big dick in order to feel validated.  He spoke of the women in his life he had hurt, his compulsion to use women, what makes him feel good about slapping women and degrading them during sex.  He opened Pandora’s Box and he started telling the truth like his life depended on it. 

For the first time in his life he realized how deep the rabbit hole went.  All the lying he did to women wasn’t compartmentalized to just them.  He became aware for the first time in his life that his Casanova ways meant that he was lying to everyone in his life.  He had to lie to his parents, his brothers, his friends, his co-workers, more importantly to himself to cover up his addiction to sex and women. For the very first time in his life, Khari realized how there was no place in his life where the lies didn’t consume him. 

For months, he did nothing but talk, the doctor barely asked questions, barely offered advice.  Finally, Khari literally got to the end.  He had purged himself of all of his guilt and lies, and confessions and revelations.  Everything was out in the open.  He was waiting to be fixed.  That was the point of therapy and he was waiting for the doc to tell him to read a book and take a pill and he could go back to the way he was without the fear.  He was growing anxious.  He hadn’t had sex in a months and he felt like he was going to die.  Feeling anxious, he pushed the therapist to make a diagnosis and write a prescription for his anxiety.

The doctor casually said, “Khari, there really isn’t much I’m going to be able to tell you that will convince you not to lie.  You’ve built your life on falsehoods, deceptions, manipulations, and lies and you aren’t going to change.  I’ve never encountered a more pathological liar than you in all my years of practice.  The only thing that can really help you now is if you stop lying to yourself and I can’t imagine that happening because you are still not taking responsibility for yourself and the impact your lies have on other people.” 

Khari was more than slightly irritated.  “What the hell?  You mean to tell me I’ve wasted 5 months of my life coming here every week spilling my guts and you are sitting here telling me that I can’t be fixed?  That I’m a pathological liar?  Man, talk about a racket.  That is a nice gig if you can get it, man.  All I wanted was to be able to get back to normal.  Glad my insurance covered this.  Thanks for nothing, man.” 

As he was headed for the door, the doctor asked one last question.  “Khari?  The lying.  Other than a lot of sex, what has it gotten you?” 

The door slammed behind him but it was the words that rang loudest in his ears.  In the stillness of his truck, Khari sat surrounded by the ghosts of his dysfunction for the very first time in his life.  He sat in his vehicle and for the first time since childhood, he cried.  He cried out the tears and the pain of a little boy humiliated by racism until he couldn’t cry any more.  He let the movie of his life play in his head.  The doctor wasn’t really asking him about the women he lied to, he was asking him if he had convinced himself with his lies that he was as gorgeous, talented, capable, desirable, and as perfect as he wanted to feel inside, as he wanted the world to see him.  That’s what every lie was about.  He wasn’t lying to convince women that he was all those things; he was lying so that he could try to convince himself.  On the inside, Khari felt ugly, talentless, and undesirable and nothing he could tell himself or any other woman would change that.  In that moment, Khari started doing the hard work of real therapy and the next week with the doctor was actually like his first.  He started peeling off the layers of why he felt so unworthy and unlovable. 

Over the next year, Khari spent more time on that couch than he could count.  Sometimes, he had two appointments a week.  Everything was on an accelerated pace.  It was like a 12 step recovery for him only his addiction was not booze or drugs or even sex, it was lying.  The first thing he knew he had to do was get tested for STDs.  The fear of having HIV was always in the back of his mind when he had unprotected sex but now he realized his low self-esteem was what was making him take such unnecessary and unhealthy choices. He started contacting women from his past, of his own volition and without prompting, and apologizing for the way he had treated them.  Even women who had no clue he had lied to, women who would had fucked him without too much effort and a few strategic lies, he would confess his sins and extend his sincere apologies, something he had NEVER done before in his life.  That’s how he knew he was really changing. 

Eventually, Khari started dating again.  This time, rather than pretending to be a nice guy, pretending to listen, he really was.  He would have real conversations with women about real topics, real feelings, real emotions and he would share his opinions and offer insights based on his own revelations.  For the first time in his life he started to be discriminating.  He didn’t just go to bed with any woman that showed an interest in him, he wanted women that could help him be a better man.  He stopped romancing women for sport and he even got his heart broken a few times by women who wanted no parts of him because of his notorious past.  Khari was becoming emotionally mature, something that had been a foreign concept to him up until that point.  Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

There’s always that little fly in the machine to muck things up though.  For all of his making amends, the one person he hadn’t contacted to confess and apologize to was Jacinda.  He told his therapist it was because he just wasn’t ready but then took a deep breath and confessed it was because he had loved her the most and that he had hurt her the most.  He knew that what he was calling love before wasn’t real because it was based on emotional deception but the happiest he had ever been in his life was with her.  He knew now that what she was suggesting, the reason why he didn’t want to be naked in front of her, the reason he wanted sex to be short, sweet, and to the point is because he didn’t know how to be truly intimate, all he knew how to do was pretend. 

Fate has a way of fucking with you when you are putting off the inevitable.  After the stabbing, Khari had been transferred to business accounts on his job and he got a work order to upgrade all the routers for the very TV station that Jacinda worked for.  He couldn’t sleep the night before.  He got up at the crack of dawn and watched mindless TV not so patiently until it was time to shower and go to work.  He pulled into the garage with a ton of apprehension.  He didn’t even know what floor she worked on, if she still worked there, or if he would come anywhere near her over the course of the next few days.  Part of him was terrified that she would stab him if she saw him but another part of him wanted to just apologize and explain.  If he was being honest with himself, a part of him wanted another chance with her but he realized through therapy that he had burned that bridge and that the most he should hope for was asking for her forgiveness even if she decided not to accept it.  Well, that and he was saying a silent prayer as well that she didn’t try to slit his throat. 

It’s a good thing Khari kept an extra uniform shirt and some deodorant in his truck because he was sweating so profusely the first few hours there that he had sweated the underarms of his shirt clean through.  It had been over two years since he had talked to Jacinda and he was remiss that he hadn’t actually paid attention to her when she was talking so he didn’t remember what show she worked on.  Casually, as to not draw too much attention to himself, he asked a few people if they knew who she was.  They all did but they said she worked on several shows and could be anywhere.   One young lady said if she saw Jacinda, she would tell him that he was looking for her.  He tried to play it off and tell her that wasn’t necessary but he was anxious to see her.  He could barely concentrate on doing his job he was so busy looking around to see if he could see her.  He hadn’t figured out a plan, he didn’t know what he was going to say if he ran into her, all he knew was he wanted to see her and apologize.  Anything beyond that, he wasn’t emotionally mature enough to grasp just yet. 

“Khari, is that you?”  The familiar voice called out to him while he was on a ladder in the lunch room, his head completely obscured from view by the ceiling tiles.  His heart skipped a beat and he almost fell off the ladder.  He climbed down slowly and saw her for the first time in years.  She looked even more beautiful than she had before. 

“Hey, uhmmmm, hi.  How are you?”  He smiled nervously. 

Jacinda didn’t respond, she turned and walked away, visibly shaken and upset.  The old Khari would have let her go and not had another fleeting thought about her.  The new and slightly improved Khari took a chance he had never taken before, he went after her.  “Hey, wait up a minute.  There’s something I want to say, no need to say.” 

Frozen in her tracks, Jacinda was overcome with emotion.  She’d spent the better part of a year trying to heal from the hurt of their breakup.  And just when she thought she had gotten to a place where she was okay with moving on, she had to be painfully reminded of his trial and the lies, and the women, and the hurt all over again every day for weeks.  Everyone at her job knew she had dated him, everyone whispered behind her back about how he must have cheated on her.  She fought back the tears as she stood there, looking at him, hurt and confused like the night he walked out of her apartment and didn’t look back. 

