Homie - Lover - Friend
by Chloe Barksdale
Somewhere in my mind I thought that I could do it again. I believed that he and I too, just like the other one, could just be homey/lover/friends. I mean hey, I'd done it before with no problem and the arrangement had lasted close to two years. During that time I saw our love thing as the coolest relationship two people could ever have. I didn't care where he went. I didn't give a rat's ass about who it was that he saw, or so much as what he did when he wasn't with me. He and I had a clear understanding of our thing and were both cool with it
Most couldn't grasp my home/lover/friend's and I, peculiar kind of relationship. They would look at us and shake their heads in total confusion. Few could comprehend how we could be in the same place at the same time doing our separate things and not be bothered by what the other did. It was a mystery to them that our eyes did not follow one another's every move trying to peep the others game.
It fazed me not when a beautiful sista sauntered up to him making it clear that he could have the ass served up Thanksgiving style on a silver platter with all the trimmings, just from one simple nod of his head. Insecurity did not register with me.
And he never let it bother him in the least if a brotha sporting a nice clean baldhead with a black fisherman turtle neck, a pair of wide leg 2 inch cuff slacks and a pair of Italian leather lace up shoes, hung around a little longer than deemed necessary, putting it out in the elements that he wanted to possess me at all cost by doing whatever he had to do to try and get inside.
To us it was like a game_a prelude. It was our foreplay of sorts. It was a crescendo that would peak later with out bodies thrashing about like rabid dogs trying to sexually slaughter one another.
I would see him across the room putting his mack down and it only intensified the fiery heat that lay between my thick brown silky thighs. Seeing him doing his thing only poured gasoline on the flames. Knowing another woman wanted him, yet when he left where we were, come two o'clock in the morning, I would prevail, was a head rush.
I knew that all it took was a seductive look, a head motion and licking my lips, to make him move so quick you would question if he were ever really there. Within a matter of minutes I'd be in my Z shifting gears like Mario Andretti, headed to the Southside of town. He on the other hand would be out in the parking lot like a flash of lightening - dick already hard barely contained in his jeans and walking sideways anticipating what he knew I could and would do to him.
But those nights when we'd be out somewhere and leave to go make love - those would be an off schedule day for us. You see it was quite simple, and not complicated at all. We had an arrangement with each other. We were each other's every Thursday fuck.
In our special little world, there was no need to call and chat on the phone every day. No whispered words of adoration to be conveyed during our time when we were not together. No, "I miss you's", or "I just called because I was thinking about you".
We understood that come Thursday we had a time schedule.
I would get off work and go home to pick up my bags waiting by the door, if it wasn't already secured in the trunk of my car. At 6:30 we would meet at his barbershop where I'd wait reading an Essence or Today's Black Woman magazine while he got his haircut. From time to time he would look over at me with a lewd smirk upon his lips knowing the events to come later. Sometimes he might even show a little public display of affection by blowing me a kiss. A blind mute could see and feel the sexual tension between us. It was like a glowing force field that could not be contained.
To the outside world that wasn't privy to our situation, we seemed like the perfect couple. I would do often hear the guys in the shop saying, "Man, your woman is fine as hell," or, "Man, your woman is cool as a mutha."
We would share knowing smiles between each other. I wasn't really his woman per say. We classified it more as being his homie/lover/friend. The only difference between his boys and me was that he and I had the tendency to get down and dirty between the sheets on a weekly basis. Outside of that, I was no different than his homeboys, Gerald, Jerrod and Brent.
After he was finished with his haircut we would leave and go the nearby Kroger and buy Captain Crunch cereal and Milk. Then, we would stop at the liquor store and pick up a bottle of Barcardi Limon and a 2 Liter of Coca Cola and a pack of Black and Milds. And if we felt like something different, we might even stop at Blockbuster and pick up a movie.
Thursday's was a day of anything at all goes. Whatever floated our boat was fine with us. Regardless of what we did, the end results were always going to be the same.
By nine o'clock the bowls of cereal would be rinsed and placed in the dishwasher. We would be lying across the bed on our second glass of Barcardi. Candles would softly illuminate the room while sensuous old skool slow jams played softly in the background, amplifying the mood. One of us would commence the session with a sensual massage making use of some very expensive karma sutra oils. Always it started out nice and slow_.. That's how it always STARTED.
Oh yes, we had an understanding between us about our every Thursday Fuck. No matter what we did, who we saw or where we went any other time, this was our time. We didn't discount our thing. Our shit was true. We gave mad respect to one another because that was our due.
There were very few who could handle our situation as it was. Too many would allow jealousy, feelings and emotions to get in the way. Not us. We held true to our deal for over two years. Only because distance came into play once he took a job elsewhere, did our love affair come to an end. That last Thursday sent fireworks up into space and brought tears from the moon's eyes.
