Deeper Than Skin: On Writing the Erotic with Kwame Dawes, Opal Palmer Adisa, Loretta Collins Klobah, & Jacqueline Bishop Works by: Sharon Leach, Shivanee N. Ramlochan, Kavita Ganness, Peta-Gaye Williams, Chantel DaCosta, Britton Wright, Gillian Moore, Delroy Nesta Williams, Shannon Smith
Issue 7, March 2016
Susumba’s Book Bag is a quarterly digital magazine dedicated to showcasing writing of the highest grade from new, emerging and established Caribbean writers at home and in the Diaspora. The magazine is an offshoot of the Caribbean arts and entertainment online magazine Susumba.com We will publish poetry, fiction, flash fiction, interviews as well as reviews of Caribbean books. Occasionally, we will also publish one-act plays and monologues. Currently, we do not offer remuneration for the writings we publish, but we believe that writers should be paid for their work, and so we working on a way to do that in the near future.
Submission Guidelines We accept a maximum of 5 poems and 2 short stories at a time and we have no problem with simultaneous submissions but ask that you notify us immediately if the work is accepted elsewhere. We have no bias of genre or style. Our only requirement is that it be good, so send us your best stuff. Short stories should range from 2,500 to 3,500 words while flash fiction is from 10 600 words. We prefer our poetry to err on the side of Mervyn Morris, the shorter the better. We do accept longer work but if your poem is at the 33 to 64 line tipping point (longer than a page), please only submit two poems at a time. We try to keep our response time to a month, but alas we are human and so it may go beyond that. If you have not heard from us in 90 days, please feel free to send us a query. Though we publish quarterly, we currently accept submissions throughout the year, except in December. There is no reading fee, and submissions are only accepted via email. Send submissions to info@susumba.com Subject: Lastname-Firstname-Submission. Send your work as an attachment (.doc, .txt or .rtf), not in the body of the email. Works sent in the body of the email will not be accepted. Send submissions to info@susumba.com Subject: Lastname-Firstname-Submission
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Growing up is hard. You know this. You not sure you can manage it at all. Who in their right mind could? You?
ALL OVER AGAIN
by ADZIKO SIMBA GEGELE 1st prize Burt Award for Caribbean Literature
“An endearing, enduring paean to youthful joys, All Over Again resonates deeply,... ” Trinidad Guardian
An exuberantly hilarious coming of age novel! www.facebook.com/BlueMoonPublishing PO Box 5464 Liguanea PO, Kgn 6, Ja.
“Makes you want to read it all over again!” The Gleaner
@blumoonbooks www.blumoonbooks.com
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Blouse & Skirt Books
SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG March 2016
Contents 6
Intersection
Sharon Leach
11
Alchemy
Gillian Moore
Breaking Oya All Over Esu Wining
14
Vivek Chooses His Husbands
Shivanee N. Ramlochan
15
Freshly Baked Bread
Kavita Ganness
19
Out of Wedlock
Peta-Gaye Williams
If You Lead Me Would I Follow Navigating My Vagina
22
US
Chantel DaCosta
23
Sweet Talkin
Shannon Smith
Tonight I Whore
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Contents 25
The Note
Delroy Nesta Williams
29
My Farourite Place
Britton Wright
Indulgence Resplendence
32
Feature: Deeper Than Skin - On Writing the Erotic Part I (The Advice) Write What’s in Your Head
Kwame Dawes
I Touch Myself
Opal Palmer Adisa
Erotic Postcards From Puerto Rico
Loretta Collins Klobah
Part II
40
Kaleisdoscope
Jacqueline Bishop
41
Man Haffi Try
Loretta Collins Klobah
44
Lathered With Fruits
Opal Palmer Adisa
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Editor’s Note Writing Words That Burn The Caribbean is a space of paradox, and one of the greatest is that though we are the lands of carnival and dancehall, at our core, we are often deeply conservative. Yet in recent years, more and more writers have pressed against the boundaries, inserted pens and imaginations into taboo spaces. While much of Caribbean literature has focused on the ‘grand narratives’ surrounding language, power, colonization, revolution, creolization, more and more writers have begun to delve into the more interpersonal where the romantic and the erotic reside. Even so, while it remains easy to find poems that ‘chant down Babylon,’ finding poems of love and the erotic is a far rarer feat. The writings of Opal Palmer Adisa and Jacqueline Bishop are among those that are changing the shape of things. Additionally, many writers mix in more personal narratives in their work, for some it is a sprinkling, for others an consistent flavour. The sexual, the romantic, or the erotic to varying degrees can be found in the writings of: Kei Miller, Tanya Shirley, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Millicent Graham, and Thomas Glave to name a few. This edition, I hope, proves that there are so many more Caribbean writers with words that burn flowing from their pens. I want to thank our featured writers who have given generously of their writing experience on these pages. I also want to thank those who answered the general call for submissions, this was a pleasure (no puns intended) to edit.
Tanya
Tanya Batson-Savage Editor in Chief
A publication by Blue Moon Publishing
Cover Illustration: ‘BoneyBoney Ripe Banana’ by Leasho Johnson Editor: Tanya Batson-Savage tanya@susumba.com Sales info@susumba.com
PO Box 5464, Liguanea PO, Kingston, Jamaica W.I. www.susumba.com 6
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Intersection by Sharon Leach HER
She feels the mattress sag under the weight of him. His movement is deliberately coordinated, meant to not interrupt her slumber. Only she is awake. She lies perfectly still. His breath is shaky with the effort of removing his clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed. She hears the sigh of his trousers onto the floor, the dull thud of his belt buckle. In almost 20 years of marriage, this is the lazy way he’s undressed when he is bone tired. This is how he pisses, too, when he’s exhausted: sitting down. He’s been with his woman again, she thinks. She can smell her sex on him. He’s clever enough to know he dare not shower before coming home. Her ears prick up and listens intently. For what, though? Is she nutters, imagining that adulterers breathe differently? She’d never thought she would end up one of those pathetic wives everybody laughed at behind their backs. The kind of wife her mother had been, unaware that her own husband had been involved with a white woman who lived in a council flat for almost the entire time they’d been married and with whom he’d fathered two half breeds. After her father’s infidelity had come to light she’d vowed eternal vigilance so that she would not end up in similar circumstances as her mother, who’d been left broken and bitter. During the year it had taken to plan her wedding and prepare herself for marriage she’d been determined to be the kind of wife who knew everything that was happening with her husband. They were each other’s best friend; she would be militant that nothing would change, except that their bond would get stronger. And yet, here she is. She can’t pinpoint when it was, exactly, that the drifting had begun. The wife is always the last to know. She’s been busy raising their children, cooking his meals, tending their home. Fulfilling the marriage vows. All while managing to hold down a demanding job. Sometimes militancy falls by the wayside. Perhaps it had begun when their household started to contract. One child had gotten married; another had gone to live in Europe. Perhaps things had begun to cool long before. The vagaries of marriage and all that. Were they even still in love? No, clearly they weren’t. But surely they still loved each other, at least. Even if they weren’t in love, per se. Anyway, at their age, was it even important to be in love? Wasn’t there something to be said for simple companionship and understanding? Who was she fooling? Companionship? Understanding? The very words strike fear into her. Those are words of compromise old people used to make themselves feel better about the inevitable amble to
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Intersection Sharon Leach
decrepitude. She is still a long way off from that. After the children left, she’d fooled herself into thinking perhaps they could be close again. The spark in their marriage had dimmed but it was ignitable again, wasn’t it? All marriages go through highs and lows propelled by the tedium of domesticity. Was this necessarily a death knell in a marriage? She thought about the morning after the last child, Astrid, her baby, had left home for college, how they’d both sat staring at each other over breakfast at the dining table, two strangers with no words to say to each other. She’d suggested they try to have another child. Women were having children later and later these days, she said. Her gynaecologist had confirmed that the risks would be relatively low since it wouldn’t be her first child, she told him. He’d laughed right in her face. Sweetheart, you’re no spring chicken, he said, with a dismissive chuckle. Get a hobby, he suggested. And when she’d looked at him, stung by his unawareness of the void created by his indifference, he’d added, You love to read. Why don’t you join a book club? Look how popular Oprah’s is. How quickly a year has gone by! His breathing now reminds her of the sensuous, slow strokes of lovemaking. When she was younger and they’d had all the time in the world. Before the children had started coming and they’d been reduced to doing it on the sly. Sexual need gnaws at her. She can’t remember the last time they shagged. Yes, wait a bit. It was that night after Astrid’s high school graduation, over a year ago. He’d got a little tipsy after the celebration at the restaurant and had fallen on her with an intoxicated fervour that night. She can’t recall the last time they made love. Made love satisfactorily, is probably what she should specify. What was it? Three, maybe four, years ago? Their bouts of intimacy had become less and less frequent over the years. For some inexplicable reason, husbands seemed to think their wives grew uninterested. ‘Sexless marriages’, that’s what the five-page article submission she’d read last week calls it. They are more prevalent than you would imagine. The society is becoming saturated with horny husbands whose needs had to be met elsewhere. What absolute shit. The writer, some Ivy League-educated twat, even had the nerve to suggest that childbearing seemed to be the cause and effect of female indifference. Indifference? Hardly. The wives she knew still wanted to have sex. Some of them even wanted it just as much now as they did before they were married, perhaps even more. Even the ones who, like her, were staring down the barrel of the Change. What did this writer know about women? About the physical and emotional strain of raising children to have values which reflected your own? About couples simply just finding a happy medium? Things must change. Her friend Roxanne says she must decide whether she can stand being a single wife. Isn’t it better to be a single mum? There are more fish in the sea. Thank God for Roxanne. All those years ago when she’d returned home from London, where she’d gone to school, she’d met her husband and within a year had married, but her relatives and close friends all still lived in England. In Jamaica, she did not have many friends — between raising her girls and having a demanding job, there hadn’t been much time to make anything other than superficial friends. Even now. Her friends were mostly her husband’s friends’ superficial wives. So when Roxanne moved in down the street, about a year ago, she’d gravitated towards her. Roxanne was younger than she was, and gorgeous. A real knock-out. The women in the neighbourhood hated her. They mistrust her beauty and singleness.
