TONITE'S THE NIGHT LIKE BET.TY WRIGHT...

And now the second installment in the SEX WEEK series...(part 1)


“My sister said you’re home.”
“Hello to you, too, B. Long time. I thought you were gonna email me.”
“Come over,” Bryan answered. Weazy took a deep breath, knowing that her summer wouldn’t be the same if she complied.
“What, you big sophomore in college now so you can’t come see an old friend who knew you before you were grown?”
“Where are you living now, Bryan? Kinney told me what went down with (grand)Ma.” Within an hour the pair were sitting side by side on Kinney’s boyfriend’s couch in the basement of his apartment. A six-pack of wine coolers separated their thighs. This was their routine. Long talks after long disappearances. There was always so much catching up to do, between Weazy’s college exploits, and Bryan’s drama with his grandmother and uncles.
“So who you let have my cherry?” He finally asked, tossing the last bottle onto the floor.
“Excuse me, your what?” He winked his way through her mild aggravation, leaned over and planted a moist peck on her forehead, then lips. It was perhaps their thousandth kiss. Up to that point it was the staple of their horizontal history. There was always an attraction, always cohesion to their conversations, always quality in their quiet times. There just wasn’t much of a bond. They were friends who happened to make the other wet or hard.

Back in high school they spent days in Bryan’s grandmother’s basement that should have been spent in classrooms. She would brave the winters at the bus stop, counting the minutes until she’d be warmly wrapped in his lanky arms. They logged hours on the telephone. Double dated with Kinney and her barrage of boyfriends. But they were never considered an item. Weren’t prom dates, nor at the top of the other’s Christmas list.

Yet, as Weazy approached 21, and the halfway point of her college years, the yearning was becoming more pronounced. There were college boys with off-campus apartments. Boys with advanced degrees in sexuality that far exceeded Weazy’s desires. She wanted to go some of the way, but was unwilling to go all the way. Not without a map.

At the moment, Bryan’s hands were headed in the right direction. They slid from the side of her face to the side of her chest. Soon her breasts were swept up into his hands, and soon his face found respite there. He unleashed her flesh from the simple brassiere, and before the dank basement air could hit, his mouth covered her tepid nipples. Another of his signature moves, performed on countless occasions. One that elicited the slightest of moans each and every time. This time there was a sigh. And a smile. And a silent recognition and appreciation for the comfort. The familiarity. The fervor.

She pursed her lips to purr and was met with a wet set. With her eyes closed she could practically draw in each line and crease that etched the small pillows he called lips. They had a feather’s touch, and each time her lips met his, she felt the urge to pull away and inspect his for an imprint. Weazy was no slouch. She parted the siege with the precision of the anointed, allowing her tongue to announce its graceful arrival.

If all else failed, kissing was her thing. It was her area of mastery. A kissing bandit of sorts, she found sport in planting juicy ones, wielding wet lips like a sword. Kissing got her out of many a jam. In middle school she learned that when a boy’s fast hands were jogging well beyond her intended destination, a few deep kisses to the neck could buy enough time to distract and redirect her panties up north. It did little but agitate in high school, but college brought on a new life lesson. The penis was not the only powerful pressure point in the pelvic region. And hitting the others with the lips causes a frenzy that can easily divert immediate oral expectations.

Guys had gone down on her and seemed happy to do it. So she never even lifted her chin to reciprocate. Not out of spite. Out of fear and foresight. Fear of getting it wrong, but with the foresight to know that her name would be sullied from one end of the campus to the next. So kissing remained her staple, because even pretending goes a long way.

But with Bryan there was a respect built. A trust that allowed her to give without regret. So when she had given every inch of her tongue to his mouth, she portioned it out across the rest of his body. She straddled his chest and took in the shimmering green tint of his gaze. His mouth was tilted toward her, begging, but she focused her attention instead on the cleft in his chin. She liked the scratchy stubble against her skin. He liked the trail of kisses from there to his chest.
She lingered at the thin wisps of hair there. He squirmed his way to the left until his nipple was eye to eye with her tongue.
She loved to pay homage to the protruding scar on the left side of his torso. He would have preferred she skip that route, but held her hunches in place there anyway.
She tried inching down but felt a long barricade against her backside. Though he was poised to position her center in the direction of the erection, he allowed her to choose her own adventure.

