Archive for April, 2021

Live at the Royal Palm Cafe!

Posted in Cultural Matters, Music Reviews with tags on April 28, 2021 by playthell

 

A Rising Star in the Beginning
Soulful Afro-American Arias

Featuring James Brown and the Dew Drops 

What is opera? It is a melodramatic story often dealing with matters of the heart, love stories, especially Italian Opera, which embodies the passion of the romantic people who invented the art form.  Alas, one irreverent wag said opera’s featured “words too silly to say, so they had to be sung,” thereby rescuing the audience from a boring banality by virtue of the magnificent music and marvelous singing, the apex of which is the aria.

It is the moment that everyone waits for with great anticipation, as it features the best singers with the most beautiful complex passages in the score.  Add to this melo-drama, elaborate costumes and sets, occasional dance, and we have the stuff of Opera in its original form as it emerged in 16th century Italy.  In the 19th Century the French elaborated on the art form and “Grand Opera” was born in Paris, a city world famous for artistic innovation.

It is no exaggeration argue that some rhythm and blues performances are a series of arias created by Afro-Americans, whose lyrics are often passionate and clever, as they tell tall tales of love won and love lost. In a classic Rhythm & Blues performance the costumes are elegant, the staging colorful, the singing dramatic, and the choreographed dance moves bewitching…real Black Magic!

The majesty of these shows was captured in the movie The Five Heartbeats,  which resurrected glorious memories from the halcyon days of my youth when I sang bass in the “Dew Drops,” a five man Rhythm& Blues group who sang hit songs by the groups of the day. Our favorite acts were “Harvey and the Moonglows,” “Sonny Till and the Orioles,” “Hank Ballad and the Midnighters,” “Pookie Hudson and the Spaniels,” Jerry Butler and the Impressions,” “The Dells,” “The Penguins,” “Shep and the Limelights,”  “The Five Satins.” and if we sang Gospel our favorite group was “The Soul Stirrers,” which featured first Sam Cooke, and then Lou Rawls and Bobby Womack as lead singers. All of whom went on to become legendary R&B crooners.

 

Harvey and the Moonglows

 

Pookie Hudson and the Spaniels

 

Sam Cook and the Soul Stirrers

 

The Five Royals

 

Ray Charles at the Royal Palm Cafe, Circa 1960

Yes…The Genius Could Also Play Sax

Our paramount goal, aside from the pure joy of singing, was to win the Sunday talent show held at the “Royal Palm Cafe,” in Jacksonville Florida, a major southern City, with a fabulous black community that produced a flourishing black business class that was home to the Afro-American Insurance Company, which insured black families and businesses across the state of Florida, and a black owned medalion cab company with 1000 cabs! For a poignant portrait of this black business class and the community that produced it, read the book: “American Beach.”

And they also owned “The Royal Palm Cafe,” a fabulous supper club with a spacious dance floor that featured live music. As a major venue on the so-called “Chittlen Curcuit,” the black owned theaters, auditoriums and nightclubs that presented the leading Afro-American performing artists of the era, I saw everybody from Count Basie, Dinah Washington and Duke Ellington, to Ray Charles, Big Maybelle and James Brown. I would look around at all the elegantly dressed black, brown and biege beauties and think: “Heaven must be like this!”

While my reveries of those halcyon evenings at the Royal Palm constitute an embarrassment of riches, making it nearly impossible to choose one magic moment over another, without a doubt my most treasured moment at the Royal Palm Cafe was the first time I saw James Brown!

This Dance Floor Was Always Crowded!

The Royal Palm Cafe was Originally the “Two Spot”

 

One of Several Bars

Every Seat Was Taken By Showtime!

 

It was at an evening matinee, where the three best vocal groups were selected to perform in a grand finale to determine the winner of the talent contest, and the winner would be awarded a record deal with a local record company in which the most popular Black Disk Jockey in Jacksonville, and outlying towns for miles around: Johnny Shaw, “The Devils Son-In-Law!” had an interest. So, your record was certain to be played on the hottest radio show in North East Florida.

We were as serious as brain cancer about winning the contest. All the cats in the group could really sing; we were all members of my Aunt Marie’s Choir. A classically trained pianists, organist, and choir master, she taught us to sing the classical European chorales as well as Lieder, and we learned how to sing gospel and R&B in that great conservatory which has produced more musical innovators than the Julliard School: THE BLACK CHURCH!

James Brown came right out of the church: as did everybody from Grand Opera Divas Kathleen Battle and Jyssee Norman, to Jazz masters Max Roach, Dizzy Gellespie and Charlie Parker. Peerless singers such as Aretha Franklin, Ella Fitzgerald, Nancy Wilson, and the genre crossing Diva Jean Carn, as well as the blind musical genius Ray Charles.

The broadly learned and ever insightful Blues Philosopher, Albert Murray, has described Brown as the “blues idiom” equivalent of a “down home” sanctified preacher in his masterpiece on Afro-American music: “Stompin the Blues.” And the emotional ferver JB generates with his electric performances often amounts to a secular revival that inspire our spirits to dance. The night of the finals competition, James Brown was the main attraction!

On this enchanted evening we got to sing with the full house orchestra, and we put on a show. Our three alloted songs were: “When I’m With You,” by Harvey and the Moonglows; “Oh What A Night!” by the Dells, and “This is Dedicated to the One I Love,” by the Five Royals. These are classic Rhythm and Blues love ballads, and unlike the saccharine renditions of the songs on “The Hit Parade” – which celebrated artists like Pat Boone and Rosemary Clooney – if you sang these love songs before a black audience, you damn well better sound like you are REALLY in love. Otherwise, admiration can quickly turn to ridicule, and the performer driven from the stage in a cacophony of course commentary.

We sang together in perfect harmony; it was as if our souls took flight as one. “Blackhead” Bascomb sang the lead on the Moonglow’s tune, his mellow baritone voice conjuring up the sound of the entrancing Harvey Fuqua. “Baby Lumkin” sang the lead on “Oh What a Night!” “Bubba Duck” Jackson, a handsome star running back with a chiseled physique, sang first tenor and could croon in falsetto like Eddie Kendricks and my boy Eddie Holman. When he sang the lead on “This is Dedicated To the One I Love,” falling to his knees on the edge of the stage, tears running down his cheek, induced by the raw onion juice on his handkerchief, which he dabbed in his eyes, the girls went wild!

It was the high point of the competition, yet the “Dew Drops” came in second, and we never abandoned the belief that we had been robbed! We believed we were the he victims of a home town decision, since we were from St. Augustine Florida, 38 miles to the south – the oldest and most beautiful small town in America – they chose there Jacksonville homies over us. We had no doubt that we had iced it. We were sharp county slick dudes, good looking football players in football crazy Florida, and could sing and dance our asses off! We thought we should have won first place,

However, we didn’t stay sad for long, because a few minutes after they announced the contest winners the MC bellowed out: IT’S STAR TIME AT THE ROYAL PALM CAFE! The Maestro struck up the band, and introduced James Brown, who had a big hit on the R&B charts: “Please! Please! Please!” The song that taught a generation of black men how to beg!

A young, really country dude with an athletic physique from Augusta Georgia, which was just up the road, walked onstage decked out in an exquisitely tailored white tuxedo with tails and stared singing “Caldonia!,” which had been a monster hit for Louis Jordan. one of the farthers of R&B and of all that’s called “Rock&Roll.” James started doing the “Mashed Potatoes,” which was the dance of the day, and he lit the place on fire with his spectacular performance!