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Intersection Sharon Leach
But Roxie is a real pussycat. She flirts with her when her husband isn’t around. Compliments her on her clothes, her cooking, her accent, the way she’s raised her family. This used to make her uncomfortable, at first, but appreciation is appreciation; Roxie makes her feel, well, appreciated. Somewhere outside, a lizard croaks. At least, she hopes it’s outside and not inside the house. She realises she’s now not keen on even asking her husband for help getting it out, if it turned out to be inside the house. Her mind wanders to Roxie, and a dull ache forms in her groin. Their relationship is quite possibly on the verge of evolving. The other night they’d sat side by side on the sofa watching DVDs in the living room. Outside rain, that had started early that morning, fell on the roof like people loudly whispering secrets, and as the night grew colder she had brought out a comforter that she threw around them both. As they snuggled closer together, the sound of the rain making them drowsy, at one point she had taken her hand and lightly begun caressing the palm in concentric circles with her index finger. The gesture had been shocking, sending electricity down her spine; the meaning had been obvious enough. She hadn’t stopped Roxie, and if her husband hadn’t come home shortly after, she didn’t know what would have happened. And when she’d gone to the bathroom later, after Roxanne had left, she been surprised to find that her knickers were completely soaked. And, there on the toilet, closing her eyes to conjure up Roxie’s image, she had stroked herself until she was panting, rocked by an ever widening pool of spasms that had left her spent and devastated. The following day Roxie called and she’d agreed to go for a drive to the country with her on the weekend; she knows what can—and likely will—happen if she gives in. And why shouldn’t she give in? Since that night she’s constantly thought about Roxanne’s fingers against her skin. All these years, she’s been a dutiful and faithful wife. Why shouldn’t she allow herself a little selfishness now? An adventure. An indulgence. Besides, the truth was, she is no longer as upset by the idea of him having an affair. What she’d been afraid of, really, was the thought of him leaving her, and of her being alone. But after being alone in her marriage for so long, isn’t she used to it by now? The bigger question is: does he deserve her loyalty, this man she may not even still love? Shivering with the deliciousness of the possibilities, she allows herself to be sweetly claimed by sleep.
HIM He exhales a shaky breath. She’s asleep, thank God. He wouldn’t have been able to explain why he was late again. He hates the look of hurt he sees in her eyes. As if she knows what’s been going on, even though he’s convinced she does not. The morning after Astrid left home, she had suggested they have another child. At her age! Well, he supposed it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility. The McMorrises, the couple they’d befriended at their eldest daughter’s first high school parent/teachers’ conference, had just welcomed a new addition to their family. And Janet McMorris was the same age, maybe even a year or two older than her. He refuses to feel guilty though. Roxanne said she was just experiencing Empty Nest Syndrome. They had a name for everything these days, he thinks with wry amusement. Empty Nest Syndrome, Battered Wife Syndrome. Post-traumatic Stress Syndrome. She didn’t really want another child. She was simply feeling adrift since the children were all gone now. And it was compounded by the state of the economy and the fact that
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Intersection Sharon Leach her job as an editor was daily threatened by the surfeit of perky, 24-year-olds with master’s degrees willing to work for half of what she makes. If he’s being completely honest, though, there’s something else. Of late, there’s been a restlessness in her manner, a dullness behind her eyes. As if, maybe, she’s slowly stopped caring. No, it’s impossible. She loves him. Roxie’s assessment is correct: it’s Empty Nest Syndrome, that’s all. Roxie herself does not have children. But she understands what women with children who grow up and leave can go through. According to her, if she can find a distraction, she’ll be OK. At the thought of Roxanne, he becomes hard again, in spite of himself. Roxie. He’d never considered himself a cliché. She was his wife’s best friend, for God’s sake. She had moved into the house down the street; a younger woman. Something that had never appealed to him. He’d watched some of his friends embarrass themselves with younger women and he’d felt a smug superiority at how bulletproof he was regarding that particular type of moral failing. But then Roxanne arrived. She’d turned up the week after Astrid moved out, while his wife was in the middle of her mini breakdown. He’d watched her, in her teeny, teeny shorts and see-through midriff top, her black hair cascading down her shoulders in glossy waves, as she peremptorily issued instructions to the movers. Later, she had come over to where he stood clipping the hedge in his front yard, smiled at him when she introduced herself. Their dog Bullet had escaped and had run into her garden. She’d stood before him, clutching the dog to her chest. “I think this little guy belongs to you.” She smiled again and he noticed her teeth were white and even. Her dark chocolate skin was unblemished; she was beautiful. He had a vague sense of looking at the sun when he looked at her. He let his eyes travel downwards, and as he stared at her bellybutton he noticed that, despite how she was dressed, she did not come across as trashy. Not that it mattered; he wasn’t trying to start something. That was the last thing on his mind. And his wife, who only ever saw the good in people, had taken her in under her wing, inviting her over for a meal at every chance. “Poor Roxanne,” she would cluck sadly. “ Do you know every woman on the street hates her? They think she’s after their husbands! It’s hard on single women, especially when they’re pretty!” The irony was that it wasn’t long before Roxanne had begun to flirt with him, right under her nose. Footsies under the table when they invited her over to dinner. Rubbing up against him in the narrow hallway leading to the guest bathroom. He’d resisted her. Then she’d called on him one night to drill some holes and hang pictures over at her house. When he’d successfully avoided anything physical occurring between them it was perhaps a misplaced sense of self-confidence that had made him drop his guard. Before long they’d exchanged cell phone numbers and had developed a relationship independent of his wife. Strangely enough, she revealed herself to be a good conversationalist. Roxie was a cosmetologist and he’d assumed she lacked depth. But he was pleasantly surprised to discover she was articulate and thoughtful. Soon, he began looking forward to their daily calls. He appreciated that she was a keen listener; she didn’t feel compelled to fill every silence. And when he invited her to see a movie in the middle of the afternoon one day, he’d left his office pretending to not to know that the day would end with them checked into a hotel overrun by Chinese businessmen and athletes on the island for some national games that they did not check out of until after midnight.
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Intersection Sharon Leach
It was nothing more than a gentleman’s intermission, this thing with Roxie, he thinks now. Men did what he’d done every day. Blame evolution; it made them promiscuous. He was rationalising, even if he does not want to admit it. Then Roxanne began pushing for more. She wanted some sort of a commitment from him. She wanted him to leave his wife. Roxanne had been meant to be a mere distraction; but it had gone on for way too long. A more permanent situation would destroy everything. He wasn’t the kind of man who left his wife for a mistress. Besides, as improbable as it seemed, he’d begun to grow weary of the sex, which Roxanne always seemed to want him to top every time they got together, as though it was some kind of game. But it’s over now. Tonight, he’d broken it off with her. They’d eaten a meal and then made love. After, as they’d lain catching their breath on the floor in the dark, her leg thrown over his as she absently tangled her fingers through his pubic hair, she’d surprised him by admitting she’d found somebody else. He wondered if she was playing head games with him, trying to make him jealous. But it didn’t matter; he wasn’t. While he got dressed, she’d assured him she wouldn’t make trouble. He believed her. He glances at his wife now. He tries to remember how it feels when he is inside her, it’s been so long. And suddenly he is flooded with a rush of tenderness. With Roxie it has always been animalistic, whereas with his wife it was sweet; after, he always felt as though he was deeply loved. She is a good woman; she deserves better than him. The universe has given him a second chance. The fling is out of his system now. Nobody got hurt. No harm, no foul. On the eve of their 20th wedding anniversary, he’s been presented with this opportunity to start over. He will do better. He’s neglected her for too long, treated her unfairly. Maybe he’ll surprise her with a nice present: a new car, perhaps. He’s had his eye on a sleek German number at the auto dealership, something he knew she’d always wanted. His credit is still good, although this may be his last major purchase for a long time. But he’ll worry about that later. He closes his eyes, exhales, and feels a sense of well-being settle over him like a blanket. Without opening his eyes he moves closer to his wife. Yes, he thinks sleepily as he presses into her softness, it will be all right now.
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Gillian Moore Alchemy Don't say my name, you said. But I did. I put your name in my mouth and I said it three times. Spellbound We fell up through blackness, Lust, cosmic dust and bursting stars Magic unleashed Powerful stuff That turns wishers into masters.
Breaking Soft flap of my tit Squeezed and shaken Shattered into rainbow light. Soft flesh wet and stretching, A swollen, rolling wave Expands, overflows. I am scattered on the shore A million shining pebbles Ecstatic in the sun.
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Gillian Moore
Oya All Over Oya always finds a good, steady Ogun man Then fucks him over. Runs away with Shango All lit up for his thunder. The world shakes, splits in two, Heaven is rent asunder. Oya, for fuck's sake! She's never learned to say no To what she really wants. She pines over, pants after That hot, fire-pants man. She craves his bed, Her funeral pyre. She can't help wanting The thing that kills, kills. This is why she stands solo, At the threshold of the grave Goddess of destruction. She smiles, sad, knowing To be queen is selfishness itself. She cries, For fire burns. And feels So Good.