So now I am at a crossroads.
What happened this time? With this new homie/lover/friend that I have now? How the hell did let my feelings get past the point of it just being a sexual attraction? Where did I lose focus and let myself slip up and start_start_start_. CARING? What the_???? That wasn't even me. CARING? Catching FEELINGS? Hell no! Not Clo.
In actuality, he wasn't even new. We'd known one another for years. Since ninth grade to be exact. He and I went waaaaaay back. All the way back to Stan's Smith Adidas and Duckhead slacks. Cadillac emblems as key chains. Jelly's, double belts, Mork and Mindy suspenders, and fluorescent color high top All Stars. I'd known him when his Polo shirt served as a cage keeping a bird from taking flight. When my little bowed legs were so skinny that my gap was big enough to see clear through to the other side.
So where did I go wrong? What made this homie/lover/friend different from the one I had with my every Thursday Fuck? Somewhere along the way, how did I lose sight of the clear-cut rules that had been preset? No commitments. No feelings or emotions. Just pure and simple_straight unadulterated fucking.
Well it started out innocent enough I believe. He'd been on my mind for some time. Over the years I'd thought about him and wondered what he'd been up to. On a whim I dropped him a card in the mail. "Hi, long time no see. Was just thinking about you and decided to drop you a line." I didn't include a phone number because I wasn't sure if he had someone. I wasn't one to cause drama in a happy home. The seed was there_it was up to him if he wanted to plant it or toss it in the trash. Two days later I called to check my messages at the house, and not even the hardest rain could have darkened that day. He'd made the effort to look up my number in the phone book and call. I didn't want to appear too eager, but was oh so anxious to hear his voice. I didn't have an understanding as to why this brotha had continuous lurked in the shadows of my mind for some time, but I knew that the great arc of the universe dictated that there was indeed a need to satisfy my curiosity.
I called and he wasn't there. We proceeded to play phone tag until finally we made contact. We laughed and talked about old time - especially our high school days. Our conversation was light and refreshing_. old friends reconnecting. Days passed by and we would talk briefly. I was at that time involved in an unfulfilling relationship to which I was unclear on what I wanted to do. After my every Thursday Fuck and I had parted ways, I'd been celibate and then ran into who I thought would one day be my husband. Things hadn't turned out the way I'd expected; or rather things had turned out EXACTLY the way that had made me shy away from a committed relationship for so many years.
The weekend came and out the clear blue I called him up and said that I wanted to see him. It had been 16 years. The hours went by with anticipation of what he would look like. Would he still have the characteristics of a handsome young boy or had time fully developed him into a strapping viral adult man.
I held an image in my head that was quickly shattered the moment I pulled up in front of his house. This was not the person I remembered from years before. Had it been, I would not have felt the instant moistness in my thongs. He was absolutely gorgeous. The same caramel brown skin, long lashes and clear dark eyes. The same beautiful perfect teeth covered by soft fleshy pink lips and an easy smile. There were no bones about it; 16 years definitely had taken him from a boy to a man.
My attraction to him was instant and strong. It was supposed to have been a five or ten minute drive by on my way to meet my girls that turned into a seven-hour marathon. For the first four hours we sat outside in my car talking. Was this the same brotha I knew from 84? The one who couldn't put two words together without it being something obtuse and sexual?
No. Not this brotha sitting beside me speaking of life in colors of blues, reds, yellows and greens. Not this brotha who within a matter of hours I knew, soul ran so deep you had to carry a floodlight each time you entered his mental sector.
And when he finally did show that little bit of the younger person from years before - instead of my being turned off, I was intensely turned on. Any other time I would have crunk up my car, put his ass out and left tread marks on the pavement. Instead only minutes later I found myself inside his house with my legs wrapped around his neck. Though at the time we first laid together, I was then in a two-year relationship - it had been two months since I'd had a man inside my body. Even longer since I'd felt his lips upon mine. My relationship with my fianc‚e was in title only. He no longer sexed me. He no longer touched me. We only existed to the eyes of the unknowing.
With my new homie/lover/friend, our lovemaking was passionate and intense. He climbed inside my body and it felt like a perfect fit. Was it because I needed it and had been denied sexual pleasure for so long? Or, was it just one of those things that was unexplainable that just felt right?
You can fuck twenty people, but out of that twenty, there will only be one that seems to be able to touch every spot inside your being with little to no effort. Upon his first thrust I felt my walls wrap around and mold to him like plaster. By the time I reached my FIRST climax I could feel his every curve and vein. He'd placed a branded imprint of his name inside me.
My body was not my own. He controlled the remote and seemed to be randomly playing with the buttons to his own narcissistic pleasure. 1, 2, 3_. that's how many times I came in a matter of minutes. He had a sinister look in his eyes. He knew what I needed and that he had everything required to push me plummeting over the edge. I finally understood what it meant when they say it hurt so well. My body was in pain. The brother brought tears to my eyes.