Khari started apologizing, quietly, as to not draw too much attention while they were both working, but while the words were coming out of his mouth, he was thinking about the afternoon in his basement when she had come downstairs in nothing but panties, looking sexy and innocent with nothing but the most sincere motives, and he had treated her like she was some sort of criminal.  Jacinda heard the words coming out of his mouth and they vaguely sounded like an apology but she was hearing that final speech about how he had never loved her and it had all been a lie.  She didn’t hear anything he said.  Her mind was racing, trying to figure out how to make him feel like an idiot.  He certainly didn’t need any help in that department.  He felt ashamed.  And that was a good thing.  It meant he was finally feeling remorse for the first time in his life.  Not pretending to feel remorse, but actually processing his real feelings. 

Khari did everything in his power to make the job last longer than it had to.  What could have taken a week or so, ended up taking the better part of a month.  Every day, he would go out of his way to find Jacinda and say hello, offer to take her to lunch, apologize again, whatever he could do to just be in her presence. 

One of the things that being self-aware does to you is teaches you to forgive the people who have hurt you because you realize that they were doing the best they could at the time with the broken tools they had.  In the years since they had broken up, Jacinda had done a lot of work on herself and she had it in her heart to forgive but beyond that, she didn’t want to forget.  The words, “I didn’t really love you.  It was all a lie,” kept ringing over and over in her head.  There was no greater betrayal. 

Emotionally, Jacinda was in the same place again.  She could see that Khari was making an effort to really make amends.  She could sense what she thought was his sincerity but she just couldn’t be sure.  She felt herself remembering the good times of the year they had together and not the bad times.  If they had broken up because they had been fighting, if the relationship had been stagnant, she would be able to walk away and not look back.  They had broken up when the relationship was at its best so she was flooded with emotions that she didn’t understand.  The man who was before her every day was not the same man who had lied to her about loving her.  Or maybe he was and this was all a lie, all pretend, all meant to manipulate her.  Every woman has to ask herself-- where is the line between being a doormat and truly forgiving someone?  Oh, if life only came with an instruction manual. 

The very last thing Khari wanted to do was lie to anyone, let alone Jacinda.  He knew he couldn’t keep stalling on the job any longer so he made his move.  “Hey, Jay, today is my last day here.  I was wondering if I could call you some time and we could maybe hang out, go to a dinner, maybe catch a concert . . . Khari stopped.  He realized that he sounded like the Khari of old.  “OK, check it.  I would just love to hang out with you.  You can decide what you want to do.  I will be happy just spending time with you. 

“I’m having a few friends over on Saturday.  You’re welcome to come over if you want.”  The words left her mouth before she realized what she had said.  Her brother was going to be there.  The same brother who swore he would kill Khari if he ever ran across him again.  Her girlfriends were going to be there.  The same girlfriends who had been there for her when she couldn’t eat, couldn't sleep, and who had counseled her to just let him go.  She wanted to rescind the offer the second she made it.  The look of pure bliss on Khari’s face made her weak. 

“Cool.  What time?  What do you need me to bring?  Do you live in the same place?  I remember how to get there.”  To say Khari was elated was an understatement.  In the time since the stabbing, he hadn’t been this excited about anything, about any woman.  He was physically aroused and it had nothing to do with wanting to have sex.  He just wanted to be in her presence, to soak up her energy.  He wanted to show her that he was the better man that he had pretended to be with her those many years ago. 

Jacinda had prepared everyone that Khari was coming and EVERYONE voiced their concerns, shock, and utter disbelief that she would invite him.  Her brother and father and several male friends huddled in the corner and planned on when and how to beat his ass.  He had caused Jacinda to cry more tears than anyone should have to shed over one person.  The female contingent of the party, the very same women who told her over and over again that she needed to ignore his emotional immaturity and hold on to him because no man was ever going to be sensitive and the best she could hope for was someone to pay the bills and not bring drama home were the women telling her NOW how she could do so much better.  It was extremely humiliating for Jacinda to have to explain to people why should would even give him the time of day, let alone invite him over.  She wasn’t even sure she knew why herself.  She wasn’t thinking about tomorrow, she wasn’t thinking about next week.  All she was thinking about was the moment and something in her spirit told her that forgiving him meant accepting his offer of an olive branch.  What was to happen after that, she decided just to let spirit guide her. 

Jacinda had reserved the courtyard in her apartment complex for the day.  There were card tables, a volleyball net, a pool, and there was FOOD everywhere.  Jacinda had recruited every food stylist, every reality show chef champion, executive chef, and every restaurant owner she knew to contribute food for the day.  She had personally been cooking for months, freezing things and storing them at work.  By the time Khari had actually gotten up the nerve to show up, the party was in full swing.  He bought two cases of his favorite beer and made a beeline for her brother.  They had met before when he and Jacinda were dating and he had liked him.  Khari knew he had to fight that fire first.  If someone had done to his sister what he had done to Jacinda, he would have shot him in the back without blinking an eye.  This time, he came prepared with a speech and he pulled JJ to the side.  No one could tell what was being said but all eyes were on them.  Finally, Khari extended his hand to JJ, and JJ leaned in close, whispered something, and walked away, leaving him hanging.  JJ and his crew huddled.  They kept their eyes on him all day but they didn’t cause any trouble. 

The party was great.  Jacinda was her usual, vivacious, bubbly, charming self.  There was a DJ and the music kept everyone festive.  The food couldn’t have been better, the alcohol kept everyone in a light mood without getting out of control.  As the hour grew late, everyone started leaving.  There was so much food to put away and Khari offered to stay and help clean up.  Jacinda’s apartment fridge was regular sized so she had gotten the permission to use the walk-in at the 24 hour grocery store next door to her apartment building.  She was going to donate the leftover food to a shelter but they didn’t start taking donations until 11 AM so she was going to do it in the morning.  It was almost 2 in the morning before everything had been cleaned up.  Everyone else had long since gone home but Khari was there, not complaining a bit, working like a Hebrew slave. 

“Jay, that was an outstanding party.  Thank you for inviting me.  I had a really nice time.  It means a lot to me.”  He reached out and gave Jacinda a hug.  Their bodies touched for the first time since the fateful night of their one year anniversary.  It was an innocent hug.  Khari pulled her body close and put his hands on her back where he was sure it couldn’t be interpreted as inappropriate or sexual in any way.  Her curves felt exquisite and her familiar scent reminded him of days gone by.  He closed his eyes and he was in awe of the softness and warmth of her body.  Jacinda relaxed into his arms like she had always belonged there.   Electricity and sparks and chemistry were flying every damn where.  They could have put on a fireworks show for the 4^th of July all by themselves.  This wasn’t just lust; this was something bigger.

Khari backed away as he felt his body react to the proximity and softness of Jacinda’s.  She was not at all oblivious to the intense physical chemistry that was happening.  She took a minute to collect her thoughts.  “Hey, it’s late, and I’m sure you’re tired.  If you want, you can sleep on the sofa until the morning.” 

An invitation like that would have been like taking candy from a baby for the old Khari.  But he really was a different guy; he really was trying to do the right thing for once in his life.  He declined the offer and went home alone.  The old Khari would have had someone on standby to talk to on the phone to stroke his ego while stroked his member by the time he got home.  The new Khari went home and held his pillow tight and remembered the sensation of that hug.  He reminisced about the sounds Jacinda made when she was turned on and the way her body reacted when she was in the throes of an intense orgasm.  He closed his eyes and he could see the ugly faces she made when she was getting fucked and how much it had turned him on.  Mostly, he thought about how she had tried so very hard to make him open up and be honest and more comfortable in his own skin and how he had resisted her attempts.  He had a momentary feeling of shame but he stopped, reflected on how far he had come on his journey towards healing and he drifted off to a sweet slumber with the word Jacinda on his lips. 