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Gillian Moore
Esu You're Esu, aren't you? Short - with that big penis. Frontish, full of yourself And always alive in the moment. Your walk laid back Yet full of purpose Strolling down Destiny Road, Making day into night With a wink of those eyes – Brilliant, changeable, charged. Travelling light but pockets bursting With the power to change the world.
Wining Death If I dance enough, And raise my vibration high I think I can shake the molecules free So that my organism shifts From solid, wining woman With a body you can see To a dancing swarm. I will transform – Pure light and energy.
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Shivanee N. Ramlochan Vivek Chooses His Husbands Your father said not to take faggots to your bed, so you called them festivals. Corpus Christi gave his body up between bites of bread, leavened a Sunday on your tongue so hot that you chased the burn with olive oil, sprung from some garden where other men have fallen to their knees. You knifed the best sounds of him clean with eucharist-butter, blessed the back and the sides of his body, going over catechism scars with tonguepoint, cock heavy and poised for betrayal. You splinter the colours of Phagwa in your bed. You let him abeer-bleed your sheets, consummation morning a slitthroat red, powder on your lashes, red powder on your nosebridge, joy soft as if you were sucking that nectar from the cunt of an improbable other. Small suitors of red lining the backs of his knees. You cling to the backs of his knees and let the temple peal bells of bright orgasm over you. Samhain you found in an Aberystwyth dive bar, and when he asked you What island does your voice come from, handsome You showed him mouth-first, worked glottals over his girth, tasted his grandfather's name in your soft palate for weeks after, the ancestry of him roving in your spit, routing you for fire, cleaning you for the virgin-kill. The day you marry Hanukkah is a glock pointed to your father's face. You tell him I am the queen the comeuppance the hard heretic that nature intended.
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Freshly Baked Bread by Kavita Ganness
The barking dogs of my neighbours would punctuate our conversations every day in Aranguez. Lamb and I lived in a noisy hub of chutney and soca music. Contrasting rhythms would blast simultaneously from the clustered homes nearby and often it was easier to do things that didn’t require us to speak to each other. So we made love for hours in our small, creaky bed and our orgasms would mesh with the vibrations of every passing truck. We made our space a haven. All Lamb and I had was each other in that bustling place of constant activity. We had no money to spend on liming at parties or fetes. We worked our little fruit stall in the day and closed shop in the evening. We had a simple life together. We stayed indoors and enjoyed each other’s company. I fell in love with Lamb, the first day I began to work for him. I loved how his thick glasses rested on his nose as if he was a knowledgeable professor and I loved the soft fur of his beard that often grew too ragged sometimes. His lips were hidden in that lush nest of facial hair and I loved finding their sweet softness on dark nights. He sometimes neglected himself and often I had to remind him to cut his fingernails and toenails and trim his beard; and other places. We were content. Lamb made me content, for a while. His strange fascination with my pussy started off quite innocently and with one simple sentence. It was one warm evening that Lamb said, ‘Do you know your pussy has the same scent as that of freshly baked bread?’ His words sounded poetic to my love struck mind and I instantly devoured him and sandwiched him between the thin slices of my ‘freshly baked bread’. Soon our sex would begin with that one lone question; and every time he said it, he would smack his lips and laugh as if pleased with himself that he had come up with such an apt comparison. When Lamb was bored of television and the rum simmered in his veins and made his skin hot, he would pull off my panties, put his glasses on and stare at the petals of my pussy. It soon became a habit of his to ponder my pussy and look at it from all angles with a faint smile on his face and his glasses perched on his nose as if he was reading something very interesting. ‘Darling, don’t you get fed up of watching my pusspuss?’ I would ask the question and his face would light up and he would say with great earnestness, ‘I will never get tired of looking at your pussy!’ I would often read a book while he contemplated its shape and touched it with quiet reverence. Sometimes he would stare at it till he fell asleep. My legs grew strong, my buttocks jutted harder and my hips widened from his sessions of deep contemplation. I had grown accustomed to his strange habit and I obliged
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Freshly Baked Bread Kavita Ganness
him for I felt it was better for him to stare at my pussy, rather than encouraging him to surf the Internet and seek the pussies of strangers. I don’t know when it happened but our relationship began to frustrate me. It soon graduated to one where he was content to look at me and not touch me. The only thing that gratified me was the exercise I did at home on my stationary bike, which was a gift from him. I would ride for hours on it till my pussy began to pulse with heat and then I would take a cold shower. I began to take many cold showers after a while. My body fascinated Lamb and his facial expressions fascinated me. After a while I began to live for the moments when he would look at me - for those looks eased the ache in my untouched flesh. From a passionate lover, Lamb grew into a frigid voyeur. I felt cheated. Though his hair was grey, he giggled like a little boy who derived intense pleasure from pranks and the constant noise from his throat began to annoy me. Suddenly I hated how he chewed his food and swallowed. Suddenly I felt he was out of shape and his belly hung over his pants like the heavy womb of a pregnant cow. Suddenly I began to think of excuses to prevent myself from coming home. ‘I have to go visit my father’, I said one day. Another day I would say, ‘I have to go return my library books.’ Sometimes I would simply say I was going to wash my clothes at the back of the apartment and just sit there in the cool breeze and think about how things were in the beginning. Lamb would save his money and go to lingerie stores and buy me lacy underwear and silky nightgowns. He had a refined taste for beautiful things. The items came in boxes and were wrapped in white, wispy paper. I gave him such high drama when I opened my gifts. I squealed with surprise every time. I would shower fervent kisses on his cheeks and I would heap the praise for his choices. I would put them on with the tags still intact and he would come close and bite the tags off. It gave me a special thrill but little things thrilled me now. I was starving for love. Looks and gifts were not enough. ‘Its amazing how much your pussy smells like freshly baked bread’, Lamb said one evening after he had just showered. His cold drink sat on a table close to the bed and I watched how the glass trickled with water. I didn’t budge. My legs remained closed. I got up for the first time since his strange habit started and said that I wanted to go for a walk. His eyes widened and he whispered, ‘What did you say, Asha?’ I looked at him and said, ‘I feel like I want some fresh air, I want to go for a walk’. His hands trembled as he picked up his glass. He took a long gulp and stared at me. It was the first time I was not yielding to his wishes. I smiled at him, got off the bed, changed my clothes and walked outside into a new freedom. It felt good to say no to him. It felt much more satisfying than saying yes. When I returned Lamb was asleep. I stared at him. He saw my pussy regularly but I had not seen his penis in months. His pale blue pants beckoned for me to pull it down. It had been a long time since I gazed upon foreskin, glands and scrotum. His breathing was like a soft growl in my ears and suddenly I was consumed with the urge to see what I had not seen for months. I reached down and pulled the fabric. What I saw startled me. His pubic hair billowed in the breeze of the oscillating standing fan. I felt horrified that he had left his pubic hairs to grow into such a mad mass of thick foliage. It would take hours to trim those thick whiskers. I could see no penis; I could see no scrotum as I tugged the fabric down lower. I could see nothing for it was drowned in that dark pubic jungle. I felt sick and I felt sad. I felt disgusted as well.