This was 1956, and that boy blew up like the Goodyear Blimp, mashing potatoes and doing spectacular splits all over the world! Folks even started calling him “The Godfather of Soul,” although Little Richard, Bo Diddly. Loyd Price, Shirley and Lee, Etta Jame, Fats Domino, ,Ray Charles, et al were also right there in the beginning and they were all stars!

I love hearing the great classical singers perform the beautiful arias from the Grand Opera, with their heart wrenching tales of love and loss. Yet watching the great Rhythm & Blues performers, I am reminded of what the canonical American novelists, whom some learned literary wags claim is the first “original American literary voice, “Mark Twain,” said after watching an operatic performance at “La Scala,” then the unquestioned Mecca of the Grand Opera, during a tour of Europe. When asked what he thought of the performance, Twain said in his usual candid fashion: “Well for my money the Europeans can keep their Grand Opera! I’d rather see a good Nigger show any day.  Let the show begin!

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Playthell G. Benjamin

Harlem, New York

April 28, 2001

Click on Links to see the Groups Perform

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAmGtN2f

 

The Mighty Dells  “Oh What a Night!”

 

https://youtu.be/dOrb7py-cgo

 

This is Dedicated to the One I Love – The Five Royals

 

https://youtu.be/y335E8mfBAU

 

Harvey and the Moonglows

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We Won a Battle…..

Posted in Chauvin Convicted on All Counts, Uncategorized with tags , on April 21, 2021 by playthell

Racist Killer Cop Escorted to Jail

But We Could Still Lose the War!

After watching the masterful case put on by the prosecution, with airtight arguments by a variety of expert witnesses establishing the guilt of Chauvin in the murder of George Floyd last May 25 – which ruined my birthday – I wondered what would happen if this killer white cop were acquitted, or even if there was a hung jury.  Considering the rage I felt at the thought of either outcome, I shuddered for the fate of my country when I reflected upon what enraged youths might do.  As I felt like throwing a Molotov cocktail at a police station, and I am not anti-police.  I think talk about abolishing the police, or disarming them, is reckless folly.

Given the rampages of armed criminals, especially in low income black and Latin communities, either alternative would be suicidal.  We need armed police, we just need to weed out the ignorant racists, and see to it that they protect and serve law abiding citizens and shoot armed criminals who pose a danger to citizens or themselves.  And the struggle to achieve these ends continues.

Hence, I think the celebrations after the guilty verdict against the former cop turned convict, may have claimed a greater victory than was won.  Some observers, such as Dr. Jason Johnson, a professor of political science and journalism at Morgan State University, in the troubled city of Baltimore, thought the celebrations excessive, because the outcome of this case might prove a pyric victory that could be an asset to the reactionary forces opposing wider police reform.

His fear is that the effusive praise of a verdict, won after the extraordinary efforts of the prosecution, obscures the fact this this should have been an open and shut case, a prima facie case of guilt.  After all, the whole world watched the murder in living color on television, thanks to the diligence and courage of the new breed of citizen journalists like 17-year-old Danella Frazier, armed with cell phone cameras, who are recording police brutality in on the scene.  However, while Johnson’s fear of the real possibility that this case will be used to oppose wider efforts at police reform has merit, Joyce Vance, a former federal prosecutor and professor of Law at the University of Alabama, believes that this guilty verdict will act as “a deterrent” to future police abuse of power.

Yet the real test of the importance of this case will be decided by the extent to which it is able to influence the passage of the George Floyd Justice in Policing Act, which is being debated in the US Senate as I write.  This bill contains a package of reforms that will put the full force of the federal government behind the victims of police abuse of authority, putting an end to it.  This is of critical importance because it will create a uniform standard for police conduct nationwide, removing the disciplining of abusive officers from the incestuous snake pit of local politics.

The history of racial oppression in the former Confederate states in the South demonstrates the effectiveness of federal power in pursuing racial justice.  In the aftermath of the Civil War, the defeated southern slave masters and their poor cracker dupes – who had fought and died to preserve a system of slave labor that denied them any chance of achieving better working conditions and wages for themselves because they were competing with unpaid labor that had no rights – attempted to re-enslave the black population with a series of hastily passed laws that became known as the “Black Codes.”

Andrew Johnson, the anti-Confederate white southerner that became president after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, opposed slavery precisely for the role it played in impoverishing the class of white southerners from which he hailed, but was a devout white supremacist, and opposed efforts by Congress to empower the freedmen – as the newly emancipated former slaves were called.  This provoked congress, led by anti-slavery members such as Thaddeus Stevens of Pennsylvania in the House, and Charles Sumner of Massachusetts in the Senate, to take over the rebuilding of the nation from the ruins of Civil War and introduce a plan for “Radical Reconstruction.”

During this period 1866- 76 the Congress passed seven Civil Rights bills and added three amendments to the constitution. The 13, 14 and 15 Amendments, known as the “Reconstruction Amendments, were designed to end chattel slavery permanently, confer citizenship and equal rights on the Freedman, and extend the voting franchise to them, giving them a vote in deciding who shall govern them.  The results of these federal laws dramatically elevated the status of the Freedman.

However, most of these gains were nullified with the retreat of federal protections beginning with the Compromise in the Presidential election of 1877, and a series of defeats in the Supreme Court culminating in Plessy v. Ferguson in 1896, which stood the crucial Equal Protection Clause of the 14th Amendment on its head, and created the legal basis for racial segregation everywhere in the US, with it’s infamous “Separate but Equal” doctrine.

This doctrine quickly resulted in the creation of a legal racial caste that was separate but manifestly unequal, until the Brown v The Board of Ed decision of 1954 – argued by the brilliant Afro-American litigator Thurgood Marshall and his team of lawyers from the NAACP – resulted in a unanimous decision by the Supreme Court that “Separate is inherently unequal.”  Yet it took the Omnibus Civil rights Bill of 1964 and the Voting rights Act of 1965, to restore Afro-American Americans to the status we had enjoyed in 1875!

As I write, the spate of voter suppression laws being passed by Republican controlled legislatures around the country – a reaction to their defeat by Democrats in the last election with the Afro-American vote making the difference – in conjunction with “anti-riot” laws cropping up in some states, threatens a similar reversal of hard-won gains. This is why federal protections from official police violence is critical to the well being and progress of Afro-Americans. The prevention of such protections have been consistently  opposed by racists, which is the paramount reason for our failure to get an anti-law on the books for a century; the most recent attempt championed by Afro-American senators Cory Booker and Kamala Harris – who has since become the first female Vice President –  was defeated in the Senate just a couple of years ago.

This is why the struggle must now focus on getting the Senate to pass the Bill sent up from the House, which was vociferously opposed by House Republicans, as is exemplified by the rancorous debate between that pugnacious pasty-faced charlatan Jim Jordan, a Republican from Ohio, and beautiful, brilliant Val Demings – of Florida, a former police chief with 27 years in policing. Beauty and the beast! Hence the true measure of the Victory in the Chauvin conviction will ultimately be determined by the outcome of the George Floyd Justice in Policing Act.  I will have more to say about the trial itself, and what it tells us about the state of American jurisprudence in a forthcoming essay.

 

JUBLIATION!

They Thanked Everybody from God to the Jurors

*********************

Playthell G. Benjamin
Harlem, New York
April 21, 2001

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Harlem Darky’s Daughter

Posted in Uncategorized on April 19, 2021 by playthell
 
The Embodiment of Oshun

 Reveries of a Caribbean Conjure Woman

An Erotic Fable

Sweet T&T/My Country/I want you to know….I love you 

She loved to Jump up and wind to sensuous Calypso beats, flashing a joyous smile as luminous as the Caribbean sun.  Her generously proportioned ebony physique was molded into dangerous curves that drove men, wise men and fools, and some women, to distraction.  Silky satiny chocolate skin, luscious lips that begged a kiss, high cheekbones surrounding a prominent nose revealing her Afro-Carib genealogy, jutting mammary mounds and jaunting  Gluteus Maximus – tits and ass in spades – with long curvaceous legs worthy of a star mud kickin ho.