It was barely 8 AM when the doorbell rang and Jacinda shuffled to the door wearing her fuzzy slippers and her velour bathrobe and a look on her face that clearly communicated, “Seriously?  Seriously?  I’m so sleepy I can’t even form words.  If I could form words, I would be cursing you out for knocking on my door at quarter to God forbid in the morning.”   

“Gooooood morning, sunshine.”  Khari had coffee, juice, muffins, a dozen eggs, maple bacon, lox, bagels, cream cheese, fresh fruit, pastry and more in hand.  He had enough food to feed an army.

Words that sounded similar to, “What are you doing here at this hour?” came out of Jacinda’s mouth.  

“Water your dues in years, Eisenhower?  Alrighty then, I see you are still not a morning person, Jay.  That’s OK, you go get a shower.  I’ll start breakfast.” 

The smell of cinnamon rolls baking when she got out of the shower brought Jacinda back to life.  She made her way back to the kitchen.  Khari looked comfortable there.  “Good morning,” she said, a bit more intelligible this time. 

He handed her a cup of coffee.  “I couldn’t remember if you liked Hazelnut or Amaretto creamer so I took a chance and went with Amaretto.  How’d I do?” 

She took a sip.  Her taste buds came alive and she felt the warmth of the fluid travel down to her stomach.  The jolt from the caffeine would come a bit later but the smell and the taste were like heaven to her.  “What are you doing here?” she asked again, this time coherent and clear. 

“Well, I figured you have a ton of food to take to the homeless shelter this morning and what would take you 5 or 6 trips in your girly little hybrid scooter would take us 1 trip in my manly-man monster truck.  So, here I am.  Oh shit, you’re going to make me burn the bacon.  Do you have cheese for the eggs?  Never mind, I’ll find it myself.  Go, go, go.  Set the table and leave me be while I finish.”

Breakfast was a feast made for a queen.  They sat and ate heartily, like they hadn’t eaten in weeks rather than the few hours it had been since the party.  As the blood started pumping and the caffeine kicked in, Jacinda blurted out, “Hey, what did you say to my brother yesterday?” 

Khari froze for a moment and then looked Jacinda in the eye.  “I told him that I loved you and that I was going to do whatever it took to get you back.”  Khari was telling the truth in more ways than one.  He was confessing his truths and revealing himself in a way that made him vulnerable and afraid.  That was a greater truth than he had ever known. 

Jacinda’s eyes searched the room, looking for something to focus on to keep her from crying.  She remembered the hurt and she wanted to lash out, to hit him, but she sat frozen for a few minutes.  Khari let her process.  “What did he say to you?”

“He told me that if I hurt you again that he would kill me.” 

Jacinda gave a nervous chuckle and went back to eating.  After a few minutes of awkward silence she spoke up.  “You know, I don’t want you back.  You lied to me about loving me and I can never trust you again.  I . . .”  Her voice crackled and trailed off. 

Khari grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to the sofa.  He sat next to her and tilted her chin up with his finger.  He wanted her to look at him.  “Jay, I didn’t lie to you about loving you.  I lied to myself.  I have been walking around broken and insecure and immature my whole life.  When I met you, I pretended to be someone I wasn’t to impress you and get you into bed because that’s what I did.  I did, most certainly love you, however.  Thing is, I didn’t know how to love you the way you needed because I didn’t love myself.  Truth be told, I still don’t know how to love myself but I’m working on it every day and I’m getting there.  When we were together, I felt like you were too good for me.  No matter how honest I was with you, no matter how many times I fucked up, you would look at me with these eyes that told me you saw something greater in me.  I didn’t know how to handle that.  I only knew how to handle women who worshipped and adored the fake me.”   

“With other women,” he continued, “I could lie and pretend and they didn’t dig any deeper, they didn’t ask anything of me other than a romantic dinner and a hot fuck.  I didn’t feel worthy of you because I felt this ugly part of me inside was just going to end up coming out and when you finally saw the real me, you would stop loving me.  The thought of that scared the shit out of me.  No matter how much ugly came out of me, no matter how many lies I revealed, you kept finding something beautiful to love about me.  I was afraid.   You were so close to the real me, too close for comfort.  I had run out of beautiful parts and I was afraid you wouldn’t look at me with the same magic in your eyes when you saw the ugly, real parts of me.  I didn’t know how to deal with that level of insecurity so I did the only thing I knew how to do, hurt you before you had a chance to hurt me.  I loved you, Jay, more than you will ever know.  I just didn’t feel worthy of your love and I fucked it up and I did heinous things and I will be forever sorry.  I did love you but you have to know that I loved you in a way that I just didn’t know how to deal with.”   

Jacinda was crying hysterically again, just like the last time they shared time and space in her apartment, the night he walked out and crushed her heart.  Khari got up and cleared the table.  He came back and took her hand as he stood over her, “I’m leaving now.  I don’t want to hurt you; I don’t want to see you cry.  I’m so very sorry.  But, Jay, I am going to come back.  I’m going to keep coming back until you tell me to leave you the hell alone.  I’m going to do everything I can to capture your heart this time and do it sincerely, not for you but for me.  I want to feel deserving of seeing that sparkle in your eyes when you look at me; I want to feel worthy of being the man that you love.” 

Khari didn’t want to leave.  He didn’t want her to hear the door close like she had heard over two and a half years ago on that fateful night.  He wanted to give her space and time to process so he left that morning but he had promised her that he would be back and he was going to keep that promise. 

Feeling overcome with emotion, Jacinda curled up on the sofa and cried for hours.  She couldn’t stop crying. By the time she had gotten herself together it was well past noon.  He grabbed her car keys and ran downstairs to get the food to take to the shelter.  It really was going to take her multiple trips in her small car because there was so much food.  The guy there said, “Oh man, some guy came by a few hours ago and took all the food.  I hope I didn’t . . . oh man, I’m so sorry ma’am.  I thought he was with you.”  She reassured him that everything was fine.  At that moment, she got a text.  It was a picture of a homeless man with a huge plate of food and a ridiculously huge grin on his face.  She wanted to text back and say thank you but she didn’t, she couldn’t.  She was terrified that this was just another emotional manipulation, a lie in the grand scheme of life and love. 

Over the course of the next few months, Khari worked his way back into Jacinda’s life.  He invited her to go to counseling with her.  They went.  Khari was making revelations and disclosures she was 100% certain that the Khari of old wasn’t capable of doing.  This new man was working on self-acceptance in all facets of his life, embracing the light and the dark within him, he was unselfish, most importantly, he was taking responsibility for his actions and handling constructive criticism well.  It was almost impossible for Jacinda to wrap her head around all of it.  All her life, she’d been told that men weren’t capable of this sort of behavior and here she was, seeing it in front of her eyes. 

While they were growing closer week after week, month after month, they still hadn’t gotten back together.  It was almost as if they were becoming more like brother and sister or best friends than boyfriend and girlfriend. There was no kissing, hand-holding was a no no, there was no cuddling and there wasn’t even the discussion of sex.  Well, there wasn’t the discussion of sex between the two of them.  Khari made sure he was pretty open and honest about other lovers in his life.  He was acknowledging his very human need for physical intimacy and he was truthful about his affairs.  That was a first.

Sex is a human drive and almost all the trouble Khari had gotten into in life was based on his deceitful pursuit and abject denial of it so he had a new attitude.  Going forward, he was going to be safe in all his physical and emotional choices.  He had a friend, Tina, whose husband had died and she wasn’t ready for an emotional relationship but she didn’t want to go forgo her sexual self until she was ready either. He didn’t lie to her, he didn’t pretend she meant the sun, and the moon, and the stars to him.  He didn’t use her; he simply maintained a connection with her that allowed them both erotic release without feeling used and without all the “taboo” triggers that used to stimulate Khari so much.  Khari was completely upfront with Tina that his true love interest was Jacinda and that the minute she was ready for a physical relationship things between them would have to end.  The same understanding stood in reverse and Khari was comfortable with it. 