The next day I sat in wonderment of what I had done. I didn't call. Neither did he. Oh well I thought. It was good for that brief moment. No regrets. No loss. No dwelling.
Then he called on the following day. He had the nerve to ask why I hadn't called. Said I made him feel cheap.
We laughed. We talked. Days turned into weeks and our conversations became more intense. There was a connection there that was almost surreal. Outside the bedroom our minds mated with the deftness of two scholarly professors, debating everything that came to our psyche.
It was invigorating. Exhilarating. Orgasmatic. It was also sometimes painful.
In the beginning, for my own protection, I had placed limitations and boundaries upon us. He had been deemed my road dog. My rideoutpartner. My homie/lover/friend. Just like relationship with my every Thursday fuck- there were no commitments or questions of who, what, where or when. The only difference was that we had a far more special connection. Our friendship ran much deeper than the passion filled nights when our bodies danced about like fall leaves rustling in the winds, brushing against each other searing one another's skin.
It didn't take long for my previous relationship to become a fading memory, but I knew I was not ready to jump back into something so soon. I also was unsure of where my lover's intentions laid and I was not about to set myself up to be hurt and disappointed. And so, I told myself that just like before, I could endure. No problem. We talked when we talked and we fucked when we fucked. No big deal.
But after the newness of us wore off I started to refer to my lover as Mr. MIA. Mr. Missing in action. And to my surprise, I would find myself missing him.
Missing him? What was up with that? Now that was not a part of our agreement. Strolling back through the memories of my previous homie/lover/friend relationship with my every Thursday Fuck, I didn't recall ever missing him. It was good when we were together but once I walked out the door and got in my car, that was it. It was what it was. Good hot passionate trying to kill each other sex, and that was it.
But I was fooling myself only for a little while. This time it was different. I found myself quickly sinking into a bottomless pit. Too often my thoughts would trail to soft thick lips burning kisses onto my skin. Flashes of heated sex would rip through my mind and I'd find myself in the bathroom at work making love to my hands. Without being aware, my feminine walls would squeeze tight with reminiscence of him slow grinding inside my slick wetness. All it took was a fleeting thought and the warm hot liquid would escape from within soaking through my thongs. Over in the middle of the night I would wake from erotic dreams of him, needing to quietly escape to the bathroom to finish off what I was not able to complete in my dreams.
Then suddenly his MIA's became more frequent and longer in duration. And I found myself feeling disappointed when I'd check the caller Id on my ringing phone and it did not register his name? Was that my heart plummeting to the ground if I dialed his number and his low sexy live voice was replaced by his this electronic mechanism called an answering machine? Was I telling others no to offered dates with hopes of him calling and saying he wanted to spend time with me? Was I longing to be mind fucked by this brotha that could nearly bring me to the point of orgasm just from his having the kind of intelligence that dropped knowledge like an original member of Public Enemy? One who spoke the truth surrounding the plight of black America with the dexterity and zeal of a modern day Malcolm X? When he said he would call back and didn't, was that anger I was experiencing? What the hell was going on? It wasn't supposed to be like that. I wasn't supposed to care. How the hell did I slip up and start catching feelings?
And so, I sat down and had a talk with myself.
"Self," I said. "You're worth a million times more than this. It will never be enough. You'll only end up hurt and disappointed if you continue this way." I admonished.
"The way it was before was a whole different ball game than this one. That one did not have all he extras that this brotha provides you with. That one could not stimulate you mentally and make you laugh and smile like he does. That one touched your body without having the adeptness to touch your mind, body and soul. You can't play the same game with this one like you did with the other one. If you try, you'll lose a major part of yourself. You've got a decision to make."
And so I did. In order to hold onto the love that I have inside of me of which I know is worth far more than the price of platinum and gold; and so as to give our friendship a chance to continue to grow versus risking losing it all _I had to let him go.
He and I could never be an every Thursday Fuck. Nor an every Saturday Fuck. Not a Monday or Wednesday Fuck for that matter. Fuck Charelle and Alexander O'Neal with that bullshit song, Saturday Love. I'd found that I already loved him way too much to try to be happy with just his sexual pleasures and mind fucking desserts. But most of all, I loved me too much. The choice was bitter sweet.
So in the end, all I can do is hold on to the memories. The things he did to me still makes my juices seep and my knees go weak. I can still feel his teeth biting into my neck and his tongue upon my breast, oh so expertly flicking across my nipples, soft and wet. His hands dancing across my body with the grace and skill of a world-renowned artist. I once was his canvas, and lovemaking was his craft. He painted me over and over again so many hot passion filled nights.
Yet I knew that if I couldn't have him and all of him - I would have to be content with us just being homie, but no longer lovers --- just friends.