She chose to U-turn.

He lifted up onto his hands, his chest plastered against her back, which now faced him. Her face pointed toward the socks still on his feet. He leaned back onto the pullout couch in the dark basement of his sister’s boyfriend’s crib, and lightly yet with an entitled authority placed two hands on her back. Pressed her forward.

Horizontal. Naked. Knees against ears. Their clothes now a casualty. They waged war simultaneously.

She surrendered just moments before him.

*

The next night…

“Yo, we 69’ed!”
“Yeah right.”
“Stated. That’s my word.”
“Aight, nigga.”
“Lemme get back down there.”

Bryan had left out the part about how the only reason they did that again, for the second night in a row, was because he couldn’t get the condom on. Weazy was pissed and hurt, because she didn’t know his sister’s boyfriend all that well, and had more respect for her friend than to let her brother’s business get back to her. She told him so when he came back down to the basement with a glass of water for her.

“You couldn’t wait to run your mouth, huh?”
“What?”
“I could hear through the damn walls, Bryan. At least have enough respect for me to wait until I’m gone.”
“Boo.”
“I’m out.”

Out, but not gone. She was back there every night that week. And every night marked yet another failed attempt at shaking loose her virginity.

But on the eighth night…

“I can cut diamonds, boo. Gimme the rubber.” Weazy felt the furnace of hell at her back as she said a silent prayer for this to be it. She held her breath, having abandon the fantasy of putting it on for him, back on Night Three.

In fact, she didn’t even bother sitting up. She counted stripes in the wood paneled walls instead. Then an entire set of teeth appeared grinning in her view. The green of Bryan’s eyes were more sparkling than ever before. They held a promise.

Without speaking, her kissed her with deep undulations, an almost feverish rhythm to his cadence. His hands held her face gently, then tightly. Hands that smelled of fresh latex. Then came a deliberate succession of actions.

Fingers through her fresh perm.
Kisses to her eyelids and nose and ear.
Her head cradled in his arms, in an almost supplicant swoop.
His skin pressed solidly on top of hers.
Her right leg pulled up around his waist.
Then a silent, unspoken knock at her door.
An inquiring look in the eye. Then permission granted.
Then an ambitious thrust.
And a wide-eyed stare. And a gasp.
And the answered assumptions of apprehension and anticipation.

*

“Where did you find that candle?”
“It was sitting right on the top of the toilet tank,” Weazy answered.
“Why can’t I join you?”
“Because I just wanna be alone for a sec, B.” From his spot on the floor, Bryan reached into the bathtub and playfully splashed water onto Weazy’s skin.
“You didn’t even bleed, boo. The couch is totally clean.”*
“Yeah, well good thing I can’t stain his bathtub, because I’m sitting in a pool of blood right now.”
“The water’s cold.”
“It’s perfect.”
“So are you.” Bryan kissed Weazy on the lips and stood to his feet. Standing in his boxers and bare chest, he looked down at her, shoulders hunched, shivering in the shallow water in the bathtub of his sister’s boyfriend’s apartment.

“Come out soon, boo.”

Weazy’s gaze remained on the faucet before her.

She heard his feet on the hardwood floors descending the stairs and exhaled. She picked up the votive candle with wet hands and examined herself in the flickering light.

If the candle had been a mirror, Weazy would have seen the enormous grin spread across her face like the sunrise. She blew it out and cupped water into her hands and over her face. She began kicking her legs and squealing with the thrill of a newborn. She conjured up the best I’m-sitting-in-a-tub-and-I-just-had-sex dance she could within the confines of the tub. She stood up and stretched her limbs. Swiveled her hips recklessly to gauge the status of her internals.

Stable.

She stepped out of the tub and onto the towel Bryan left for her.

Weazy had no clue exactly what she was stepping into.

But she couldn’t wait. Because at that very moment, she was elated, knowing that her first time happened not a moment sooner than she could have handled.

#

*In real life I can’t remember if this is true or not. I’m kind of remembering being mortified at him telling me the exact opposite. It’s quite possible that I blocked this shit out, and if that’s the case I’d like to keep it that way.

Care to share your first time? (use your own yard pls, don’t be doing it on my property!)