As for other lovers in Jacinda’s life, she wasn’t as forthcoming.  She would tell Khari when she had a date and she would answer truthfully when he would ask if the date ended in intimacy or not.  She didn’t want to share too many more details because she would have had to admit that every time she’d had sex since Khari had come back into her life, she’d fantasized about him.   Every time she was aroused, her thoughts would drift back to Khari.  In fact, there weren’t many instances she could remember since she saw him on that ladder at work that she hadn’t fantasized about him when she was masturbating.  

Things were at a stalemate for Jacinda and Khari.  They had been spending more and more time together for the better part of six or seven months maybe.  She’d stopped going to therapy sessions with him because she was convinced he was sincere in his efforts to grown.  Khari could spend the night on her sofa any time he wanted and she had an open invitation to spend the night with him but she made it clear that she was more comfortable sleeping in her own bed.  Khari knew that it was time to make a move.  They had gotten to a place where she could sit a little closer on the sofa without Jacinda breaking out into tears but there was still no romance. 

With the weekend cleared of plans, Khari invited Jacinda over for a day of hanging out, nothing special planned, just whatever they wanted.  Jacinda jumped at the opportunity.  Khari sent her a text early Saturday morning saying, “out runng errnds. will lve bck door open. come ovr whn u wake up.” True to her nature on any day that didn’t include employment, Jacinda would rise at the crack of noon to greet the day.  She showered and put on as many layers as she could to brave the elements and headed over to Khari’s. 

She parked her car in the driveway behind his truck.  She wasn’t sure if his truck being there meant he was back from running errands or not.  She decided to use the back door per his instructions.  Placing her hand on the knob and twisting, the door opened immediately.  She took off her coat, hat, scarf, and gloves and hung them on the hooks near the back door.  As she came through the sun room and into the kitchen, she saw something she had never seen before.  Khari was standing at the stove, fixing God only knows what, wearing just boxer briefs.  He smiled at her nervously and said, “Oh, hey, you’re here.  Good, I’m glad to see you.  Did you have lunch yet?” 

Jacinda was dumbfounded.  “OK, wait a minute.  Wait one minute.  What’s going on here?  Why are you not wearing a stitch of clothing other than your underwear in the middle of the afternoon . . . in the kitchen? Help me understand this.” 

All Khari could do was laugh.  He was sure that the sight of someone in their underwear in their own home wouldn’t be that strange of a sight for most people but for him it was a very foreign concept.   “I wanted to try something new.  If it offends you, I can go put on some clothes.” 

“NO!” Jacinda blurted out almost too quickly, “Uhmmm, I mean, no, that’s fine with me as long as you’re comfortable, I’m comfortable.” 

“Good, glad that’s settled.  You hungry? Lunch is almost ready.  You can head downstairs and find something to watch on TV if you want.  Jacinda headed downstairs.  The fireplace was roaring and the coffee table already had hors d'oeuvres beautifully laid out. 

Before she knew what she was saying, Jacinda heard herself mumble, “My baby is an aspiring food stylist,” under her breath.  It was true in many ways.  One of the things they had in common was their love of food.  That couldn’t be denied.  And it was also very true that Khari was her baby.  They were a couple; they just hadn’t consummated it again.  Yet.  She settled on a marathon of Spike TV’s Deadliest Warrior.  They had this thing where they would pick opposing sides and each try to cheer their warrior to victory except if they were both creepy warriors.  On those episodes, they just watched for the blood, and guts, and gore.  By the time she was settled on the sofa and snacking on some warm, sinfully-delicious bites of something that had been prepared, Khari was bringing a tray with more food than they would ever be able to eat in one night. 

“Man, I turned the heat up to 75 and I have the fireplace going and you are still dressed like you are ready to trek over the frozen tundra.  I thought by now you’d be out of some of those clothes.”  Jacinda started looking around for her purse in a frantic search.  Khari inquired what she was doing. 

“Are you serious?  I’m calling the police.  OBVIOUSLY, you are some sort of imposter.  Who are you and what have you done with the real Khari?  You must be some sort of alien who’s taken over his body . . . his very gorgeous body,” she added slyly.  She settled down on the sofa.  “I didn’t plan on staying so I didn’t bring a change of clothing so I’m afraid this is what you get.” 

“Man, this really isn’t working is it?  I invited you over here today because I want you to be more comfortable in my home.  I want us to see if we are ready to go to the next level.  I want you, Jay and I’m trying to take steps towards that.  If you don’t want me, please just say so because I don’t want to make a fool of myself but I don’t want to play games with you either.  I want to be your man, in every sense of the word and I’m doing my best to show you that.  We can take it as slow . . .”

Jacinda silenced him with a soft, small kiss on the lips.  “I’m ready to take things to the next level.  I’m scared but I’m ready.” 

Jacinda stood back.  She felt awkward but empowered at the same time.  First, she took off her sweater and folded it neatly and placed it on a chair.  Then came her turtleneck and another tank top underneath.  Boots, socks, and jeans came off in succession and finally tights.  She stood there, her body molded like a sculpture in sensuality, in her simple teal green bra and matching panties.  All Khari could do was stare in awe.  He never thought he would get this close to Jacinda again so this was overwhelming.  His heart was racing and it felt like it was going to pop out of his chest.  He pulled her close and closed his eyes.  He waited.  He held his breath and he waited. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he felt her soft, full, sensuous lips press gently against his.  He opened his mouth slightly and melted into the kiss.  She tasted like strawberry wetness, her tongue dancing over his sent shivers down his spine.  The soft moans, the sounds of purring that she made ignited his passions that much more.   He stopped her and tried to collect his thoughts for a minute.  He was aroused and he didn’t know how fast or slow she wanted to take things.  For Khari, he had been waiting for this since he had the revelation in counseling.  He was past ready.  He wanted to make love to her on the sofa right then and there.  But he respected that he had fucked up so majorly before that he would wait until his lady was comfortable. 

They ate lunch, watched TV, and snuggled.  Even though it was plenty warm enough, they cuddled under a blanket, their bodies rubbing against each other.  Khari wasn’t at all shy about letting her feel his arousal; he wanted her to know that she turned him on.  Because Jacinda had always been the more comfortable sexually of the two, she was enjoying every second of this erotic play.  She gave up the pretense of watching TV and took his hands and guided them to her full breasts.  He massaged her full, sensitive breasts which made Jacinda wet immediately.  She was in no rush so she just luxuriated in the sensations.  She wasn’t sure how far things would or could go.  Everything seemed to be rushing ahead but happening at the perfect pace at the same time somehow. 

As the afternoon wore into the evening, Jacinda asked politely if they could turn off the TV and just spend time together talking.  Khari couldn’t reach for the remote fast enough.  The glow of the fireplace was their only source of illumination and while it provided warmth, it certainly wasn’t their only source of heat.  In the silence of the night, with just the sounds of the cold winter’s wind howling outside to serenade them, they began a journey towards real intimacy. 

Khari laid back on the sofa, his head propped up by pillows.  Jacinda slid between his legs and rested her back against his stomach.  He wrapped his arms and legs around her tightly because he was afraid she was going to slip away.  They covered themselves in the blanket and started talking.  Jacinda had so many questions; mostly questions about what was real and what had been a lie in their relationship before.  Khari was in scary territory.  He had to remember that lying was his natural state and he didn’t want to fall off the wagon so to speak.  His heart was starting to pump faster.  He could easily lie, he could easily say what he thought she wanted to hear and she would believe him.  He’d done it 1000 times, hell; he’d done it 100 times or more with her.  He took a deep breath, thought about the burning sensation he felt when the cold blade of steel pierced his flesh, and he started opening up. 