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Freshly Baked Bread Kavita Ganness
Then I heard him laughing. It sounded like the yelp of dog that had been hit by a car. I jumped. ‘What are you looking at?’ Lamb said, his voice groggy and amused. ‘I’m looking at you. You are always looking at me. Am I not allowed to look at you?’ I spat the words at him, angry that I had been caught looking at his neglected wasteland and ashamed that I had pulled down his pants while he was sleeping. The words fell from my mouth with sadness, ‘You don’t touch me any more’. I looked away for tears suddenly burned my eyes. Lamb looked at me and giggled, ‘I am an old man, Asha.’ ‘Why are you giggling? You are always either giggling or laughing at me – you could never be serious, when it is time to be serious!’ I shouted. I’d had enough of his laughter and giggling as I got off the bed. I found a new courage and I said, ‘You can’t look at it anymore unless you are going to fuck it. Do I make myself clear? Also, are you a hairy ape? Is your name Amazon Rain Forest? Did you get vex with your scissors? No wonder you can’t fuck me, your cock is buried in an overgrown graveyard of pubic hair, you giggling gorilla!’ I walked out of the room in a rage and slammed the door. Lamb’s laughter echoed throughout our apartment. I cried a little on the tiny couch in our small living room and fell asleep. After that day, we went to work like normal but came home to an apartment without conversation. I claimed the couch and when I heard Lamb’s footsteps I would close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. Sometimes I would retire to our bed when he watched television on the couch, but from the moment he came into the bedroom I would walk out with my pillow. I waited to see who would win and I wanted to win. But both of us were stubborn. A part of me wished for him to speak of freshly baked bread again. In fact every time I sank my teeth into a sandwich I longed to hear him mention his favourite comparison. I did not want to leave him, but I was beginning to feel as if our relationship had no hope. Lamb tried many times to make laugh but I could summon no laughter for his jokes. I did not want to be his human-television and I was worried that if I indulged his habit again, I would be doomed to a life-time with a pussy-gazer. I wondered if he needed help. I wondered if we were one of those couples that needed therapy and counselling – but Lamb didn’t believe in those things. Lamb liked to splurge on lingerie for me. Paying for a counselling session would mean it would affect his lingerie budget. The lacy underwear still streamed in but the boxes remained unopened. I felt as if he had fallen in love with my pussy and that he felt my pussy held more beauty than my other body parts. He could not look at me in my eyes anymore. It was as if he was ashamed of himself and he didn’t want to admit it. I changed the colour of my hair to a bright copper hue and hoped he would notice and compliment me, but he said nothing. More lacy lingerie in white boxes came, but I left them unopened. They made quite a pile in the corner of our bedroom. Many nights I cried myself to sleep. I hoped he would reach out to me, but when he did - I feared that he only wanted to watch and I would move away. I didn’t want that same routine to begin again. I wanted a normal, healthy relationship. I questioned myself. Was I doing the right thing by depriving him? I took out a mirror and watched myself in the bathroom. Every time I showered and dried myself I would take a look. I wanted to remind myself that
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Freshly Baked Bread Kavita Ganness
what I had between my legs deserved more than looks. Questions flooded my mind and tears flowed down my cheeks. What was it really that fascinated him to such a great extent? Was it the colour, the shape, the shaved aspect, the plump labia or the glistening clit? I wondered if it was the smell which he said reminded him of ‘freshly baked bread’. Was it simply the smell which lured him and lulled him into a sweet slumber between my thighs? I began to miss the man I loved. I began to miss his eyes on me. I left the door of the bathroom open one day while I was watching myself. I wanted Lamb to catch a glimpse of my pussy. I felt as if my pussy wanted to be seen by his eyes. I felt sorry for Lamb. I was denying the man I loved of something he cherished. As I hoped, Lamb walked into the open bathroom and caught me watching myself in the mirror. He gasped. The small mirror in my hand reflected his short-lived glee when he caught that long-awaited glimpse of my pussy, but after I knew he got a thorough look, I feigned anger at being disturbed and quickly hid it. ‘Why are you watching me?’ I shouted. My voice gushed with frustration. I watched as the tears welled in his eyes. When he walked away with shoulders hunched like a man in deep despair, my heart ached in my breast. Late one night; weeks afterwards, I heard Lamb call my name. At first I thought it was a dream, so I didn’t budge, and then I heard him laughing. I ignored him. But why was he laughing anyway? We hadn’t spoken in weeks. I hadn’t heard him laugh in weeks. The lights were off and I heard his footsteps. From where I lay upon the couch, I watched as he came closer to me in the darkness. His laughter infuriated me intensely. I took a deep breath, and felt the obscenities dance in my throat. They wanted to jump out at him and slap his hairy face. Why was he disturbing me at this late hour of the night? I took a deep breath as he walked nearer and nearer. Lamb flicked the lamp switch on and what I saw stunned me. Lamb had shaved his entire pubic forest off. My jaw dropped as I looked at his large penis in all its glory. No words came to me. The grandeur of his shaved body stole the breath from my lungs and the beat from my heart. His body was a smooth pale yellow like frozen breast milk. Not one hair could be seen. His deforestation delighted me. I looked up at his face and I saw a magnificent moustache. His wild beard was gone. Lamb smiled down at me and asked softly, ‘Has anyone ever told you that your pussy has the same smell as freshly baked bread?’
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Peta-Gaye Williams Out of Wedlock An out of wedlock orgasm still takes me to the gate of God and they say God isn’t merciful to sinners
If You Lead Me Would I Follow It depends on where you go, cause if you lead me to orgasms then certainly you know that I would not be hesitant. I would walk just like the wind floating wherever you go. And can you touch me? Oh sure! but with conditionalities attached cause if you’re gonna touch me without reaction it is better you just watch me from a window or the pages of a dream putting pussy into motion in a masturbating scene Would I allow you to be master of my show manipulator of body, navigator of my boat? Only if you subscribe to the alphabet which rules I always come before U
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Peta-Gaye Williams
Navigating My Vagina Navigating my vagina in the basement on a bed unfolding, while holding a dirty magazine I borrowed from Christine in class yesterday I discovered if you touch it long enough something will happen. They say you’ll feel it inside swelling like the ocean currents in a tide I decide to take off my clothes. Holding the magazine at an angle on the bed its black and white pages spread open like my legs wide, with secrets I am eager to find, I flip to Confessions of a Dirty Mind. I feel hair, flaps, a button, a motion ensues I start rubbing the surface for a minute or two. Ten minutes and conditions are still the same no changes in the weather, though in class they’d say you should get wet on the way. Another ten minutes elapse and I am rubbing so hard, desperate to discover the ‘what I don’t know’. I have no map for the journey and oblivious to the codes and sign posts and confused I stop, turn the page, Mia’s ass is exposed, the only clothes she wears is a tie, her feet are spread fingernails red pointing directly between her legs her pussy is open it’s pink inside I start to wonder if mine looks the same
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Peta-Gaye Williams
I flip through the pages, eager and keen. There is one with Charlie Stone’s fingertip on the tip of a button they call the clit. I touch mine, it feels weird and sweet. I poke, I prod, I rub, I am bouncing and moaning so hard I don’t see when the door opens when mom walks in. Lexy Lane’s bottom falls face down on the floor My mother is transfixed by the door
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US by Chantel DaCosta
“It’s the third right turn. We start counting now. Right now at the gas station. Turn one.” A nervous giggle bursts through as I settled back into the seat. You hadn’t said a word since we dropped the others off in Half-Way Tree. The three of them would travel together on bus to P----. I was the only one who lived up this way, heading into the hills. After the silence since the others departed, I was little startled when you asked: “Is it very far up?” “No. Just a little farther up C-----. There is hardly any traffic now. So less than five minutes. Then, it is pass the gas station and then off to the left on M--- Road. Third right after the gas station. Can’t miss it” My answer came out fast and loud. I was grateful. It was late, after midnight, and I always felt anxious on public transportation, buses I could handle but taxies terrified me. And there were no buses going up my side this time of the night. Besides, I felt hot and limber from the three or so cocktails with the Irish rum cream liqueur and chocolate. I swore that I’d always remember the name of the drink, it was so sexy sounding and clever. Damn. I smiled, as I remembered the melting chocolate shavings, chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Now I was giddy. “Wait. Turn. You will miss it, just turn now, no one is behind us. Turn.” I shouted. I sounded forceful and strange. You nodded and made a sharp right turn. The drive to my apartment complex was quick. I blinked, and we were there. “Right here. Just down at that second gate.” I whispered now. I wanted to laugh at how polarized my voice pitches were. Something made me feel buzzed. It was rum or being this close to you or both. “Thanks.” I said, turning towards you. I was still talking too soft and low. I smiled. I could not help but smile, whenever I saw you. Your eyes. That’s what really pulled me in. Your eyes were lighter than brown with warm golden flecks, that could only observed with very close contact. And each time I got close enough to you to glimpse that gold, I wanted you. The way you looked at me made me think you wanted me just as much, but it was your smell at night, that made me dive. Your smell was intoxicating. I needed to touch you and to be touched by you. I will always be surprised by what I did next. I leaned in close. I was still smiling as I inched closer. I pulled you in and I kissed you, a soft brush of my lips to yours. I paused, to absorb the memory of your full lips against mine, and then, without hesitation, I wrapped my arms around your neck and kissed you deeply. That night you stayed with me and that was our beginning.
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Shannon Smith Sweet Talkin His words it seems He dips in honey Just before He places them on my tongue. Deliberately sweet And so sweeter still... Perhaps cloying To some This acquired taste upon which I feast. Nourishing some deficiency Some vitamin I knew not that I had need. Insatiable now My appetite For he keeps it... whet. And I tasted of him and behold it was good.
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Shannon Smith
Tonight I Whore Tonight I strip of ribbons and lace of lipgloss and makeup my second face. For tonight for him once more tonight I am His dream His whore. Tonight I lose all gentile demeanor no remnants of the Lady the day-walker. For tonight I am for him a creature of the night tonight the apple is in reach for him my Tantalus which was once only in sight. Tonight no giggles no girlish guise just the raunch of a woman with fire between her thighs For his fiendish desires I am the cure and so tonight once more for him tonight I whore.