She spoke with the melodious mellifluous sing song sounds of her enchanted island of the Three Peaks, sounds so sweet it put the song birds to shame as the took to the skies in silence.  Indeed, even the forces of nature seemed bewitched by her charms.  And no man who ever loved her, that she deigned to love back, was ever free of her spell; she constantly intruded into their waking thoughts causing pauses as they went about their labors….and even invaded their dreams.  Only the grave could free their body and souls from her black magic.

This is no mere hearsay, idle chatter, or second-hand gossip.  I know whereof I speak, for I been bewitched by the conjurations of this mahogany Enchantress, the natural issue from the luscious ebony lions of the intoxicatingly beautiful “Harlem Darkie;” a soubriquet bestowed by her village, because her extravagantly seductive beauty seemed made for that marvelous Negro metropolis in uptown Manhattan – center of that seductive colossus in the decadent dynamic wilderness of North America – the most famous cultural community in Babylon.  Harlem, a place of such legendary beauties the world was forced to take notice after the Poet Laureate Langston penned panegyrics to them in his epic poem Harlem Sweeties: ”[Peach-skinned girlie, Coffee and cream, Chocolate darling out of a dream.” And Maestro Ellington painted marvelous musical portraits of them in “Black, brown and Beige  Suite, and “Black and Tan Fantasy.”

Oshun and Yemaya: A Black and Tan Fantasy Jumping up at Carnival

Naughty Trini Gals     

Harlem Darkie’s mysterious beauty evoked all this…and more. Oshun the Conjurer was her daughter, inheriting her gorgeous gams, comely chocolate complexion and lustrous crown of black hair. I am her happy bondsman, permanently fettered by amorous chains. This tale will tell…how I fell under her spell.

Harlem Darkie
Where Oshun Got her Beauty

 It Only took a Minute Girl…

I had only been in my new office for a couple of days when I had the sudden urge to go to the restroom, which was shared by the principal and teachers of a school for young children.  A young man that worked in the building directed me to a stairway and told me the restroom was located at the top, just turn right and I would see the door, which bore a sign.  As I reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up, my eyes immediately fixated on a pair of long, luscious, exquisitely sculpted legs, covered in a rich satiny smooth deep chocolate skin.  As I raised my gaze, I caught a glimpse of generous gams that exploded from a compact waist into curvy baby making hips. And as my eyes continued their upward trajectory while climbing the narrow stairway, her generous breast was suddenly in my face.

I greeted her as we passed and she graciously responded, flashing a quicksilver smile as lovely as first morning light that animated her beautiful face, then quickly casting her lovely brown eyes downward, away from my persistent gaze.  Her voice had the musicality of the Caribbean Isles from whence she came, yet despite her modesty and proper demeanor she was enticingly hot and gave off  sensuous vibes as our bodies nearly touched in passing on the narrow stairs. In a flash of the spirit, I was struck in the heart by Cupid’s arrow…I was smitten.

Dying to know who this dark and lovely woman was, I hasted to my officed and called François, the Haitian fellow who had directed me to the restroom.  “Who is that tall beautiful sexy creature with the exotic accent that works upstairs.”  Without a moment’s hesitation he said, “Oh you must mean Ms. Padmore,” I was intrigued by her name, since it was famous in the Caribbean Isles, and belonged to a hero of the race.  But then he warned, “Yes, she is beautiful, but she is happily married”.

For a moment I was deterred by the disappointing news.  Having come of age in the 1960’s, in the savage wilds of Babylon, a troubled time when the America nation was in turmoil,  when all the traditional values were viewed with a jaundiced eye and up for question, I had not been a  respecter of matrimonial claims.  If I wanted a woman and she was willing,  I just seduced her into an adulterous affair…taking her from her husband altogether on more than one occasion.

Thrice I had been shot at by enraged cuckholds, I was alive to play another day only because they had been bad shots and their hands were trembling with rage, a condition that could cause even a sharpshooter to miss.  As I had grown older and wiser –I was 23 the last time I had been shot  at – and I was reluctant to press my luck.  After all, the next dude might be a cold-blooded killer.  So, I was thinking about chillin on the whole thing…to just play past the charms of this sensuous Caribbean queen who had suddenly appeared in my midst like a generous gift of the Gods.

But then, at the end of the workday, I happened to gaze out of my window and glimpse her walking down the sidewalk.  The graceful swing sway motion with which she moved, her bountiful booty bouncing about like two melons in a grocery sack, she looked like her goody-gap was so good it felt good to her every time she took a step!  I was reminded of that song by the folk blues singer Taj Mahal:” I know you ain’t no street walkin woman…but I sho loves the way you struts yo stuff!” Overcome with wonder/lust, I wanted to taste the juice box of this succulent chocolate delight, literally and figuratively, so I began to devise a plan to seduce her.

 Executing the Plan

 All I knew about the lady whom I was trying to ensnare was her full name, Muriel Padmore; she was married to a prosperous businessman; she was teacher of small children; a Caribbean immigrant; a proper lady in style and manners, the kind of highly civilized British West Indian that always used her butter knife to push food onto a fork in moderate portions.  And after having witnessed the way she wiggled when she walked, I strongly suspected that just underneath that placid proper prissy surface lurked a voracious sexy beast yearning to be set free. And I intended to be her liberator.

I began by secretly giving her the name Oshun, because she reminded me of the beautiful Yoruba Goddess of erotic love, the West African counterpart of the Roman and Greek Goddesses Venus and Aphrodite.  Muriel seemed to embody the physical attributes of Oshun as I imagined her, with lush sexy curves and a delicious chocolate complexion. I had to have her…so I began plotting.

As with every good plan I had to develop clearly defined objectives.  Early on I decided that I had to distinguished myself from the common lot of salivating dogs who must come sniffing around such a stunning sexy woman.  Which means that I could not come at her with cliched pick-up pitches.   Hence, I decided to present myself as a gentleman and scholar.  Since that was one of the things I was, it seemed a role to which I was born.  I also wanted to distinguish myself from the common lot of “ignorant arrogant Yankees,” whose ignorance of her country and its impressive culture was insulting.   And my hope was that this would make her curious about me, and thirsty to know more.  I figured if I couldn’t win with that, I should get outta the game.

With the plan at hand, I set to work, a seasoned wolf of great experience in hot pursuit of a succulent innocent lamb.  The next time I saw Oshun she was on her way to work.  I walked up to her and greeted her.  She looked pleasantly surprised when I said cheerily , “ Good Morning Ms. Trinidad.”  “ Good Morning,” she replied in that lovely Trini accented voice accompanied by an incandescent smile that could brighten up a dark day.  “I am a big fan of your country.”  “Really, how so?” she asked with a hint of skepticism.  “Well, I love your music; I believe Calypsonians are the greatest song poets in the world. And I have been tutored and greatly inspired by some of your leading intellectuals.”

Her skepticism became palpable as she said, “Well that’s a surprise because you are the first Yankee I’ve met who even knows where my country is…if they heard of Trinidad at all….So who are these intellectuals that enlightened and inspired you?”   There was a put up or shut up quality to her question.  She was going to see if there was anything more than mother wit and bullshit with me.  But little did she know, she had taken the bait and was strolling right into my tender trap.