At first, Jacinda asked him questions about little things he had lied about, lies that she had caught him in but that he had vehemently denied.   Everything in his body was telling him to lie.  But as his adrenaline pumped, he swallowed hard and said, “I know you might never want to talk to me again after I tell you this but it’s a chance I’m going to take.  Remember that weekend and it was your sister’s birthday and I told you that I had to have dinner with my family that weekend?  Well, I just wanted to be alone.  I didn’t want to see you, I didn’t want to hang out with your family, I didn’t have plans with my family so I lied.  I’m sorry.”

Jacinda kissed the back of his hand.  “I knew it.”  She paused for a brief second and said, “Thanks for coming clean about that.  I really appreciate it.” 

Khari was waiting for the other shoe to drop, he was waiting for the irrational neck-bobbing monster he was sure was going to attack him to come out and start cursing and screaming.  But nothing happened.  Jacinda didn’t budge.  She was still there, between his legs, cuddling and snuggling, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she was still aroused.  Her nipples were hard as little pebbles beneath her bra and he thought he could detect the faint scent of her wetness.  “Go ahead, you can ask me some more.  I promise to tell the truth.” he said tentatively. 

Jacinda fired off more questions and they seemed to get progressively more difficult for Khari to answer but the more he realized that she was not trying to filet him, the more he felt relieved to get everything off his chest.  And if he was being honest with himself, there was something making him feel . . . turned on by telling the truth.  The more he would reveal, the more Jacinda would kiss and caress his body.  He craved her touch.  He wanted more.  Soon, he was associating telling the truth with pleasurable sensations.  Her hands on his thighs, her full, round ass rubbing against his slightly engorged dick, her lips playfully sucking his fingers; Jacinda was rewiring his brain.  Khari was in a heightened state of arousal.  The more honest he was with Jacinda, the more she would do subtle things to get him more aroused.  His brain was re-learning to associate telling the truth with pleasure. 

They continued and Jacinda asked about the women he was with after they broke up.  She wanted to know details, really intimate details.  Khari felt afraid and comfortable at the same time.  He kept telling the truth and Jacinda kept listening, calmly, without exploding.  At one point, she was touching and caressing him and her hand touched “the scar”.  Khari froze.  It was a reminder to both of them of his past.  Jacinda didn’t flinch; she just kept asking questions sweetly and gently touching his sensitive spots. 

“Now, I have a question for you,” Khari said.  “Does it turn you on for me to tell you about all the lies I told, about all the bad things I did?  I mean, I’m telling you a lot of things that would make most women try to kill me.  And I’m sort of an expert at that. But here you are, laying in my arms, and if I didn’t know any better, I would say you are aroused by all of this.” 

Jacinda shifted positions and was laying on her side a bit more.  Her hand caressed Khari’s chest, down to his stomach and down his thigh.  “I would probably have to think about it a bit more to be able to really explain how I feel right now but the best I can tell you right now is, I’m aroused by you feeling so comfortable with me that you can tell me the truth about anything.  I like the idea that you care about me so much that you are willing to make yourself vulnerable and be completely honest about the things that make you . . . well, I guess the best word to use is ashamed.  I’m not aroused by the lies you told me or the things you did in the past.  I can’t change those things.  They happened, they are over with.  But I am aroused by the idea that today, here and now, you could make yourself so vulnerable, so open, so emotionally exposed that you would tell me things that scare you to tell me.  It all feels very . . . intimate.  I am turned on that you trust me enough to show me all the sides of you, even the dark sides.  Does that make any sense at all to you?” 

“Yeah, it really does.  I can be honest and tell you that being here with you, like this, so vulnerable and exposed, so outside of my comfort zone, and telling you the truth and being turned on is sort of confusing in a good way.  It makes me want to keep telling you more of my truth.  I guess that makes sense to you.  I have another question.  Well, it’s sort of a confession.  OK, here goes.  You ready?  Alright.”  He took a deep breath.  “OK, here goes.  Oh crap, I said that already.  Shit.  Arrghhhh, I’m nervous.”  He shook off the jitters and the words came spilling out in one breath.  “I’m nervous to have sex with you because I’m afraid my dick isn’t big enough and I’m not going to be able to satisfy you. There, I said it.” 

Jacinda knew how monumental that was for him to say, how epic it was to admit that fear to her.  He knew intellectually that he was more than big enough to satisfy her, he knew that he could please any woman in bed, but emotionally he was an insecure little boy who needed validation that he was good enough.  Jacinda turned over.  She knelt between his legs.  Like a cat licking milk, she licked her tongue over his semi-hard erection beneath his shorts, up his stomach, across his sensitive nipples and on his sweet spot on his neck.  Taking his hand in hers, she slid it inside her panties.  Maintaining eye contact with him, he felt her pussy and it was SOAKING wet.  “Khari, your dick is more than big enough to satisfy me.  I’m so turned on right now.  I can’t wait to feel you inside me.”  There was a lot more she could have said to him but the fact that his fingers were covered in her juices and he could tell she was being honest meant no other words were necessary. 

Khari lowered the straps of her bra and unhooked the clasp.  He asked with his eyes, “Is this okay?”  She responded by feeding him her hardened nipple.  He latched on to it like a started sucking immediately.  His hands caressed her full tits and playfully pinched the nipples, teasing them to perfect points of desire.  She responded by holding them up for him.  He moved closer, smelled her natural scent and felt the warmth of her bosom.  His first instinct was to nuzzle between them, to bury his face there and be surrounded by her womanly flesh.   He hesitated. 

Jacinda leaned down and whispered in his ear, “I promise, I won’t have any regrets tomorrow.” 

With those words, their realities shifted. 

Khari flipped Jacinda over.  Now, she was beneath him, her legs spread wide like a summons.  He lowered his body to hers and pressed his mouth to hers.  He tasted the softness of her lips and his tongue explored further.  Their tongues danced together.  It was a rhythmic dance; it was kissing as an art form.  He could feel the underside of his tongue gently graze her bottom teeth; he inhaled her breath as his own.  He couldn’t stop kissing her.  Her kisses were feeding his passion.  Previously, he rarely kissed her or if he did, it seemed perfunctory like it was a juvenile closed-lip peck.  That night, his kisses were full-mouthed, sensual, frenetic.  He used his entire mouth and lips on her, driving her insane.  It was like she was a sensual fruit and he was savoring every inch of her with his mouth, his lips, his tongue. He kissed her body, her neck, her shoulders, her stomach, Jacinda felt amazing; no, she felt consumed by love.  His kisses could only be described as "full", not like he was just doing it out of habit but that he was enjoying tasting her skin with all of his senses.

Jacinda was beside herself.  She wrapped her legs around Khari and dug her nails into his back.  Soft sighs of pleasure escaped her lips and he began kissing his way up her neck to her ear.  She was squirming and wiggling as he made a feast of the soft flesh of her throat.  She was biting his neck and licking his shoulders.  Her hands were in constant motion.  She was caressing his chest, his arms, his ass, his back.  Khari was harder than granite and he was ready to take things to the next level.  

“Let’s go upstairs where we can be more comfortable.”  He took her hand, held it tightly, and led her to his bedroom.  She took a deep breath as she crossed the threshold.  To say she didn’t have reservations would have been a lie.  She was afraid she was being played, lied to, she was afraid she was making a fool of herself for letting him get so close.  But her body was on fire and something in her told her that this was right.  She had to trust her instincts, she couldn’t turn back now.  She didn’t even want to. 

One of the first things she noticed when she got into the room was that the nightstand next to the bed was full of sensual aids.  Massagers, oils, vibrators, a few things she didn’t even know what they were at first glance.  She laughed softly out loud.  “I see you were prepared for me to stay tonight.” 

“Oh, that,” Khari said, “uhhhh, yeah, that’s been waiting for you for weeks.” He caught himself.  “Wait, I haven’t been using that on other women just so you know.  I set it out specifically for you.  You can see for yourself, the candles have never been lit, the massage oil has never . . .”