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The Note by Delroy Nesta Williams She strolled up behind him as he pounded away at the keys of the laptop and gently placed a kiss at the base of his neck. “Baby!” he said. She didn’t reply. She wrapped her hands around his waist and kissed him in the same spot again! “You’re cold… and wet!” he exclaimed. “Indeed I am,” she said. Her voice soft, sultry, making the small hairs on his arms stand up. His body reacted to those words too, like a log floating beneath the waves of the Caribbean Sea as the warm sun kissed the horizon, shades of red, orange and yellow floating around the sky. “You wanna…” “Sshhhhhhhh!” she ordered, placing a palm over his mouth before he could finish his sentence. She stood over him, taking her hands and rubbing from his shoulder down to his abdomen. He tensed under her touch. She bit the tip of his left ear lobe and he hissed under his breath. “I like that, I really like that,” she giggled, pulling off his baby blue t-shirt as he raised his arms. She sketched over his tattoo, slowly as he tried to stay still on the small stool. The bloody-wrist tattoo had always been an enigma to her, a reminder of his violent past but now she was beginning to warm up to it, knowing that he had become a better man since they’d been together. She was a church girl who had fallen in love with a “gangsta” and the feeling was mutual. She smiled as she remembered the evolution since they met. He was now back in school, working on a college degree, while she worked at an local NGO. It had been difficult for them but she was happy to make every sacrifice. “I have a paper to complete tonight baby,” he said. “It can wait a bit… can’t it?” she begged. “Yes… but I need an A!” “Give me 15 minutes and you will surely get your A!” He spun around on the stool, stood up and pulled Marcia to his chest. He bent his head towards hers and he placed a soft kiss on her lips. She smiled underneath the kiss as he wrapped his hands around her waist and she wrapped hers around his neck, slightly digging her nails into his flesh. He tightened his grip and kissed her harder, sucking the breath from her lungs and softly biting the tip of her lips. She felt her blood rush under her skin, and lifted a leg rising to wrap around his own. He steadied her with his weight. She took a quick hop off
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The Note Delroy Nesta Williams
the floor, and he caught her, cradling her in his arms. They moved like synchronized swimmers as he glided across the small living room. He was making his way to the bedroom when she stopped him abruptly. “Take me here… right here!” “Here?” he asked. “Yes, right here… on the table… I’ve always fantasized about it! He cleared the table of text books and glasses he had placed there an hour or so ago with one hand while still carrying her with the other, all the time she nibbled on his ear and sucked away at his muscular neck. Daryl leaned forward and lay Marcia down gently on the mahogany table. He looked at her and smiled as he noticed how her skin tone blended smoothly with the table. “Are you ready?” he asked, cupping his huge hands over her breasts to envelop her erect nipples. “Yes… I am yours!” she said. She felt tingle between her legs and she spread them to welcome his approach. He slowly unpinned her pink blouse, fidgeting a bit with the buttons like a nervous teenaged boy about to have his first sexual encounter. A nervous smile escaped him as he bent over to kiss her again. “What’s wrong baby?” she asked, catching on to his unusual behaviour. “I have something to tell you.”. “Can’t it wait for later?” “It’s been waiting for a while,” “You’re really killing the vibe right now!” “It’s best I tell you while I still have the courage,” “You’re starting to scare me,” she said, sitting up to face him. “What is it?” “Wait here!” he answered, cold and stone-faced as he walked away from Marcia, still half-naked on the mahogany table. She hopped off and re-dressed herself, taking up a position on a chair at the table. She sat there playing with her manicured nails, biting of a bit that had become loose. Daryl strolled back into the room after a few minutes, going to the cupboard and pulling out a whiskey bottle. “You want a glass too?” he asked, the coldness in his voice growing with every word. “Wine please,” Marcia responded, trying to remain calm though her blood was beginning to boil beneath her skin, more from worry than vexation. “Red or white?” “Urghh?” “Red or white!” “Uhmmm… red! “You sure?” “Yes, I am sure… white!” Daryl brought both bottles along with one wine glass. He poured himself a shot of whiskey and sat across Marcia, looking down at the glass but not directly at her.
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The Note Delroy Nesta Williams
“What’s wrong Daryl? Just tell me! Please!” “Let me pour you the wine first, you might need to a few sips,” he responded, grabbing the bottle. His hands shook as he poured the wine, spilling a few drops unto the table. She could tell that something was wrong with him and the delay was getting to her. “Daryl, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong I will leave this apartment,” she warned. “Okay!” Daryl said, raising his voice slightly. Marcia curled back into her chair. It was the first time in a long while that she had heard that tone from him. It startled her. She pulled the wine glass towards her and hurled down its entire contents, grabbing the bottle again to pour another glass. Daryl was still looking down at his own glass, having taken only two sips. He pushed his finger into the whiskey, stirring it a bit before tasting it off his finger and looked up at Marcia for the first time. “Marcia,” he said. “Marcia?” she replied, “Marcia? What happened to baby, sweetie, sweets and all the other pet names? Tonight all of a sudden I am Marcia again?” “Would you just listen?” “Why should I listen?” she said, tears now escaping her eyes. She wiped them from her eyes but he still noticed. “You’re making this harder than it should be, just listen, please!” She wiped another tear from her eye and sniffed. He shuffled his feet under the table, pulled them together then sat up straight. He reached for her hands but she pulled away. He had angered her at first and now she was hurting. “There’s something I really need to tell you but I really don’t know how. It’s not easy for me to say this to you. I have never had to say something like this to anyone else. So I wrote it down instead.” “Where is it then?” she asked, tears still streaming down her reddening cheeks. “I left it on the bed.” “So you can’t give it to me?” “I would prefer if you get it yourself ” “Why?” “I want you to read it!” Marcia, taking one last sip of her wine, pushed the glass back towards the centre of the table and slowly excused herself from the table. She walked slowly towards the bedroom door and upon reaching it turned around towards Daryl, who was again looking down at his glass of whiskey. He hadn’t taken another sip though. “Are you coming with me?” “I would rather not!” he scolded. “Fine!” She slammed the door behind her and ventured further into the bedroom. A small envelope, placed on her pillow, awaited her hands. She picked it up, her sweaty hands shaking from anxiety. She tore through the envelope and started to read the scribbled writing. Her sobs got louder as she went further down the page.
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The Note Delroy Nesta Williams
Finally, she dropped the note and envelope and rushed out of the room. She flung the door open and there she met Daryl, waiting ... “Will you marry me?” he asked, the glow returning to his face, tears in his eyes and hope in his voice. “Yes, yes, yes,” she said, “but don’t ever do that to me again!” She slapped his muscular chest as he grabbed unto her arms, emphatically kissing her. She also latched onto him like a lioness capturing her prey, her tongue in his mouth, massaging his own. He pulled away, fell to one knee to place the ring upon Marcia’s finger. She looked at it, tears of joy flowing from her eyes this time, and smiled. He pulled her to him and kissed her.
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Britton Wright My Favourite Place
I spy with my little eye: an enchanting place beyond di delicate deliciousness of her skin. Through resplendent brown windows, mi peruse stories and secrets sleeping deep within. Concealed and guarded from di careless gaze of vain troglodytes who gulp spirits and spew conjecture. Mi witness her exquisiteness from a different vector. I've known far more dan di solace of her warm, wet entwinement. Wid open mind and curious hands, mi explore every intricate tangle and strand til mi overstand di treasure of her roots: A fruitful meadow of thought dat constitutes her very nucleus. I spy with my little eye: A sensual place curtained by firm fragility. Such sweet, sacred knowledge have I come to claim because my name would mean nothing without hers: Woman. My favourite place is you.
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Britton Wright
Indulgence Skin What a sinfully delicate an sensuous thing. Touch yours and all mi waan do is fling weh clothes and all manner of constrictions. Construction site our bedroom is not but work is in progress. Salivating fingers journey along undulating landscapes seeking pleasure wid each step. Prepping places erogenous wid 4 play as 5 play tickle and tease. Succulent, juicy skin get squeezed and pampered an cotton get tossed if hampering di vibrations. Gyrations grow more intense and eager. Kisses get feverish as tongues grow insatiable. Voices rise to an unmistakable fever pitch of delightful falsettos And fall settling into fleeting satisfaction. Teeth and lips nibbling fractions of time away like oceans drinking sand on warm summer's day. Hands play with curve and crevice while eyes devour and relish di taste of sin. Passion is evoked with each intimate stroke when we peruse and provoke sleeping desires. Stoking the fires of Love; YOU and I become WE elucidating this wordless language of shadows dancing in the glow of moonlight. Beads of sweat soon might trickle these sinuous dimensions and joy is mentioned with every passing whisper of touch. I clutch you ... clutch me as we share and explore here, there and everywhere on each other's...skin. No egos. No hurt. No pants. No skirt. Just YOU and ME a partake in Heart-racing indulgence.
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Britton Wright
Resplendence More resplendent dan a starlit summer night is dis starlet. More graceful dan a Jasmine's silhouette is she. More soulful dan a million saxophones is her voice. So engaging is her discourse dat she must be no less than engaged making dis course of action hopeless. Pointless would it be then to even ponder possibilities of approach. Impossible is it then that she is not the peach of someone else's retina. Regardless, she get inna mi veins an howeva vain is my attempt mi haffi try. Air weh occupy mi lungs and sunshine pon mi skin don't feel as urgent as my need for her touch. Infiltrating her marvelous mental space means much more to me than Everest to a monk. And I will never rest If dis lioness denies me the time of day. Mi nuh know if is har aura or a supn else but she resonate in a kind of way weh have mi medz a sway like a tree limb pon a windy Easter evening. Even if di odds nuh inna my favor mi haffi unearth di roots of her flavor cah no one on earth nuh fava she. An all if mi blaze a tree, mi couldn't find a feelin quite as enthralling. She is my impossible possibility and one yes from her lips would topple the probability of me ever again knowing despair.
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FEATUREDWRITERS Deeper Than Skin: On Writing the Erotic
With Kwame Dawes, Opal Palmer Adisa, Loretta Collins Klobah & Jacqueline Bishop
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Deeper Than Skin: On Writing the Erotic Dawes, Collins Klobah, Palmer Adisa & Bishop
Kwame Dawes He is the author of over a dozen collections of poetry, fiction, non-fiction, criticism and drama. His most recent collections of poetry include Wisteria: Poems From the Swamp Country (2006), Duppy Conqueror: New and Selected Poems (2013), and City of Bones (2016). Dawes’s novels include She’s Gone (2007), and Bivouac (2010), and his non-fiction collections include A Far Cry From Plymouth Rock: A Personal Narrative (2007) and Fugue and Other Writings (2012). He is the Glenna Luschei Editor of Prairie Schooner, and a Chancellor’s Professor of English at the University of Nebraska. Kwame Dawes also teaches in the Pacific MFA Writing program. His awards include
the Forward Prize for Best First Collection (1994), the Hollis Summers Prize for Poetry; a Pushcart Prize; the Hurston/ Wright Legacy Award; and a Guggenheim Foundation fellowship. In 2004 he received the Musgrave Silver Medal (2004).