“Well, there are three in particular, and they have had a great influence on how I see the world politically, economically and historically.  George Padmore was the first, his book “Pan-Africanism or Communism” pretty much shaped how I view the anti-colonial struggle for the independence of African nations.  And CLR James’s book “Black Jacobins,” where he brilliantly analyzes the Haitian Revolution against French slave holders, greatly expanded my knowledge of the three great 18th century revolutions – the American, French and Haitian – events that changed the world.  CLR showed how they were all inspired by the same set of universal humanist ideas.  It was a brilliant insight.

Once I discovered this brilliant original thinker, I went on to read many other works by James. Including his brilliant analysis of the Mighty Sparrow’s Calypso’s and how West Indians created their version of Cricket, a game I had always thought of as the epitome of the boring style of the British upper class.  And then there was the singularly important book by your former Prime Minister, the great historian Dr. Eric Williams, “Slavery and Capitalism.”

This book changed the way the whole world understands the birth of the capitalist system, and how the Industrial Revolution in England, which ushered in the modern industrial age, was financed by the African slave trade…the sale of our ancestors as if they were livestock.  This book helped me to see that all black communities in the Americas were created by the same historical forces, and that we are one people with different flavors.”

As I expounded on my analysis, in answer to her question, I could see her facial expression transform from skepticism, to surprise, to wonder as she broke into a gushing smile and said: “Wow!  You really do know a LOT about Trinidadian intellectuals, I have certainly received a quick education this morning.  Not only have I never met a Yankee that knew as much as you on this subject, I can’t think of any Trinidadians either.  That was very impressive Mr. America!  Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, but I have to get to work now.”  I gently kissed her hand and assured her, “We’ll talk again Ms. Trinidad,”  “I’ll be looking forward to it Mr. America.”

As I watched her walk away in with that sensual swing sway motion, I saw her look back and flash a teasing nice/nasty smile that promised a visit to paradise, where I would come to know here as Adam knew Eve.  I felt like break dancing…spinning on my head and shit.  But I just maintained my cool, certain that I had achieved my objectives.  I distinguished myself from the run of the mill Yankees; established myself as a gentleman and scholar in her eyes; sparked her curiosity and left her thirsty to know more about this bold and unusual Yankee.  I was convinced it wouldn’t be long before I lured her into my bed…It was pretty much a done deal.

The Long Beg!

It soon became clear that Oshun was a different breed of woman from the multitude that had gone before her.  The promise of her sensuous voice and alluring smile turned out to be illusionary, although she became more flirty and friendly…she wasn’t letting me see or feel any parts of that pussy.  I began to believe, after six weeks of persistent efforts, that this was going to be a protracted struggle.  But I didn’t have a clue what a mighty trek it would be.

Although I was convinced Oshun was a hottie, I would soon discover that she was also a “Dorothy Do Right” a very faithful wife.  She was flirtatious enough to keep me hanging on, making no attempt to disguise the fact that she found me something of a charming “Yankee scamp,” but she had not the slightest intention of going further…she didn’t intend to even give me a peek at the pussy. But the sunshine smiles and teasing banter was quite enough to keep me hangin on…if that’s all I would ever get from her…the cheap thrills were more than worth the effort.  So, I decided to adopt a policy of wearing her down with persistence, after all, I had lots of time, everything to gain…and nothing to lose.

Every time I saw her, I found a clever way to beg Oshun for some pussy.  Having grown up listening to great Soul singers like Ray Charles and James Brown, I knew how to beg.  Anybody who had listened to Ray sing “OH Come Back Baby” and “Drown in My Own Tears,” or James Brown shouting “Please, Please, Please” could learn how to beg if they paid close attention to these masters.  I had to be artful with it though, I didn’t want to say something that turned her smiles into frowns and drive her away.  I played it so cool I damned near slipped into a state of suspended animation.

My task of seduction was made immeasurably lighter by the discovery that Oshun was moved by the intoxicating alchemy of well-spoken words.  For me, this was like throwing Brer Rabbit in the briar patch!  For I was a master of the spoken word:  In the streets, the suites and…especially the sheets.  I had wowed crowds around the world, so I was qualified to blow soul in her ear til she was satisfied.   Thus, I stuck to my plan and put the beg on Oshun every time I saw her…composing witty panegyrics to her myriad charms on the spot, original lines, whose cleverness and spontaneity always elicited some of the brightest smiles in town.  And that was more than enough to keep me in pursuit, with my eyes firmly fixed on the pulchritudinous prize.

Alas, as the days extended to weeks, and the weeks became months it became harder and harder to find original ways to beg for pussy.  Afraid of sounding like a broken record stuck on stupid, I began to vary my approach and just tell her how great she was looking, how I admired her outfits and other small talk.  I would have retired from the chase altogether if it were not for those flirty fresh smiles that seemed to promise better days ahead.  And besides, the more I saw her the more convinced I became that she was really special…and if there was any chance at all it would be worth the wait.  But after nine months of persistent effort employing different tactics, I was running out of game…and hope.

Oshun had long passed the six weeks limit for most women, and the 90-day maximum for even very special ones.  The truth be told, I usually had my way with women I really wanted in much less time that the deadline.  But Oshun, Dorothy Do-Right that she was, seemed as cold and unmovable as an iceberg.  Perhaps calling her “cold” is an inartful way of describing her attitude.  Although she appeared impervious to my sexual advances, Oshun was always warm to me, greeting my attempts to seduce her into an adulterous liaison with shy smiles and teasing eyes.  And she never showed a hint of anger…or disgust.  That would have killed my dreams and ended my fruitless efforts mucho pronto. When my hopes of having my way with her seemed most remote, I would think of what the old folks in Florida would say when I was a boy: ”Good things will come to those who wait”…So I waited.

Yet things were not all downers, there where some bright moments that buoyed my spirits, fortified my spirit, and inspired confidence that my efforts would eventually bear fruit.  For instance, there was the magical night of the New Moon.  When Autumn came to New York and the days became shorter, there were days when darkness fell before we left work.  One evening we both left the building at the same time; it was a purely chance encounter and it turned out that we were going in the same direction.  She was on her way home, and I was walking to the bus stop three blocks away.

As we strolled along the tree lined sidewalks of Crown Heights, the silver light of the moon seeped through the leafy canopies and seemed to dance off Oshun’s beautiful ebony complexion, hovering around her beautiful face like a halo.  She looked every bit the black magic woman immortalized in song, like the Goddess Oshun, I felt like genuflecting before her alter even as the throbbing bulge in my britches grew.

As I fixed my gaze upon her sensuous lips, painted in glossy purple lipstick, they seemed to invite a kiss.  I thought she felt it too from the coy way she looked at me, and the warm smiles that animated her face as her eyes met mine in lingering gazes.  There were several dark spots under the elms that seemed perfect places to poach a kiss.  But that would have been a daring move and I didn’t want to press my luck.

Yet it required every iota of will power I could muster to restrain the powerful impulse to sweep her up in my arms and plant a deep wet kiss on her sensuous mouth,  sucking her tongue into mine.  But I chilled and cautiously played past the moment, although she would later admit that had I made a move to kiss her it would have been welcomed with a passionate response.  We never touched physically, nor spoke nary a word about sex…yet our conversation was a highly stimulating mindfuck.  It was more than enough to keep my hopes of entering the promised land alive.

**************

Since Oshun was a happily married woman, I thought the best I could hope for was a fling. I, of course, was not suffering from a paucity of willing female admirers.  And I was in a relationship with two ladies, one of whom lived in another state that competed for my affection.  I was fond of them both, but suffice it to say, had Oshun been available, and I had my druthers, I would have wifed her faster than Hopalong Cassidy could draw his guns! However, one of the ladies gave me an ultimatum, piss or get off the pot, marry her or forget about her.

