How Wise is "So...Wise"? 3

I know I have a habit of leaving things hanging, and that's wrong...but understand, shit is still sensitive (and long)…

Recap:
Part I
Part II
Part III: "GET LOW, WISE..."

Ok, truth? I hear him come in that morning. He stumbles back to my crib, so drunk, and sticks his head into my room and whispers to see if I’m up…meanwhile I’m play sleeping, splayed on the bed in a prefabricated pose: you know, all sedated and sexy, laying on my stomach, my hair is a heap of fresh curls cascading my face, my tank top tight around my middle, and my CK boxers riding a tiny bit up on the curve of my modest azz. Tryin to be cute.

I listen as he fumbles and then settles onto the couch, before I tip toe to the bathroom to pee (and lightly brush my teeth). He looks so ridiculous, all big and scrunched up on my couch, and I nudge him to open the couch to a bed for him. He’s groggy but smiling. (He is ALWAYS smiling! Always.) He tells me he was so drunk that he walked right past my building when his boys dropped him off that morning.

I tell him he can come to bed if he prefers. He follows, walking a straight line.

We lay in my bed, giggling, as the new Sunday morning sun soaks through my windows. Early morning cartoons offer a fitting soundtrack. Hours later, yawning and not at all tired, I roll over, away from him, and he follows me. Who doesn’t love a good spoon? And a NEW spoon at that? Shit.

But Mama has a tendency to be fast, and I may or may not have then tickled his fingertips, guiding them to outline the eager nipple poking through my wife beater.

Needless to say, it’s on…

Pump ya breaks. We didn’t fully make out until that night, after a BBQ my friends stage for me after I realize I have to entertain him for another full day.

He leaves NYC the next day with a long face. I’m left standing at the curb, watching the yellow SUV cab whisk him away…and mope back to the crib…and lay in bed, remembering the space he occupied so comfortably….the space where I laid on his chest the night before, with a silly grin I couldn’t shake…

::flashback, keep up...::

“I got my tattoo the morning of high school graduation. My brother took me, and I got to the ceremony mad late, almost missed the processional…but you ain’t know me back then,” I tease.

“I remember you doing the butterfly on stage when you got your diploma,” he admits.

“And the Roger Rabbit, and the Peppaseed, and the Wop. Choreographed to perfection,” I brag. He replies with a kiss to my nose.

“You have a cute tattoo, Wise. I’m probably gonna go ahead and get that ‘Thug Life’ across my chest when I get back to Detroit,” he jokes.

“Ahh baby, right above your bullet wound? So sexy!” I laugh. He busts out laughing and tickles my side, where he’s now holding me.

“What’s your next tat gonna be?” he asks.

I trace the numbers 9/3/04 with my fingertips on his chest. His compassionate eyes ask for clarification.

“The day my dad died,” I whisper.

He holds me so tight the tears retreat from the wells of my eyes.

We kiss again. This time with insistence, a primal urgency that makes it juicy and wet. He’s got that 5 o’clock shadow that I love, and it’s rough on my cheeks, my chin, my neck, my collarbone. Soothes my bare chest, as he slips off my tank top with tender authority.

My nipples respect him.

He’s heavy on top of me and I love it. He’s a man, and a big one at that. I grab his azz to let him know I approve and he leans and kisses my pelvis in return. Now I’m the one ripping off his shirt, with an ungraceful yank. To my surprise he’s the hairiest muhfucka I’ve ever seen and touched in my life, and I swirl my fingers around in that nigga’s nest like it’s my own new growth.

He likes that.

I’m very in touch with my dude side, and I show it when I raise up and flip him onto his back. Can’t help it. I’m no control freak but I can’t be tied down for too long. I need to roam free. And roam I do, like a Sprint phone on the subway.

My lips make express stops like the A train, from his bald head to his ear lobes to his round shoulders, to his love handles, to the muscles along his thick thighs. I’m so lost in this man, in what I’m feeing at the moment, the convergence of lust AND liking, that I’m on a mission...

Next stop downtown Brooklyn.

I’m just fcuking with y’all. I ain’t go there. But I wanted to...and I could hear him wondering if I might.

Hoping.

Instead I bury my face in this shorts and tongue kiss the inside of his thigh.

Something to work toward, nigga. Play ya cards right.

We slow down like responsible, sexually frustrated adults, and spend the rest of the night
cuddling and kissing.

Oh, NOW it's on.