Loretta Collins Klobah She is a Professor of Caribbean Literature and creative writing at the University of Puerto Rico in San Juan. Her poetry has been anthologized in several journals, including The Caribbean Writer, Bim, Poui, The Caribbean Beat Magazine, The NewYorker, TriQuaterly Review, Black Warrior Review, The Antioch Review, Quarterly West, Cimarron Review, and The Missouri Review. Her debut poetry collection, The Twelve-Foot Neon Woman received the 2012 Poetry Prize in the OCM Bocas Prize for Caribbean Literature and was short-listed for the Felix Dennis Prize (2012) for the Best First Collection. She has received a Pushcart Prize and the Earl Lyons Award from the American Academy of Poets.
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Deeper Than Skin: On Writing the Erotic Dawes, Collins Klobah, Palmer Adisa & Bishop
Opal Palmer Adisa A writer of poetry and prose, photographer, curator, professor, educator and cultural activist, Adisa has lectured and read her work throughout the United States, South Africa, Ghana, Nigeria, Germany, England and Prague. She is a full professor of creative writing and literature in the MFA program at California College of the Arts, and has been a visiting professor at several universities including, Stanford University, University of California, Berkeley and University of the Virgin Islands. Her poetry, stories, essays and articles on a wide range of subjects have been collected in over 400 journals, anthologies and other publications. Her poetry collections and novels include I Name Me Name (2008), Four-Headed Woman (2013), It Begins With Tears (1997) and is the coeditor of the anthology Caribbean Erotic (2010).
Jacqueline Bishop JACQUELINE BISHOP is an award-winning photographerpainter-writer born and raised in Jamaica, who now lives and works in New York City (“Jamaica’s 15th Parish”). She has twice been awarded Fulbright Fellowships, including a yearlong grant to Morocco; her work exhibits widely in North America, Europe and North Africa. She teaches in the Liberal Studies Program at New York University; is the founding editor of Calabash: A Journal of Caribbean Art & Letters; and author of the novel The River's Song and the short story and essay collection The Gymnast and Other Positions shortlisted for the 2016 OCM Bocas Prize for Caribbean Literature.
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Deeper Than Skin: On Writing the Erotic Dawes, Collins Klobah, Palmer Adisa & Bishop
The Advice Kwame Dawes: Write What’s in Your Head In my experience to write the erotic or romantic well one must be guided by the same principles that operate in writing anything well. We write to transport ourselves and readers to a place that we have imagined and we write to find ways to make them care about what is happening there. Our tool is language and our task is to find ways to use it freshly and precisely. I think it is just as difficult to write violence, religious awakening, depression, anger, and confusion. Since I assume that writing "the erotic" is writing about sexual desire, I think I can say that unless we care something of the characters and the ideas that surround the subject, we will not successfully write about sexual desire. At the end of the day, it is all in the head, anyway. Write well about what goes on in the head, and you will write well about desire.
Opal Palmer Adisa: I Touch Myself There is not a right or wrong way to do most things, and this is true for writing erotica, but part of my process involves touching myself. I know masturbation is at best tabooed or many still are ambivalent about whether or not one should encourage this practice, but touching oneself to discover what feels good, is in my book mandatory and should be required before sexual exploration with a partner. However, touching myself in preparation for writing is not masturbation; well I don’t think it is given the definition of masturbation – fondling the genital to achieve orgasm. When I sit down to write an erotic story or poem, I often light a fragrant smelling candle such as jasmine. I allow the scent to waft the room, then, usually, I run my fingers down my arms, over my breasts, caress my thighs, and then I close my eyes and image someone, not necessarily my lover or partner, caressing, teasing and tingling my body. Writing erotica requires the imagination, but it also, I believe, requires experience, direct or vicarious, to render the scene and the details real. Before starting to write an erotic story decide which of the sensory faculties: smell, sight, sound, taste or touch appeal to you most, and focus on concrete imagery that engages that sense. A good erotica will of course employ all sensory imagery, but often there is an emphasis on one or the other. Once you have decided that he liked the
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Deeper Than Skin: On Writing the Erotic Dawes, Collins Klobah, Palmer Adisa & Bishop tasted of her skin, chalky, nutty and earthy moist, especially after she just returned from jogging before showering, then you can begin to tease out your characters and learn what they are up to and who they are. While many erotica stories are plot driven, as a writer I am moved by people so I need to know my characters and what turns them on. As she sat under the tree reading, a leaf glided down and slipped between her breasts. When she reached in to retrieve it, the billow of the eucalyptus tree made her heady and not wanting to let the desire die even though she was at the park, she caressed the leaf, used it to stroke the jut of her chin, tilting back her head, to the parting of her breasts, unshielded in her cotton summer dress, the leaf creating circles under her guidance, her eyes closing as she got more and more lost in drinking in the sensation. Even when a playful but husky voice said; “Let me help you with that,” she kept her eyes closed and sang into the blanket spread under the tree. Your objective must be to arouse your reader, to make him or her either physically touch himself, or go off somewhere to masturbate or call someone to get it on. The goal should not be to simply tease, you should want to evoke an urge, create a desire, ignite the imagination so that after reading your story it prompts some sexual act, even if the person is alone. Erotica is about pleasure, my toe in his mouth as he massages my legs with merlot.
Loretta Collins Klobah: Make it New - Erotic Postcards From Puerto Rico When I received Tanya Savage’s invitation to contribute writerly advice to a special issue of Susumba’s Book Bag dedicated to the “erotic,” I fell over sideways laughing at first. Me? I probably squealed and said WHAT? a few times out loud. Puerto Rico has been my home for two decades, but I have lived in Kingston, Jamaica, I feel connected to the island and visit when I can; I have friends and acquaintances there that I communicate with daily; I avidly read Jamaican and other Caribbean writers— those who rarely mention anything erotic, romantic or sexual; those who write a lot about sex (some including predation or brutality); those who write about transgressive sexualities; and those who are exploring, little by little, how to incorporate the erotic into their short stories, novels and poetry. Jamaica has Jamaica stone, anarexol, daggering, mannish water, and dancehall. Yes, that. But, the writers have recently been doing incredibly important work in trying to write the erotic in a fresh way—much more than I have. I have in the last year had several one-on-one conversations with women writers, in particular, about this element of their writing. As a reader and writer, I offer my observations about this trend and my own advice about what I think is missing from erotic literature. Let me say first that I am a middle-aged woman of Irish, Cherokee and Spanish ethnicity, racially categorized by society as white, and if I use Jamaican slang, I can
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Deeper Than Skin: On Writing the Erotic Dawes, Collins Klobah, Palmer Adisa & Bishop generously say that I am extraordinarily “fluffy” – a big belly woman. Big. I am a poet, and I write foremost in, about, and for the Caribbean, with an emphasis on historical consciousness and social issues. I see myself as in ongoing conversation with other literary writers of Puerto Rico, the region and the Caribbean diaspora. … Erotic writing doesn’t necessarily have to be connected to a writer’s actual lived experiences since, in addition to any sexual adventures that we may have had, we all have fantasies, desires, agendas, unsatisfied drives, the need to further the self and a limitless imagination. We all have struggles in the society related to power, advantage, survival, self-actualization, societally-maintained codes of propriety, conceptualizations of gender, economic/ family responsibilities and expectations of others. When we think of the erotic, probably for many, youthful, fit bodies and a burning, young sexual vitality and endless love-making come to mind. I have had my lion’s share of those kinds of erotic and sexual experiences with various partners of diverse backgrounds, though those moments have not, for the most part, ended up in my writing. I sense that could change in the near future, though. I accepted this invitation, ultimately, for the sake of offering my perspective as an experienced writer and a woman in my mid-fifties, so that the overall group of responding writers will represent diverse perspectives. I also want— having noticed and recently thought a lot about the efforts of other Caribbean women writers, especially— to work on removing the mind-blockades and improving my own processes of opening up more as a writer who is sometimes shy, sharing personal intimacies, private inner thoughts and even erotic longings in my poetry and prose. … Given my subjectivity, what advice can I possibly offer as a writer about the erotic to a reader of Susumba’s Book Bag? Obviously, there is a big place in fiction and poetry for sexual violence because it’s a part of the society, the human psyche, human history and training, hormonal urges, power struggles, repressed anger, fear and grudges, and so, even gratuitous and excessive violence, sadism and masochism, rape, the sexual obliteration of characters, bloody mayhem, and sexual murders have their place in literature. Including rough sexuality in a literary text certainly doesn’t hurt a writer’s or film’s popularity, either, as far as I can see. Texts deride characters in all sorts of ways when it comes to sexual scenes. It probably isn’t relevant to talk about domestic abuse and homicide statistics here because it isn’t literature’s responsibility to be moral, to promote kindness or to protect vulnerable individuals. Literature isn’t church. It doesn’t have to be consciousnessraising or utopic. Expressing this kind of sexuality seems to me like re-writing the same pre-packaged deal of the world that we were born into, though. I think that writing the erotic requires what all good writing requires: that the writer draws upon his or her own unique ideas and imagination as much as possible. Clichés are banished. Erotica is not a porn film. It doesn’t matter whether the writing is “rude” or “clean”; it has to be writing that catches a reader’s attention. The actual physicality of sex acts, an accelerated heartbeat, tingling sensations, sweat, rubbing, pumping, licking, heating up of body parts, moaning, panting, riding, the positions, and the orgasm might be important, and a writer might get caught up in trying to find the sexiest way to write the mechanics of those movements to hot up the reader or in the decision over what to call the woody/willie or pum-pum. I think, though, that the erotic in literature is a lot more than what happens in the character’s erogenous zones. The quality of the characters, what is in their heads, their flaws, vulnerabilities, insecurities, and unfulfilled desires, their conversation, their motivations, their sense of humor and connection to each other, the