She was not willing to wait for me ad infinitum, she was a beautiful, educated woman and did not suffer for male attention.  In fact, she was quite a catch in her on right.  Since Oshun was not available and would never be for any sort of permanent union, I decided to tie the knot.  However, when I told Oshun that I would be leaving the job, and getting married, her response surprised me.

At first, she looked shocked, but quickly composed herself then smiled and congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials…but it did not seem sincere…her body language suggested disappointment, and a bit of anxiety.  It caught me off guard, I thought she would be happy because I would finally be off her case.  And we could have the Platonic relationship she seemed to desire, just be buddies.  I don’t think I have ever misread a situation so badly.

 A Great Leap Forward

 I was married within a week, and I didn’t see Oshun with the regularity of the past because I was tying up my affairs, finishing some projects, before I left my job for other interests, and would no longer have an office in the building where Oshun worked.  In fact, I was preparing to move out of the borough of Brooklyn, altogether for greener pastures in glamorous Manhattan, in fact, I was moving to beautiful crib in Harlem!  And I was looking forward to building a wonderful life with my new wife.

Except for the ceremony, married life didn’t seem that different, because my wife and I had been living together for months, as she had gotten a good job in New York and moved in with me.  So, life went on as before, except that she now had “papers” on me and everything I had was hers.  I had had more than my share of beautiful women in my lifetime – black, white, and tan – English and Spanish speakers.  Hence, I was quite prepared to commit myself to my wife completely, forsaking the myriad temptations of shameless succulent wenches, who held the bonds of matrimony in no higher regard than I had when I seduced the wives of unsuspecting husbands.

As there are exceptions to every rule, Oshun would prove to be the exception to my new rule.  Strangely, after I was married Oshun became friendlier than ever.  It seemed as if her voice grew more melodious and seductive, her eyes swept lazily over me from, my cranium to my phalanges as if she were appraising a prize stallion.  And her playful flirting grew.

As a seasoned Master Cocksman, I could feel when a woman was radiating erotic vibes toward me, and I was feeling Oshun with a growing intensity whenever I had been in her presence lately.  I wondered if it was just my imagination, but then, I had reconciled myself to the belief that nothing was happening with her.  So why would I be fantasizing about her secretly lusting for me?  After all I had given her countless opportunities to say yes to my passionate lust for her.

Oshun’s growing effervescence was puzzling.  But affairs of the heart often defy logic, and the ways of women are a mystery to men.  It would not be long before the truth would out, as the old adage promises.  One sunny day just as Spring had sprung, and perfumed flowers had begun to bloom, I encountered Oshun walking to work later than usual, and I was walking in the opposite direction having just left my office.  And it set off a chain of events that rocked our worlds.

One of the many splendid joys of Spring is that the warm weather causes the ladies to shed their heavy winter garments and adorn their bodies in colorful sheer fabrics that reveal contours of their bodies…whether they are stacked with lovely, sensuous curves, or piled with ungainly fat.  Oshun was stacked for days: She had it all.  Usually if a woman has a fine generously proportioned booty, she has skinny legs or small boobs, or both.  And if she has luscious legs, she will often have a flat booty – like many East Asian women.

If a woman has big boobs, she will often be top heavy and suffer from lackabooty syndrome.  And she may or may not have spindly legs.  Alas, it is the rare female specimen that has all three in generous finely sculpted endowments.  Oshun was that rarest of beautiful women: she had it all in exquisite proportions.  She did not have the buffed body of an athlete or dancer, but a firm fine female body built for loving and bearing children.  My kinda woman!

On this fine Spring day Oshun wore a white dress with high heels that made her look good enough to eat.  Her smooth ebony skin was accented by the white garments she wore, and when the sunlight hit her dress from certain angles you could see the outline of her lush curves.  The very sight of this sable siren nearly took my breath away. As soon as I could get myself together, I said to her as we walked closer to each other: “Good Morning Miss Trinidad, my aren’t you the perfect picture of Spring…in any field of flowers you would easily be the most beautiful of them all!”

“Good Morning Mr. America!” she gushed; her face animated with sunshine smiles bright enough to illuminate the dark corners of human character.  “My goodness, you always know just what to say to make a lady feel great!”  Oshun’s proclamation was made with such enthusiasm, as she passed me by hurrying to meet her class, a Caribbean cutie of the deepest chocolate hue walking a few paces behind her whispered, “That’s a hell of a recommendation mister,” and slipped me her card as we passed.

I looked back at them as they walked away, and the spectacle could easily have been billed as “The Battle of the Booties,” as they were both built like the ladies in the Commodores hit song “Brickhouse!”  Although the dark and lovely stranger’s gesture was flattering, I was a happily married man…smitten by a Goddess, and that might be more than I could handle.

The last thing on my mind was initiating a peccadillo with a third woman…if it were not for the fact that I was bewitched by Oshun, I would have been like Caesar’s wife: “pure as the driven snow.”   Pussy bullying rogue that I that I had been, I was now committed to doing the right thing, to be true to my wife.  But, alas, try as I might, I could muster no armaments to defend against the charms and conjurations of the Goddess.

****************

Later that day, upon returning to my office to retrieve some papers I had forgotten, I had a chance encounter with Oshun as I was leaving the building.  She seemed genuinely excited to see me.  “Good Afternoon Mr. America, what a surprise to see you here.  I thought you had left for the day…I noticed your office was locked up.” She said in that manner of speaking that I called “genuine West Indian eloquence.”  It was a cross between upper-class British speech seasoned with the cadences and phonetics of the local Patois.

I found it quite lovely and endearing; I loved to hear her speak, especially when she spoke directly to me, embellished with that million-dollar smile.  “Well Ms. Trinidad, my eyes demanded that I treat them to another feast, so naturally I came back to get another peek at a chocolate delight dressed in white.”  “Oh, go way mon,” she said with a chuckle and wave of her hand. “If I listened to you my head would be so big I would have trouble holding it up.”  “I’m just an honest umpire in the game of life, I’m just calling it like I see it…keepin it ‘Cricket’ as you bourgeois West Indians say.”

My clumsy Yankee attempt to reference Cricket, a popular sport among British West Indians, was met with a gale of laughter. I loved it when she laughed…it was something of a thrill.  I had it bad for this wonderful woman…and that wasn’t good, given the fact that from all appearances we would never be more than friends.  Still, it was like walking on air as I escorted her to her car.

Having moved out of the neighborhood Oshun was now driving to work, and she offered me a ride.  “Can I drop you somewhere Mr. America?”  “Why thank you Miss Trinidad, but you know what I would really like?  Let’s take a spin through Prospect Park on the way.  It’s such a beautiful day, and there is no better place to see mother Nature in bloom in this city of  concrete and steel.”  “That’s a splendid idea Mr. America, I am in no hurry so let’s do it.”

While the popular image of New York City in the minds of those elsewhere is of a paved-over place with too many people, a “concrete jungle,” the City is actually very green in many places.  And it  has many parks, especially Central Park in Manhattan, and Prospect Park in Brooklyn.  Both were designed by the same prescient planner, Frederick Law Olmstead, who was fascinated by London’s Hyde Park and the great parks of Paris, Berlin, and other European cities.

A visionary landscape architect who was also a journalist, social critic, and public administrator, Olmstead saw that in order for cities to work, given the contradictions arising from a widening gap in the distribution of wealth, and the disparity in living conditions  in 19th century American cities, there needed to be public spaces where all classes could meet as equals, a sanctuary for Mother Nature amidst the miles of concrete.