Jacinda put her finger to his lips.  This was to be a night about seduction, not explanations.  She didn’t have to say a word.  For the first time since they had broken up, Khari saw that sparkle, that light in Jacinda’s eyes that told him that she saw something beautiful inside him.  And for the very first time in his life, not only did he feel deserving of that look, he FELT like there was something truly beautiful inside him that deserved to be loved.    

Jacinda climbed on the bed and sat Indian style in the middle.  Khari took a deep breath and put his fingers under the waistband of his briefs and slid them over his thighs and down his legs, stepping out of them.  It was in incredibly vulnerable moment for him.  His dick stood out proud and hard.  Jacinda scooted over and sat on the edge of the bed.  She thought it would be the perfect time to show her appreciation for his dick. 

She wrapped her hand around the shaft and slowly, gently started stroking him.  Khari’s knees almost buckled, he felt light-headed and unstable.  The pleasure was indescribable, so vastly different than when he stroked his own dick.  She went for the soft and gentle approach.  Khari felt like he was having an out of body experience.  He looked down to see every detail.  She brought her lips close to the head and whispered something soft and sweet.  She was so close, he could feel the vibrations from her lips but he couldn’t hear the words.  He could feel the heat from her breath and the softness of her hands still stroking him.  Her tongue darted out and softly licked the head, tasting the precum that was collecting there.  Khari wanted to grab onto something for stability. 

Jacinda picked up her game.  Guiding him closer, she looked up at him seductively and took the head of his dick in her mouth and held it there for a few seconds before she started sliding her mouth up and down the shaft.  Her lips were caressing his dick, intentionally, skillfully, seductively.  Khari couldn’t help but moan uncontrollably.  Her mouth was wet and warm and her tongue was doing things that made his toes curl.  Playing with his balls, she starting moaning and humming on his dick, adding that much more pleasure to the amazing blow job he was getting. 

“OK . . . wait . . . stop . . . wait, wait, wait,” he said.  He was getting too caught up, too close. 

Khari had to collect himself before he lost control.  Instructing her to lay down, he pulled her panties off and stared briefly at perfection.  That wasn’t his goal at that moment, he had other things to do first.  Starting at her collar bone, he licked, nibbled, sucked and kissed his way over her entire body.  He wanted her to feel special, desired, needed.  Jacinda responded to every flick of his tongue with increasing passion.  Paying special attention to the silky softness of her inner thighs, he sucked and kissed there passionately, inspired by the nearness of her pussy, the scent of her arousal.  He knew that was his prize but he wanted to earn it. 

Turning her over, Khari did his best to give Jacinda a sensual massage.  It wasn’t his forte but he wanted to try to make her feel special.  He lit a soy candle and it filled the room with the scent of Patchouli and the soft radiance of the flame.  As the wax melted, it liquefied into a luxurious massage oil.  The candle was infused with pheromones and they seemed to be having the effect of making Jacinda’s senses more heightened.   He poured the oil on her skin, she let out a moan that was primal and raw.  It wasn’t too hot but it was perfect combination of pleasure and that which is just shy of pain, a mix of sensual sweet and sour.  She was grabbing the sheets and thrashing her head back and forth.  Kneading her soft flesh, he worked his way down her back, to her ass and spent time on the backs of her thighs. 

The way he touched Jacinda was out of this world as well.  He was actually caressing her body, making love to her with his hands.  He didn't just touch her with his fingers, he held her, he felt her, he communicated with his entire hands.  It is one of the only times she could remember him being so tactile and uninhibited.  This was the way a man should hold a woman, caress her, the way a man poured his emotions into his woman with his touch.  It was the stuff dreams are made of, the way she'd dreamed of being touched.

They were beyond words.  Jacinda spread her legs and arched her back.  Her pussy lips spread as an invitation.  Distracted, tempted, crazed Khari had no choice but to bury his face between the luscious, full ass cheeks before him.  Instantly his tongue darted out to lick her holes, he could smell and taste her juices.  Rolling her over, unable to wait any longer, he pushed her legs back and started feast on her wetness.  Her juices were flowing freely.  Gently pushing back the hood to expose her clit, he lapped gently, making Jacinda create sounds from deep in her throat that could only mean she was enveloped by pleasure. 

She grabbed her legs and held them back, giving him access to her most private places.  He licked her clit, softly sucked her pussy lips, and slid his fingers inside her tight, hot, hole.  Jacinda was crazed.  She was in that mental space where her sexuality was in control.  The more he licked and fingered her, the more her juices flowed.  She was sweating and chanting.  “Fuck yeah, that feels good, please don’t stop.” 

Knowing Jacinda liked the tease just as much as if not more than the climax, he stopped.  He wanted to keep her on the edge, keep her aroused and horny and begging for more.  And man was she was begging.  She had a glazed look in her eyes that was screaming, “FUCK ME,” but Khari knew better.  He intended to keep her like this for as long as possible, until one of them broke and they couldn’t control themselves any longer. 

Pulling her on top of him, she rode his tongue to near orgasm.  Well, near suffocation for Khari but he loved every second of it.  The warmth of her thighs covered his ears but he could still hear her moaning and profane declarations of bliss.  With a quick position change, he oiled up her breasts and slid his dick between her voluptuous pillows of tit flesh.  He squeezed them together and played with her hard nipples and she was out of her mind with lust. 

“Fuck me, please, fuck me,” was all she could say.  Well, it was the only thing that she could say that made any sense.  She was so turned on she couldn’t make sentences or articulate her thoughts.  She wanted to say that she had never felt so loved, so pleasured in her life.  All that could come out was, “Fuck me, please, I need you inside me.  Fuck me now.”

Positioning himself between her legs, Khari grabbed his dick and placed the head at the entrance to her pussy.  Lights danced behind his eyes.  Before he knew what was happening, before he felt himself driven by an uncontrollable force to drive himself deep inside he.  “Ohhhh shiiiiittt,” he cried out, feeling the sensation of her wet pussy surround him.  His heart was racing.  Waves of pleasure consumed him.  Jacinda was gasping for air.  She felt full but desperate for more. 

Khari was in his zone.  If there was one thing he knew how to do was make a pussy cream and squirt.  He started stroking and Jacinda’s eyes were rolling back in her head.  Her legs wrapped around him and she grabbed his hips and pulled him to her.  “More,” was all she could say.  And more he gave her.  He fucked her deep and slow and hard.  He built up his pace, fucking her faster and harder, making her scream.  He could feel her pussy grab him and start throbbing. 

It didn’t matter how many years it had been since they last had sex, Khari remembered her body in detail, he knew JUST when to stop before she climaxed.  It took every ounce of strength in his body, in his soul to stop.  He wanted nothing more than to push her legs back to her chest and drive his dick inside her until his cream coated her insides.  But he didn’t.

Needing a breather, Khari fell on the bed next to Jacinda and pulled her close.  He needed a minute to calm down.  She didn’t.  She climbed on top of Khari, aimed, and slammed her pussy down on his hard shaft.  It was time for Khari to scream out now.  There was something about the way Jacinda’s pussy fit him when she rode him, there was something that hit the head of his dick that made him lose control.  And that’s just what she wanted.  Jacinda was a woman on a mission.  Placing her feet on the bed and her hands on his chest, she rode him like a champion.  She made eye contact with him.  She used her muscles to milk him.  He reached up to play with her nipples and her juices coated him. 

“I’m coming,” she said,” I’m going to cum all over you.

“Oh you are?  Well, let’s see about that.”  In a flash, Khari flipped her over, put her on her knees, and pulled that glorious ass up.  With precision aim, he was inside her, fucking her like a wild animal.  There was nothing to hold him back; this was fucking like it was meant to be.  It sounded like hot, sweaty, juicy sex in the room.  Panting and breathing and juicy, squishing sex.  Jacinda was at the point of no return, she couldn’t hold back any longer.  She screamed into the pillow as Khari grabbed her hips and delivered his essence as they exploded together. 