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Deeper Than Skin: On Writing the Erotic Dawes, Collins Klobah, Palmer Adisa & Bishop
sensorial details of the setting, the story’s conflicts, the tone, and the unique details that a writer chooses in order to create atmosphere (food, drink, lighting, décor, warmth, etc.), those drops of literary magic, are going to determine the sense of eroticism and pleasure in the reader. Try to forget all of the pre-set images of sexuality that bombard us in the media, what society tells us is sexual, your current or past sex life, and what kind of language we usually use to talk about sex. Try freewriting about what you really desire (whether you currently get it or not), and what actually is pleasurable to you (even those acts that you haven’t asked a partner to perform because they are against a norm or individual preference). What actions would you like a lover to do that your lovers don’t do to your full satisfaction? In your hidden self, what would you find to be erotic? If you didn’t censor your thoughts, what would you want to experience in terms of pleasure? What if your lover said yes to anything you wanted and learned to do it well. What if the lover said what you would like to hear, not a cliché? What erotic scenario would help develop your fictional characters (most of whom are not idealized perfection)? What are the settings where you can imagine the erotic in a new way? How does writing the erotic in a unique, frank, open, playful and imaginative way, using sensory details and fresh language enable you to achieve what you want to achieve as a writer and person? I don’t have all of that figured out myself, yet. What is the sense of liberation in being able to write the erotic? Can the erotic heal wounds, personal or historical? For me, these unanswered questions are a good place to start, depending on the writer’s own backstory. One thing that I am sure of is that I would like to see more writers writing about what is missing from erotic literature, a wider range of characters being portrayed as sexual beings (not sexual objects) and more unique, rarely portrayed erotic experiences. Where are the aging and elderly lovers? Where are the fat ones that are not just belittled, viewed as gross or used for comedic relief and a derisive laugh? The disabled? I would like to learn from those writers with disabilities whom I have been reading recently. They try to write erotic scenes in a way that doesn’t fetishize characters in a stereotypical manner. I like what they are doing. The previous literary models of sexuality that these writers have to draw upon may not fully represent what it is emotionally and physically like to have sex, enjoy an erotic moment or be in a relationship for a person with a particular condition of disability. Their characters don’t always easily fit into prescribed sexual performance expectation norms. So they try to write in a new way that shows human foibles and dignifies people. I am thinking of such literary works as the poems about a speaker who has Multiple Sclerosis in Laurie Clemens Lambeth’s poetry collection Veil and Burn (2008) or Jullian Weise’s poem “The Amputee’s Guide to Sex,” published in the anthology Beauty is a Verb: New Poetry of Disability, edited by Jennifer Bartlett, Sheila Black and Michael Northern (2011). Susan Nussbaum’s novel Good Kings, Bad Kings (2013), tells, from the perspective of several characters, some with disabilities and some without, some decent humans and some nasty, what it is like in an institution for juveniles with disabilities. The sexual relationship between wheelchair-using Joanne Maden and the lovable Puerto Rican Rick Hernández is subtly though not graphically erotic in its portrayal. My nutshell advice about writing the erotic? Make it new.
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Kaleidoscope by Jacqueline Bishop Before long they were near the river. Its waters tumbling over the falls and roaring down. Christopher and Zara stopped at one of the many dirt paths leading down to the water and started making their way down. A dense canopy of leaves and brightly-coloured birds were overhead. When they got to the bottom of the hill it felt as if they had stepped out of one world right into another. A dark green place of tall bushes and large almond trees with leaves that had fallen to the bottom of a sparkling river. “Nice, isn’t it?” Christopher said, coming closer to Zara. “More than nice,” Zara replied. Christopher stood looking at Zara for a long time, before he put his arms around her. Before long he was nibbling on the back of her neck, then behind her ear. Zara did not stop him. In fact, she hoped that he would never stop doing what he was doing. His hands started moving slowly all over her body, coming up to cup her breasts. And all she kept thinking about was just how beautiful everything was. How peaceful and quiet. How right everything felt. The soft bed made of moss that Christopher now had her on as he removed her clothes. How gentle he was when he opened her legs. His fingers driving her crazy. This before he raised himself up and slipped all the way inside of her. It felt to Zara like such a great coming together. Something she had always been waiting for; the two of them rocking intently, as though they were a boat out at sea in stormy weather, but no matter how strong the waves were the little boat refused to capsize. Everything was now like a kaleidoscope, so many brilliant colors, merging in and out of one another.
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG March 2016
Man Haffi Try by Loretta Collins Klobah Bus Terminal by Coronation Market Later, all the way to Montego Bay, the screen above the driver’s head will play a kungfu film in which arms are severed in spouts and sprays of blood, my sick friend spewing into her paper bag. Now, pushed to the back window seat, waiting for the bus to fill every bench, I can’t ignore the man outside, under my window, who is not selling grater cakes. He sells himself, singing out his offer in raw detail, how he can suck me, and perform such a list of triple-X things, teenage world-class lover, zagga zow— I thought “badmen nuh bow.” Women in dresses with travelling packages turn to look at me. The youtman, immovable, tells me for an hour all the ways in which my pussy ah goh feel good.
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG March 2016
Loretta Collins Klobah
Walking on the Street in Liguanea Miss, Miss, yuh fat. Yuh fat bodder me. Yuh fat bodder me bad. I turn to face the man following me— What happen, you can’t carry this? I say to him. Yuh fat, he says. If you don’t like it, don’t look. I say. No, no, Miss, I mean I mean, yuh fat bodder me— I like it. Yuh have a boyfren?
In the Bank at UWI on Mona Campus Hi, there, lady, where you from? You want to see my pistol? The bank guard pulls his safety revolver from its holster—frosted, ribbed barrel pointing at me in his extended palm, You see how it nice? He rubs the mother-of-pearl grips with his other hand, touch it, he says. Puerto Rico? They have beautiful women there? Yes, the women are truly beautiful, I say. I mean you. You want to go out?
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG March 2016
Loretta Collins Klobah
Walking in Montego Bay A voice behind us— Excuse me, excuse me. My friend keeps walking. Miss, you have something on your backside. You have something. My friend keeps walking, but I turn. She have something white on her. I look, and it is true. He’s right, you know, I say. It looks like chalk, your whole bottom. Maybe when we sat on the stairs back there. She always wears black silk blouses and trousers. She dusts off her bottom. Thanks, I say. Yes, I, he says.
Walking Below Sovereign Hey, Hollywood!
In a Taxi The windshield sun-screen banner of the taxi says “Wuki Duki.” Wookie Dookie? I ask, that’s the name of your car? The driver corrects me, “Wucky Ducky.” Wucky Ducky? What does it mean? He laughs and doesn’t want to tell me. But, then he gives in. You know, it’s like you work the gyal and then duck, like not see her again, a one-night stand, you know, wucky-ducky. Oh, okay, Wuki Duki.
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SUSUMBA’SBOOKBAG March 2016
Lathered With Fruits by Opal Palmer Adisa Beach, a cool breeze blowing, succulent fruits and sensuous music have been her dominant images of the Caribbean, but she hungered for something different, to become loss in the whole region, to taste its jerk mouth on her lips, to feel is fibrous yams massaging her skin, to be buoyed by its heat and be drenched by its intoxicating water. She was a woman looking to be fed, and her planned photographic book, The Organic Beauty of the Black Body was leading her to St Lucia in search of images. Not wanting to waste even half a day, Arleen arrived in St Lucia, dropped off her bag at the hotel and straight away took a taxi to Diamond Fall Botanical Garden in Soufriere. It was closing but the guard said, “Since yuh such ah pretty oman ah go let yuh in, but tek me picture.” He stood with his hand on the gate and she snapped away, thinking he wasn’t a bad looking man, probably close to her age, thirty- three. He held the gate agape and she stooped to enter, his arm brushing her bare shoulder, deliberately, she knew. He laughed, a mouth of strong, white teeth. She smiled back, coyly, over her shoulder. Maybe she could persuade him to undress and model for her naked against the flora. “Which way to the Falls?” He pointed, indicating the path. As she began walking he called to her.” “Pretty lady, feel safe to stay as long as you want. When you come back de gate might lock. Just walk that way.” Again, he pointed to a small clearing not far from where he stood. “Go dat way bout 100 yards; yuh will see to you left a fence near a red hibiscus bush, push on it, and bend down and it will let you out on the other side by the road. Ahrite.” Arleen nodded, anxious to get to the Falls before it got dark. She could hear the water gushing, but the walk was further than she had anticipated. She meandered, and then she arrived to the side of the Falls, and blinked to make sure her eyes were not deceiving her. With their backs to her, were two men, tall and lean bathing, their bodies lathered in soap. She crouched behind a tree and clicked and clicked, hoping that the sound of the falls would muffle the camera’s clicking. Zooming in, Arleen focused on the leaner of the two men, buttocks tight, legs and arms wound like a rope, skin polished mahogany. Then he turned, and as she zoomed in with the camera, daamn, escaped her mouth. It couldn’t be as long as it seemed. Zooming to the max she detected foreskin, uncircumcised. Probably just foreskin she told herself, her body flushed, her tee shirt clung to her skin. She zoomed out and kept shooting, wondering if she would be able to use these shots or show them. She tingled at the very idea of spying on men bathing. Crass or perverted, she didn’t care, reasoning that she was at a public place as she angled around the tree to get a different view. Arleen clicked away, focusing as quickly.