Here, surrounded  by the singing of birds, lush green meadows and perfumed flowers, one could dress up in Sunday go to meeting clothes and promenade through Central Park, with no one able to tell if the strollers hailed from overcrowded squalid tenements on the lower East Side, or the grand townhouses and palatial mansions of Fifth Avenue.  In the creation of Central Park, along with its Brooklyn counterpart, Olmstead achieved his dream magnificently.

Entering Prospect Park

Prospect Park at the Birth of Spring

We Were Bewitched by the Beauty of Mother Nature

As we drove leisurely through Prospect Park, the bouquets of blooming flowers tickling our noses, we were treated to the many splendors of Springtime.  The sparkling sunshine created a sheen on Oshun’s mahogany face and magnified her beauty.  She had raised the hem of her dress slightly above her knees so that she could easily access the brakes.  Sitting beside her in the front seat I had a perfect view of her long, smooth, exquisitely curvaceous legs.  She looked so sexy I got such a boner that it felt about to pop outta my pants.  And it was becoming uncomfortable because I am big boned.  I tried my best to maintain my cool , but Oshun was looking so good I had to speak on it.

“You always look great Miss Trinidad, I believe you would be stunning in a flour sack, but you just look extra special fine today.  The designer and manufacturer should pay you a generous fee for wearing it.  The fact is that it would look rather ordinary on the average woman, but it looks spectacular on you!”

“ Oh, thank you Mr. America,” she said with a coquettish smile, “but I bet you chat up all the ladies with your silver tongue.”

All of a sudden, an idea popped into my head and I decided to take a chance and really go for it…to make a bold move.  I thought about the fact that we had become friends and at worst she would admonish me to cease and desist…but then, things might break my way…who could say.   So, I decided to fire from the top and shoot my best shot, and like Mellin told Snellin wasn’t no tellin.

As a teacher I felt she would at least see the humor in my maneuver, and that was in my favor.

“Do you believe that the scientific method is the best means of discovering truth.  Miss Trinidad?

“Of course, science is a fool proof method, which is to say it will produce the same results wherever it is employed to solve a problem.  Why do you ask?”

“Because the things I tell you about the way you excite me is a scientific fact, and I  can prove it.”

“Well prove it then, you talk a lot, but where is your proof,” she said with a playful show me attitude.”

“ You understand that the heart of the scientific method is the careful observation and examination of hard evidence, right?”

“Righto,” she said flippantly.

Without further comment I whipped out my rock-hard cock and announced:” Well here is the hard evidence Miss Trinidad, and you may observe and examine it as much as you require to satisfy any doubts you may have about its authenticity.”  I held my throbbing Rod of Correction in my hand and then released it to stand boldly on its own so the Oshun could get a full gander at it and waited for her to respond with bated breath.”

She looked over and gasped loudly when she saw it, her eyes widened, and she shrieked with genuine astonishment. “Oh Gosh man…you are CRAAZZZY!”  Yet she could not take her eyes off my generously proportioned finely carved chocolate tool.  “Oh, My Goodneesss, you are really CRAZY!”  She said as she continued to observe the evidence.  I noticed that Osun was laughing as she spoke, and she was staring so intently she damned near ran off the road.

 “You better watch where you are going girl!  Let me put this sugarcane away before you smash up the car and kill us both,” I said, as I put my rigid Johnson  bar back in my pants.

Still laughing incredulously, she said “Sugarcane?”  That’s a Guyana cane Mon.”  And she laughed heartily, “You are really Craaazy…I can’t think of anybody else who would do such a outrageous thing!”

She said as she continued to crack up laughing.  But what struck me most about this moment, was that there wasn’t a hint of anger.  I knew then that all things were possible.  So, I told her to drive over to the gallery of composers, a special place in Prospect park where the busts of great European classical composers’ repose on pedestals.  It was a perfect setting, because as she set her gaze my way, it was as if a chorus of viols began to play – Violin, Viola, and Cello – all sang a romantic rhapsody in perfect harmony…it was the ideal background sound for my next move.

As we strolled among the musical icons, I suddenly swept Oshun up in my arms and planted a deep wet kiss on her mouth, she responded by slithering her tongue in my mouth.  And as we swapped slobs, her leg slipped between mine and her percolating sugar pussy was pressing right up on my swollen soul pole and I began to slowly grind on it.  Things could not have turned out better, because I was a master of the art of grinding…

Back in the day, when I was in high-school, and dry fucking was all the pussy you was gonna get – unless you got lucky and she let you play “stink finger” – the gals nick-named me “Dr. Coffee,” cause I grind so fine.  The feeling  got so good we lost our heads and was oblivious to the fact that we were in a public place.

“Well, Mr. America, what now?”

“You just follow my lead Ms. Trinidad, cause this is the start of something really big.”

Stealing Kisses under the Master’s Gaze

What wonderful music our budding romance could have inspired….

Osun had a winsome smile on her face as she drove me home.  Several times I took her willing hand and placed it on my throbbing dick, reminding her: “This is all yo fault Miss Trinidad.”  She rubbed and squeezed it firmly, while feigning innocence:

”How, me cause such a ting mon, I jes an innocent woman  mindin she business!  Is you that mek trouble, pulling that treacherous black snake out on me with no warning.”

“Oh, you know you like it,” I said as she conducted a hands on examination of the abundant evidence.   By the way, you said I had a Guyana Cane, what did you mean by that?”

She smiled coyly and said: ”Well there are sugar cane farms all over the Caribbean, but Guyana, which is just 8 miles off the coast of Trinidad in South America, is famous for growing the hardest, thickest, sweetest cane of them all.” She chuckled, as she negotiated the traffic with one hand and squeezed my Guyana cane with her free hand.  I liked the sound of it, “Guyana cane.”

As we approached my building, she removed her hand and assumed a prissy proper school momish  demeanor.  I didn’t tarry long, after all who knows what unseen obscene eyes were gazing upon us.  So, I quickly told her.

“Thanks for the ride and the company beautiful. But I think it is past time that we met in private, where we can really explore each other and see what this thing is about that’s been vibing between us all this time.   What say ye?”

“Sounds good to me.  If  you have a place where we can meet just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.  Just give me a couple of days’ notice.”

“No Problem Sweetie, I have a cousin who has a nice crib right here in Brooklyn.  I’ll hook it up and let you know.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said as she squeezed my hand, “I had a lovely time…the most excitement I’ve had in a while.”

Then she smiled that bewitching smile, a conjuration that made heart flutter, my liver quiver, and my knees freeze.  Transforming me into silly putty in her hands.  She could mold me into whatever she desired.  It was her world…I was just a squirrel…tryna get a nut.

Strangers in Paradise

A few days later I met Oshun after work and we drove over to my cousin Ernest’s crib.  As usual, Oshun was looking fine as vintage wine and I suspected she offered a more potent high.  The red dress she wore accented her rich chocolate skin, which had been buffed to a sheen with coco butter.  The white strapped heels she wore enhanced the curvature of her long legs and was sexy as hell.  I was like a starving man about to finally partake of a fest that I had been salivating over as I watched from outside  the window.  She was in a great mood, as if she had thought it through and was satisfied with her decision.  Whatever that turned out to be.  We had never explicitly said that we were getting together for the express purpose of making love…but it was implicit in everything we did.

It was early evening when we got to Ernest’s crib and the sun was beginning to set, its crimson rays streaked through the windows and amplified the subtle red hues in her ebony skin, an inheritance from her Carib grandpop.  I just sat across the room and stared at her.  I never tired of looking at her, I actually experienced a physical sensation from just staring at her.  It was akin to experiencing eyegasms.  And I had never had the opportunity to just ogle her openly to my heart’s contentdk, looking at her sitting right in front of me with those fabulous legs crossed wearing those “fuck me” shoes.