Khari woke up long before Jacinda would ever.  He smiled as he watched her sleep.  He had no desire to get up and do anything.  He just wanted to lay there and feel protective of her.  He gently pressed his lips to her forehead and whispered, “I love you,” very softly.  She stirred a little but didn’t wake up.  Khari slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom.  He took a shower and put on a pair of boxers.  Then, just as he was about to head downstairs and fix breakfast, he took the roll of toilet paper and hid it under the sink. 

Copyright 2013 AfroerotiK All Right Reserved

“Females can be ___________,”

When a woman says, “Females can be ___________,” and the blank is filled in with some sort of negative comment that indicates that women tend to be naturally backstabbing, disloyal, manipulative, deceptive, devious, bitchy, etc., etc., etc., that is one of the most blatant forms of self-hatred possible.  To assert that women are somehow genetically prone to being inherently evil, bad, and/or wrong, WHEN IN FACT YOU ARE A WOMAN YOURSELF, is essentially saying that you are inherently those negative traits, that you are not capable of behaviors that are any better than those stank behaviors.

Black culture has handicapped young Black women.  Having been fed nothing but constant media images that represent Black women as constantly fighting, constantly competing for men, constantly needing to prove their worth with their clothes and shoes and fake hair, Black women have no concept of what it means to be a woman.  To be a “female” is to be some negative, reprehensible thing.  We have not taught Black women how to love themselves, let alone love their sistas as friends.   We have not taught them how to be friends let alone how to honor their friendships.   We have not shown them how to form bonds and unions with other women that are truly loving because we teach girls to be self-centered and narcissistic.

People think that self-hatred means literally saying, “I hate myself,” or at the very least saying, “I think I’m ugly.”   They don’t grasp that disliking the things that are inherent in you, natural to you, your core identity is what self-hatred really means.  Conversely, people also are delusionally convinced that being egotistical and making proclamations of, “I love myself,” is a sign of self-love.   Self-love is, in actuality, loving the skin you are in, being self-aware and not needing to conform to anyone else’s definition or standard. 

The inferiority complex that has been bred into Africans born in AmeriKKKa is the very definition of self-hatred. We hate our natural, nappy hair, we think it’s unmanageable, ugly, bad, and wrong.  We hate our natural features.  Our own Black hair isn’t good enough, we need blond hair, we need blue contacts, we need thin lips and light skin and a little tiny nose because our natural black skin is ugly, our natural big lips and noses are grotesque.  And extending that out, when women say “Females can be . . . ,” their subconscious mind says, “Yeah, females are all those bad things.  Hey!  You’re a female so, VOILA’, you are those things as well.”   That is the very definition of self-hatred.

Ladies, let’s start affirming that females are strong, resilient, that we are supportive and nurturing, and that we are capable of boundless, unconditional love.  More importantly, let’s strive to be those traits ourselves; let’s make it our mission to walk in integrity, let’s aspire to not do anything for which we have to apologize.  Let’s be amazing women so that we might attract amazing women into our lives. 

Excruciatingly Pleasurable

He led her to the bedroom, her hand tightly in his, and he prepared to love her exquisitely.  She trembled slightly, afraid of what was to come.  She was almost positive she would be on that list of things however.  Her vision was obscured with a beautiful silk scarf and all she could see was darkness.  That’s okay, she had complete trust in her lover and she knew she was in good hands: strong, sensual hands at that knew exactly how to elicit the most intense bliss. 

Laying her on the bed gently, he began his sensual assault.  There was no need to rush.  He had set aside hours to do nothing but pleasure his lady love.  The first sensation she felt was so gentle, so imperceptible, she couldn’t make out what it was at first.  The feather-light touch was just that, a feather.  She cried out, “Stop, that tickles!” but his technique was relentless.  Every touch of that feather to her skin made her jump and squirm.  He traced the insides of her elbows and the slope of her collar bone, everywhere on her body until it was no longer ticklish; it was like sending erotic stimuli straight to her clit.  Under her breasts, her ankles, her very fingertips, no place was off limits.  Biting her lip, she silenced her moans of joy.  There was no need to however, it was her night and her man was there to cater to her every whim and fantasy.  All she had to do was ask and he was there to respond. 

Next, came the intense sensation of cold.  Cry out she did as he traced ice cubes around her belly button and down to the baby soft hair of her mound.  “Please baby, don’t do this to me,” she whimpered but she spread her legs more, communicating to him that the last thing she wanted was for him to stop.  She gripped the sheets tightly, using them for leverage, voluntarily restraining herself from moving as he put the ice cube in his mouth and created the sensation of cool kisses on her engorged pussy lips.  She was out of her mind with desire, panting, begging, moaning, chanting.  He kissed his way all over her body, leaving a trail of cool, wet kisses. 

Next, the sensations she felt were indiscernible.  While it was apparent that something was being applied to her skin, all over her body, she couldn’t exactly tell what it was.  It didn’t seem to be either pleasurable or unpleasant.  She waited, anxiously, breathlessly awaiting the pleasure to begin for she knew it was right around the corner.  Little did she know it was honey that had been applied to her body until her lover started to sensually lick away every drop of sweetness.  Inch by excruciatingly erotic inch, he licked. He licked until his tongue was tired and then licked some more.  He was inspired by her cries of passion.  With every flick of his tongue on her nipples, thighs, and toes, she would let out a sound that inspired him to keep going.  He wasn’t going to stop for anything. 

Turning her over, placing her on her stomach, the sensation of warmth was the next thing she felt.  Heated massage oil trickled down the small of her back, creating a pool right at the top of her ass.  With skill and intensity, he softly kneaded the oil into her brown skin from her shoulders to her feet and not missing a spot in between.  He wasn’t trying to work out tension or heal a sore muscle, he was caressing and pampering with just the right amount of pressure and gentle, tender caresses.  Holding her ass in his hands he worked the oil in and caused her to arch her back, stick her ass out as in invitation.  He took the invitation and poured the heated oil into the crack of her ass and let it drip between her pussy lips, adding to the moisture and slipperiness she felt there. 

At this point in the evening, she was undone.  She was ready for sex and didn’t need any more foreplay whatsoever, not another minute, not another second.  She wanted to join with her lover, meld with him, to become one.  She needed him inside her.  “Fuck me, Make love to me, I need you inside me, was all she kept saying.”  Pulling the scarf from her eyes, she pleaded with her lover, “Come on baby, you know you want this, come on, I’m so wet for you right now. Make me cum.” 

A man on a mission cannot be denied.  It was his intent to make her cum and make her cum hard before there was any penetration whatsoever.  Taking his middle finger and inserting it slowly, he softly probed for the places that made her squirm.  He looked in her eyes for the reaction that told him that she loved what he was doing.  Pulling back the hood on her clit, he rubbed softly, in a gentle circular motion.  His lady was practically sobbing.  Her legs were in the air and she was almost in a state of panic. 

Almost at his threshold for patience, he used his fingers to softly push, prod and poke all her sensitive spots, he worked her magic button until she was screaming in the pillow, her body a wave of spasm after spasm, her muscles trembling and weak.  It was then that he took careful aim.  Lining up the head of his dick with her sweet, hot, tight, wet hole, he waited.  She tried her best to maneuver around to get him to penetrate her but he would not.  She cursed him, screamed for him to fuck her.  He bent over to kiss her, for their mouths to taste one another, and he slipped inside her.  In that moment, it was like none other.  Instinct took over and he was primal.  He wasn’t aggressive like a predator; he was focused like a laser. 

Their bodies moved in unison.  She enveloped him, providing him with a safe place that felt too good to be true.  He loved her and he was going to pour his unconditional love into her.  First however, he was going to FUCK the living daylights out of her.  Pushing her thighs back to her chest, he stared deep in her eyes.  “Does that feel good?” as he drove his dick up inside her. 