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Lathered With Fruits Opal Palmer Adisa
“Who is there? Reveal yourself,” demanded a booming voice from the Falls. Momentarily Arleen froze wondering should she make a dash for it or stand her ground and apologize. Recognizing that she was not a sprinter, and her backpack with heavy cameras and lens did not allow for a speedy retreat, Arleen opted her most Caribbean voice that she could muster. “Jah Bless,” she hailed, having slung her camera strap over her shoulder, and stepping from behind the tree, in clear view. She hoped Rasta greetings here where the same as in Jamaica. She couldn’t help but notice that they both stood with their hands cupped in front of their privates in a captivating pose, so natural, a missed opportunity if she didn’t capture it. “Can I take you both, just like you are?” she asked, simultaneously reaching for her camera. “We look like model to you? You go pay us?” The same booming voice rejoined.” While Arleen was thinking of how to handle this situation, the leaner of the two, who thus far had not spoken, turned to his companion. “Is alrite Ras Mor. She look cool, and even though I can tell she putting on, she sound like she could be one of us.” Immediately Arleen relaxed liking the resonance of his voice. “Well I-Man out,” said the stocker and older of the two. He scampered behind a rock, emerging shortly wearing shorts with a towel around his neck. “I will check de Man later,” he said to companion, a slight nod to Arleen as he heading down the path. Still naked and partially hidden by the waterfalls, the rope-tight man introduced himself as Ras Nature, and said she could take his pictures as long as she agreed to have dinner with him. He was a natural pose and with as perfect a body as any she had ever seen. Half an hour later, the sun having suddenly dropped behind the falls, Arleen, confident she had gotten some great shots, thanked Ras Nature. “Just so you plan to leave I-man,” he implored, arms opened in question, shoulders raised. Unsure if that was his way of asking for money to be compensated for his time, Arleen quickly thought of what would be an appropriate amount. She hadn’t carried her purse, but she had about $50 in her camera bag. “What were you thinking?” she asked as an opening. He was scrutinizing her, probably trying to assess how much he can extract from me, Arleen thought. “Well, first of all, you have to come check de water. Dis is healing water. “ Arleen had managed to stay dry the entire time, and although flustered, was thinking about enjoying a nice long shower when she returned to the hotel. She got closer and stuck out her hand. “So is what dat? A little wet hand. No man. De dawta need to throw of she clothes and come and be baptized in de Falls,” Ras Nature declared, laughing. “I don’t think so,” Arleen said. “Maybe another time.” She could feel him looking at her, sizing her up. “Oh, is so? You think you might slip and I-man might take advantage of you.” Arleen smiled. “Actually, it’s the other way around. I might take advantage of you.” “Den come in nuh, and let’s see who tek advantage of who?” He posed it like a question.
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Lathered With Fruits Opal Palmer Adisa
They stared at each other, then Arleen pulled the tee-shirt over her head, unhooked her bra, unsnapped her jeans and pulled it down her legs, along with her G-string. Ras Nature held out his hand, to balance her and pointed to the rock on which she should step. The water was colder than she had imagined so she squealed. “Easy dawta, easy. I-man go give you a good rub down so your pores open up and de water can wash all de stress from yu body.” Arleen stood under the falls trembling while Ras Natures picked some leaves and vigorously scrubbed her body. His hands were a balm and rubbed and massage her shoulders, back, buttocks, breasts, and belly, which he kissed, before moving to her thighs, calves and feet. He moved slowly, unhurriedly, scrubbing, massaging and kneading her entire body that made her butter flow. Then using only his middle and index fingers he expertly massaged her inner thighs, and entire groin area. Arleen felt light headed as the water beat on her shoulders, and Ras Nature pressed his chest to her back, and hugged her tightly around the waist, pulling her into him, her buttocks nestled in the elbow of his crotch, and so they stood, her arms folded across her waist holding his wrists, not wanting him to ever let go, even when she noticed stars in the sky, and her body tremored and quivered. He patted her down with his towel, and then dried himself. She pulled on her clothes, retrieved her camera bag, and he led her like a blind child out the path near the entrance that the guard has said she could exit, but which she was certain she would not have been able to find on her own in the dark. Once on the street, she looked around to get her bearing, but knew she was completely lost. Ras Nature wound the towel around his hair that dripped; her tee shirt was already partially wet from her sodden hair. Holding her hand like it was the most natural thing to do, as if they had known and had been intimate with each other for a long time, Arleen relaxed, leaning into Ras Nature as they wound their way through various back streets, and men, women and children greeting Ras Nature warmly. Finally they approached a main street, and this was the first thing he said to her since they left the falls. “So whe de highness staying?” She was so intoxicated by him she could not think of the name of the hotel, even though it was an obvious one, Hibiscus or Bougainvillea, but she had it in her phone, which she had tucked into her camera bag before entering the falls, and which Ras Nature had been carrying. While she looked for the name of the hotel, Ras Nature rushed across the road to hail one of his taxi driver friends. He returned in the car, hopped out, open the door and put her in the back and sat up front with his friend. Arriving at the hotel, he opened the door for her, pressed her against the car and squeezed his body into hers. “Yu is a real sweetness; yu come here to mash up I-man’s head,” he said, looking her dead in the eye and cradling her chin. She wanted to close her eyes and feel his lips on her, but he took both her hands and kissed them, the backs and palms. “So how much time yu need to unwind before me Idren pick you up?” he inquired. “Pick me up? Where are we going? “Don’t fret yourself. Just be ready.”
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Lathered With Fruits Opal Palmer Adisa
After giving Ras Nature her cell number and taking his, and getting the Idren’s name, Linford, and his cell number, Arleen reluctantly went to her room, the butter of her crotch so hot and thick she was certain it burned a hole in her jeans. Spread eagle, naked on the hotel bed, Arleen scanned the images of Ras Nature on her camera and brought herself to completion Wearing the only mid-length skirt she brought, with an avocado green top, trimmed with lace, Arleen got in front with Linford, who nodded approvingly. She felt giddy like a teenager on her first date. She wanted to stop to buy something, wine or rum, but Linford with finality said. “No boda wid dat. De self is enough for Ras N.” Twenty minutes later, Lanford pulled up to a gate and beeped his horn three times. A Few minutes later, a figure appeared, and when he stepped into the light she recognized Ras Nature, hair in a knitted hat, wearing a green tee-shirt, almost the color of her blouse, with a rooster on it, and baggy charcoal shorts that fell below his knee. His smile was a star as he came around and opened the door for her. They embraced, and as his hand moved gently from the top of her head to her back, she felt comforted. His house consisted of one large, round room that he said he built himself, surrounded by a veranda. There was a narrow rectangular hallway that led to the bathroom on one side and a small kitchen almost opposite. He hand-fed her roasted snapper, with vegetable, the names of which, she did not know. They drank passion fruits, with a little sensi for flavor, he added. They ate and talked and laughed, and leaned into one another, then later slept spooned, his nakedness feeling like second skin. They made love, but not with genital penetration, their connection was love making – how in the morning he fed her papaya from his mouth to hers, and they drank fresh cocoa from the same coconut cup; she watched him peel the sugar cane with his teeth, then licked the juice that ran down his chin and arms; the way he massaged her calves with lime and bay leaf to keep the mosquitoes away; the glow in his eyes when he looked at her; the rustle of his voice and how it raised the tiny hairs on the back of her neck; the tingle in her groin when they clasped fingers; the melting of her body when he pulled her into him from behind, his hands firm on her waist; all the new fruits he gave her to taste; the myriad paths where he took her, the many different people to whom he introduced her, bathing naked with him, often in public, at falls, rivers, streams, their bodies like magnets, their mouths like suction cups filled with the unadorned sweetness of bellapples. Although her butter ran unchecked for the four days she spent with him, and when she fondled him, he was mahogany wood in her palms, he was disciplined and said if she came back, when she came back then “Dat would be time enough for fa a true consummation,” and to her surprised it felt absolutely right, even though she ached to feel him hard inside her and have their bodies glued by perspiration. With Linford as the driver, and Ras Nature as her tour guide Arleen got some of the best shots she had ever gotten on one photo shoot, shots she knew were beyond the magazine for which she free-lanced, shots deserving a show, including the hundreds she took of Ras Nature, he being so easy and natural and accommodating, never shy or reluctant to pose whenever and wherever she requested. She also loved the ones she did of both of them, in his bed and by the falls, forgetting the timer and the camera, their chemistry
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Lathered With Fruits Opal Palmer Adisa
evident. Never before had she hungered to touch someone as much as she did him. It was constant on both their parts, skin, fingers, lips, eyes, smell, a magnetic urge to consume. Although she understood his logic, she felt hurt that she could not persuade him to accompany her to the airport. Lanford took her, and she hugged him, teary, then he handed her a bag saying, “De man Ras Nature seh dats fah yu – a little memory so dat maybe yu will come back.” As she was running late she did open the bag until she was in the lobby waiting to board the plane. Inside was his green tee-shirt with the rooster imprint, his favorite he had said, smelling of him, bay-leaf and lime, twenty hand-written pages of a book he had shared with her that he was writing on local plants, and a small pointed stone that she had steeped on at the stream and which had grazed her big toe. Holding these items in her hand, her chest heaved and the tears came before she could lock herself in one of the restroom cubicles and cry. Stop being so silly and dramatic she counseled herself. You have only known this man for four days, and you might never see or hear from him again. She didn’t believe her own story, but it helped her to calm down to board the plane, and two rum and cokes later, brightened the smile on her face as she relived the sensation of his hands, lathered with sweetsop, polishing her body, then licking it clean with his tongue.
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