Instead of jumping her bones as soon as we entered the crib, I wanted to savor her beauty, enjoy the warm titillations of her charm,  swoon to the sound of her sensuous cultivated Caribbean contralto voice, and bask in the sunshine of her smile.  I was in no hurry, I wanted to enjoy every nano-second exploring the luscious feast of a female from head to toe.  I wanted the evening to build in intensity like a crescendo in a great piano concerto.  So, we sat making small talk, skinning and grinning at each other like Cheshire cats from Alice in Wonderland, and just grooving on each other.

It was an enchanted evening, the kind of evening when it seems the God’s are happy in the heavens, the ancestors are pleased, and all is right with the world.  Oshun sat there all prim and proper, every inch the  well- educated Afro-British lady, elegant of style and manners, speaking with the cadenced eloquence  unique to her nation’s oral culture, a tradition in which the well-spoken word is highly prized, and their popular music is epic poetry.  I lit up a splif, and although she had grown up around East Indians – whose ancient Sages had first cultivated Marijuana and called it “The Heavenly Guide,” and “The Poor Man’s Heaven” – she didn’t smoke Ganja.  Rum Punch de Crème was more her thing.

The more we sat there making eyes at each other the hotter we got.  I put the album John Coltrane Plays Johnny Hartman  Sings  and played the song “You are too Beautiful,” and as Johnny Hartman’s silky baritone voice crooned “You are too beautiful my dear to be true” Oshun looked at me dreamily and smile a mystic smile.  She was so alluring I could no longer contain myself.  I took a long drag off the herb, rose from my chair and walked over to her, making no attempt to hide the pulsating bulge in my pants, so she couldn’t miss it.

Besides she knew what I was working with because she had seen and physically examined it.  And I remember the look on her face the first time she saw it…for those who know about sugarcane, is enough to know that she called it “Guyana cane.”  I knelt before her, took her face in my hands and kissed her deeply, blowing Ganja smoke down her lungs slowly.  She coughed a little and asked:

” What was that?”

“Oh, something that will make very thing feel better.”

“You gave me that Ganja smoke?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about it, just relax and follow my lead. Cause we bout to do a dance of magic.  If you thin yo heart can take it come fly with me.”

“Go ahead, like the song says: ‘Fly me to the moon…let me play among the stars.”

That was all the cue I needed.  I placed my hands on her knees and pulled her legs apart, but when I place my hand on her pussy it was like touching a sponge that had been emersed in water…they were soaking wet.  When I pulled my had from under her skirt Oshun discovered that her love canal was overflowing.  She jumped up and noticed that her dress was wet in the back, and when I grabbed the hem and raised her skirt up to her waist, you could see the do-it fluid beginning to drip down her thighs like a juicy fruit.  She was shocked, and immediately began to apologize.

“Oh, my goodness!  I don’t know what is happening down there.  It has never been like this before,” she said with obvious embarrassment, as she grabbed her bag and began nervously rummaging for a tissue.  “I’ll take care of this…just give me a moment.”

At first, I thought she was joking, I couldn’t believe that she thought this was offensive.  Wow, she was more innocent than I thought.  I quickly moved to rid her of that notion and put her at ease.

“Oh baby, you got this all wrong!  I LOVE IT!  The reason your sweet juice box is hemorrhaging like that is because you really want to fuck me, that’s how nature planned it.  I am deeply flattered!  That looks like Love Potion # 9 that the coasters made that hit song about.  Don’t you dare wipe it away with some tissue, just let me handle this my dear.”

“Okay, whatever you say, but I’ve got to take this dress and slip off.  I have a gown in my bag that I brought along just in case we ended up like this.  Just let me take it off and wash the spot out.  Is that the bathroom over there?  I need to get to the sink.”

“Go to the sink, but only to wash the stain out: DO NOT TOUCH THE PUSSY!  I want it all juicy with its natural bouquet!  Don’t even THINK about using any of those perfumed soaps!”

“Reeeally?  Oh Gosh man you are soo Craaaazy!  Me never hear of anything like that.” She said gushing with laugher, the do-it fluid creeping down her thighs.  I soon come” she said as she dashed in the bathroom.

While she was in the bathroom, I stripped down to my velvet boxer shorts.  Although I was not the same physical specimen that had won the “Mr. Atlas” contest in high school  nearly 20 years ago, I did retain some of my football physique.  As soon as she walked out of the bathroom dressed in a gown and heels, I swept her up in my arms and kissed her while running my hands all slowly over her soft but firm generously proportioned body.

She was grinding on my heart cock through the gown, when I gently pushed her down in the big cushiony chair, fell on my knees, pushed the gown up, spread her legs, and was face to face with her pretty pink pussy.  It seems that dark skin girls have the pinkest pussies…the juiciest too.  Although there are exceptions, they only serve to prove the rule.  Oshun had the juiciest pussy I had ever seen; it was like an overflowing honey pot.  Just looking at it made my mouth water.  Some guy’s suck pussy because they have been told that women love it…but I suck pussy because I LOVE IT!

This is not to say that my paramount objective isn’t to make my lady feel good, but I discovered that the ladies get their greatest thrills when the man also really loves it.  They can tell when a guy approach’s it like a circus performer who holds his nose and kisses a skunk because it’s part of the act.  I looked up at Osun, who had a quizzical look on her face, as if she was not quite sure what to expect since I had forbidden her to make any attempt to swab it.

“Okay Sweetie, now I’m gonna show you what to do with all this sweet nectar flowing outta your brown sugar pussy.  You just lay back and enjoy yourself.”

“Alright Mr. Magic fly me to the moon.”

I surveyed the glossy pink slit, set between yummy chocolate thighs, surrounded by a crown of curly black hair, and it looked delicious.  Cunnilingus is a fine art when it is performed by a Master.  And I was a Grand Master.  I was trying to decide where to start, the first moves would be exploratory, trying to see what she liked…what moved her.  Most women loved direct clitoral stimulation, so my first thought was to just swallow up her beautiful boy in the boat, grip it with my Orbicularis Oris muscles, which are normally used for whistling…and deep kissing.

But as my mouth moved closer to the dripping pink pussy parfait, I decide to go lickety split and slurp it with a broad stroke of my tongue, right down the middle of the gooey goody-gap.  The way she jumped, lifting her butt up off the chair and meeting my tongue, then she stiffened up as if she had been shocked by a live wire that sent electric waves to every part of her body.  I knew immediately that I had a real live one here, that she was highly sensitive in all parts of the pussy.

I was delighted, because women who were fixated on clitoral stimulation are often so narrowly focused on getting the “Big O” that they become quick tricks.  In order to get a quick nut, they forfeit the more nuanced experience that a great cunilingist can offer.  I was like a virtuoso violinist, who had mastered that extremely difficult fretless fiddle which requires the artist to feel the right places to make the music they want to hear.

How they do it is, as near as I can tell, a mysterious alchemy that is beyond the comprehension to all but that special band of gifted artists who can pull it off.  Sucking pussy is like that.  In order to be a great cunilingist, like the virtuoso violinist, one must be prepared to devote many hours to practicing their technique.  Which means that you must really love it.  I loved it…and I had paid my dues.

Ohun had my favorite kinda sucking pussy – pink, drippy and grippy- and the woman who owned it was like my favorite cup of coffee: Strong, hot and black!  I licked it again and she groaned, “Ahhhhggggh,” as her eyes rolled back into her head revealing the pure white of her eyes.   I knew I had the situation under control, the only question was what kinda ride I wanted to take her on.