“God damn you, you know it does, fuck me.”

That wasn’t enough for him.  He wanted more.  With more intensity, he drove his dick up inside her again over and over again.   Her nails dug in his back.  Her legs wrapped around his back, pulling him tighter, closer.  Their breathing became synchronized.  He was lost in her pleasure, she was on the verge of another intense orgasm.  He timed it perfectly, and began fucking her like only a man in love can do.  She held on and met every thrust.  Their bodies were working together in unison.  His moans became hers.  They could fight it no longer and they came, together, crashing into one another and enveloped by love. 

Copyright 2012 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

Worship

The following story is part three of what was to be an ongoing story.  This was the final chapter.  In going through my old writings I came across it and I needed to post it again.  I'm so in love with the Bitch Domme character and her ability to manipulate the white sub.  To me, there is no greater sense of satisfaction than when dominating a white man and he is seething in anger and he wants to strike you, he hates you, but you can see the look in his eyes that his brain is misfiring, that he realizes for the very first time in his life that he is not truly superior, that the white race isn't truly superior.  It's a thing of beauty to see.  

I hope you enjoy. 

Steven had fucked up.  After his failure of a first meeting with me, he sat and stewed and seethed with animosity.  Steven’s actions made him re-evaluate his own twisted kinks.  It was a painful and shameful look in the mirror for him.  He had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that his desires were pathological.  His need for extortion and blackmail, his fantasies of being “outted”, and financially drained, even his obsession with shallow, materialistic women were all indications of him indeed being mentally ill.  He invited women to extort him, he fantasized about his friends and family knowing of his perversions.  He got off on the idea of posting humiliating videos of himself doing repulsive things and sending them out to people with his face showing boldly. 

At the same time, he wanted to pretend to be a victim, to be faultless in his own financial and social demise.  At the end of the day, he loved all of it.  He sent other women money, bought their used undergarments, he continued to make videos all while pulling his worthless cock and checking his account balances, fantasizing that they said $0.00.  In the light of day, when he was out and about among normal, reasonable people, he felt profoundly ashamed of himself.  He waited for the confrontation he knew would come, someone in his family, his superior at work wanting to speak to him and question him about his bizarre proclivities.  In the privacy of his own home, in front of his computer however, he had no such qualms.  He feverishly stroked his tiny, limp cock to the childish insults of materialistic women who needed him to pay their bills or buy them expensive shoes they had no real occasion to wear them, and to their empty threats to expose him as he made endless paypal transactions and purchases. 

Knowing that I was truly above being one of the money hungry, greedy bitches he usually plays with, thinking that he could appeal to my rational, benevolent self, Steven approached me cautiously this time.  He sent me an email with no apology, no tone of contrition or hint of regret for his previous foul behavior, asking me how much it would cost to meet again.  I responded simply, without any fanfare or drama, $20,000 in cash, hand delivered to me in Philadelphia.  True to his nature, Steven responded by trying to negotiate, said he couldn’t afford that much, he even tried to get me to dominate him in exchange for the amount.  After several days without a response from me, he relented and agreed to meet me at the corner of N. 38th and Parrish Streets on Sunday morning, 11 am, and I reminded him that the money had to be in cash. 

Steven, oblivious to the workings of real Black America, showed up on time, thinking we would make the exchange at a small coffee shop or café.  Martin Luther King, Jr. said 50 years ago that the most segregated hour in America was 11 am on a Sunday morning and nothing had changed in half a century.  Wearing jeans and a button down, Steven approached me cautiously as he observed all the church goers, dressed in their Sunday finest, assembling to praise God pass us by and politely but not so subtly stare.  I had donned my best Sunday-go-to-meeting black suit, silk stockings, patent leather pumps.  I extended my white cotton gloved hand and peered from under my veiled black hat.  “Steven, it’s such a pleasure to see you again.” 

“Uhmmm, yeah,” he looked around nervously.  All of his fantasies of being humiliated and sexually shamed in public just vanished and he wanted to run and hide.  This was not at all what he had expected.  He said, “I have the money, can we just get this over with?” 

“Oh, goodness, Steven, what’s the rush?  Let’s go inside, shall we?” One of the ushers, a strikingly gorgeous Black man with an imposing figure held the door for us and wished us a pleasant good morning and handed us a program.  Not wanting to make too much of a scene and slightly intimidated by the whole situation, he stepped inside.  Never in his life had he felt so out of place.  His was the only white face in the sanctuary and he was the only person dressed casually.  I walked to the very front of the church and he felt compelled to follow.  He stood speechless as he stared up at the 40 ft. stained glass representation of Jesus, depicted as he truly was, a Black man with hair of wool.  Steven was angry, outraged; it was an offense to his every sensibility to see a Black man depicted as his lord and Savior.  Every cell in his body was filled with hatred for me.  He started to tell me to fuck off, that he was going to leave, but every head turned just as he began to raise his voice.  The words stuck in his throat before he could get out a complete sentence and he quietly slid into the pew next to me. 

Glancing around at all the beautiful people, happily married couples, single women, all reserved and devout, Steven fantasized about each and every one of them humiliating him sexually.  He waited for the shouting and speaking in tongues and running up and down the aisles he stereotypically expected but it never came.  The Men’s Choir sang some spirited gospel songs and everyone stood and clapped and praised the lord but the entire experience was more sophisticated than savage.  He fidgeted as I ignored him, trying to whisper to me that he needed to go, that he had other plans.  He didn’t listen to a word of the sermon, he was more concerned with deviant thoughts of being gangbanged, kicked, stomped, and used in this holy place of worship. 

There was a call to the altar for prayer and I whispered sweetly in Steven’s ear that he needed to confess his sins.  He swallowed hard and firmly said no, all eyes would be on him and that was not arousing for him.  He didn’t want to play the game my way, he wanted me to conform to his desires; he wanted me to be like the other classless whores he dealt with.  I discretely signaled for my friend, the usher, to escort Steven to the altar.  He knelt before Black Jesus and I knelt beside him.  “That’s it Steven, pray to Black Jesus, confess your sins.  Tell him what a wretched white heathen you are.  Pray for salvation to Black God, Steven.” 

He knelt, with his hands clasped as in prayer but his knuckles were white as he wanted nothing more than to strike me, to shut me up.  I leaned in closer and whispered more softly, “Louder bitch, let everyone know you are a sinner, tell them that you accept Black Jesus as your personal lord and savior, that you know he bled and died on the cross for your filthy, nasty sins.  Don’t you want to be washed in the blood of Holy Black Jesus?”  Tears streamed down his face, his knees ached, rage consumed him.  The congregation clapped, praised God, and cheered for his salvation.  The Pastor prayed, his righteous words punctuated with the staccato of the organ.  They passed the collection plate and I whispered softly, “Every penny of it, Steven, I want you to put every single dollar in that collection plate.” 

His hands trembled as he reached for the envelope in his back jeans pocket and he placed it on the pile of fives, tens, and twenties in the red-velvet-lined brass plate.   He closed his eyes and begged God for forgiveness, to absolve him of his sins, to release him the sexual sickness that consumed him, that prevented him from forming any sort of real, substantial relationship.  He prayed to be normal.  As much as he pretended to be happy as a freak, he deeply wanted to be loved, accepted, and respected by a woman who would love him for something other than his money.  It had been more than 30 years that he had even allowed himself to think such thoughts.  He prayed to the image of a Black man, on his knees, worshipping him, feeling truly worthless and inferior.  When he opened his eyes, I was gone.

He sent me an email, this time with notable humility and respect.  “Mistress, I bow to your will.  I’ve never encountered anyone like you before and I acknowledge and respect that you are nothing less than a true Goddess.  You are my religion and I’m willing to do things your way.  All that I am, all that I have is yours.” 

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK  All Rights Reserved