When I first spoke to Oshun, my objectives had been to dazzle her with my knowledge of her country; distinguish myself from the other Yankees she knew; and leave her wanting to see more of me, now I wanted to amaze her with my knowledge of her body, set myself apart and above every lover she had known, and leave her hungering for more.  I wanted to addict her to my sexual prowess.

I had already captured her mind by virtue of a year of special pleading, leaving her ears greedy for the sound of my basso profundo voice; now I wanted to make her mine body and soul. With that objective in mind, I devoted all my talents in the art of pleasuring to give an unforgettable performance, one that inspires a Sunday kinda love, the kinda love that lasts past Saturday night.  All fuckin is good after a fashion, but love fuckin is out of this world…like astral traveling.

Since the love between us was the real deal, I decided to just go for what I know. But on the third or fourth stroke – I can’t say precisely because I was on a natural high and totally focused on licking the problem before me – a strange thing happened.  The muscles of her pussy reached out and grabbed my tongue, sucked it up her love canal, and squeezed it like a French kiss!  I was fascinated and  amazed.  I had never experienced anything like it; I was reminded that Oshun was a conjure woman, a worker of spells, even if her gift was unbeknownst.

I was tasked with discovering the key to her libido, the location of her special spots, and release the sexy beast that I had long suspected lurked just beneath the surface of her prim and proper persona.  Now it was no longer a matter of speculation…my job was to free the beast. Seeing how sensitive the walls of her vagina was I hesitated to stimulate her boy in the boat directly for fear that she just might lose in and erupt in orgasmic explosion.

I was very careful about that because in my experience, when women bust their nut from manipulation of the joy button, trying to make love to them after that is like whipping a dead mule.  So, I played past the  boy in the boat, pulled out my Rod of Correction, and thrust it balls deep in her pulsating pussy.  Oshun clamped down on it like a Venus Fly Trap, causing my rigid rod to swell up like a blow fish.  She had a frantic look in her eyes as her juicy goody-gap put the mug on the Bald Head Champ. She might have been a proper lady, but she had some gangsta pussy!

It felt so good I didn’t move for several minutes, I don’t know how long I was frozen because the sensations were so fantastic I completely lost track of time.  Wrapping my arms around her I began to kiss those luscious lips and was transported to a space where time ceased to exist.  Most men would have done their office right then and it would all have been over.  Few could have withstood the marvelous sensations induced by Oshun’s super gripper, and I survived only because I had spent years perfecting the art of prolongus coitus.  I could fuck ad infinitum, so long as the pussy was hot, drippy and grippy.  And Oshun’s honey pot was all three!

When I took one of her full ripe breast in my mouth, something I had dreamed of ever since our first chance encounter in the stair well, I was treated to yet another marvel.  I cupped her breast, sucked an erect nipple, and suddenly felt milk trickling from it.  The taste was different, and far more delicious, and when I realized what was happening, I took the tit from my lips and saw the flowing milk.  I thought it was  mad sexy and started sucking on it again.

The effect was like that of Spinach on the cartoon character Popeye!  She was beginning to apologize for the spilling milk, but I put my finger on her lips and suckled on it like a hungry babe.  It caused my Guyana cane to get bigger and harder, and I begin to thrust, wind and grind.  Slowly at first but then increasing the tempo.  Like sucking pussy, fucking is also a fine art.  And I was a master cocksman of the first order: Often tried, never denied, and willing to be tried again.  Off we went into the wild blue yonder, destination moon.  When she fairly shouted “Oh gosh Man!  It’s Greeeat!  It’s Greeat! It’s so wonderful Mr. Magic!”

When I felt her body become spasmodic, trembling like a flower in a tropical breeze, I knew she was cumming…and she came again…and again.  That’s why fucking orgasms are superior to clitoral orgasms…because women can get them over and over again…   Her orgasms were so powerful they could rock the Rictor Scale.  When she went limp in my arms, my dick stayed hard, and her vise like pussy never released its grip.

Oshun looked up at me like she was coming back from a trip to wonderland, and whispered, “I have NEVER ever experienced anything like this, its fantastic, I don’t even have words to describe it.  But you are far and away the best lover I ever had.”  Her words conjured up an old folk saying we used to recite when I was a boy:” Love is a feeling that you feel/ when you feel/what you never felt before.” I stood up and led her to the bedroom, and after a brief rest and recuperation break, we ravaged each other for another couple of hours.

Finally, I decided to suckle on her swollen clit, and Oshun came with such passion she seemed to possess the power of  the Goddess I had named her, it was so violent she nearly passed out.  When she looked at me dreamily and whispered, “Please make me go home.” I knew this was the start of something big!  Indeed, we were on fire for each other, “a boss blaze,” as we used to say during my days at an all-black college, when the artful invention of colorful colloquialisms was common fare. It was a flame that burned intensely for years.

We made love in a variety of clandestine pleasure pads, all of which seemed like Shangri La to us…even when it was just a simple room.  Sometimes we just drove around “The Fruit,” as hip Black Philadelphians referred to Manhattan when I resided in that violent gun totin gang-bangin City of Brotherly Love.  We would drive through Central Park, and chill on upper Fifth Avenue on the cusp of Harlem, where the magnificent statue of Duke Ellington now stands.

I just Loved to Stare at Her Beauty

On such occasions she always asked me to drive, which left her hands free to fondle my Guyana cane as we listened to music on the radio, especially when Frankie Crocker, “the Chief Rocker” played King Pleasure singing “Moody’s Mood For Love, wich was his theme song and he played it intermittently during his five hour drive time show.”  Often we would park and steal a kiss, or I would engage in one of my favorite things…pulling her skirts up above her knees and just staring at her while experiencing multi-eyegasms.  For my money, she was the most beautiful sexy woman in the world, and I loved ogling every inch of her voluptuous ebony frame.

We had to be very careful with our public behavior because we didn’t want to become victims of “seenus,” which would have been an unmitigated disaster if any of her married friends had seen us.  She explained to me that they would love to discover that she was “tippin out” on her husband,  because she was held up as the example of the “perfect wife” by their husbands, especially when criticizing their shortcomings.  And, naturally, they heartily resented it.  It would have given them great satisfaction to discover that Muriel, as they knew her, was “hornin” her husband as the Trinis say.

Miraculously, we were never exposed.  But this was not a matter of chance. We took an abundance of precautions: We never went out together at night, never got together on weekends, or even attended a movie, concert, or Broadway show. We always met right after work on weekdays, often several times a week, stealing a few hours together here there everywhere.  Since we had spent the daydreaming of our coming lovefest, we were always read hot for each other when we met. Hence regular conversation became sexual foreplay…even if we were discussing US-Cuban relations…or Dr. Eric Williams insightful book: “The Education of a Prime Minister.”  My Guyana cane blew up and became rigid from the moment she smiled at me…and every time I reached up her skirts and felt her panties, Osun’s panties were soaking wet.

Those were the days my friend…I thought they would never end. We enjoyed a decade and a half of bliss before our separate responsibilities as married people with children demanded all of our attention, causing us to part as lovers…but we remained loving friends…and who knows what the future holds.  There is one thing of which I am absolutely certain: Of all the gifts that wonderous Ilse of the Three Peaks, “Sweet T&T, has given the world…none is more wonderful than she!

As for the skeptical reader who cares to fathom, who question whether this tale is a fabulation or actual history, truth or fiction, to wit I shall refer them to the observation of that insightful French Enlightenment philosopher Voltaire: “There is no history, only fictions of varying degrees of plausibility.”

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An Erotic Fable

By: Guyana Cane

 New York

Spring 2001

Music in the Key of Life

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