You Can't Keep a Good Woman Down_ Stories - Alice Walker [30]
She was aflame with desire for him.
On those evenings when all the children were with their other parents, he would arrive at the apartment at seven. They would walk hand in hand to a Chinese restaurant a mile away. They would laugh and drink and eat and touch hands and knees over and under the table. They would come home. Smoke a joint. He would put music on. She would run water in the tub with lots of bubbles. In the bath they would lick and suck each other, in blissful delight. They would admire the rich candle glow on their wet, delectably earth-toned skins. Sniff the incense—the odor of sandal and redwood. He would carry her in to bed.
Music. Emotion. Sensation. Presence.
Satisfaction like rivers
flowing and silver.
On the basis of their sexual passion they built the friendship that sustained them through the outings with their collective children, through his loss of a job (temporarily), through her writer’s block (she worked as a free-lance journalist), through her bouts of frustration and boredom when she perceived that, in conversation, he could only be scientific, only be abstract, and she was, because of her intrepid, garrulous women friends—whom she continued frequently, and often in desperation, to see—used to so much more.
In short, they had devised an almost perfect arrangement.
One morning at six o’clock they were making “morning love.” “Morning love” was relaxed, clearheaded. Fresh. No music but the birds and cars starting. No dope.
They came within seconds of each other.
This inspired him. He thought they could come together.
She was sated, indifferent, didn’t wish to think about the strain.
But then he said: “Did I ever show you [he knew he hadn’t] my porn collection?”
“What could it be?” she inevitably wondered. Hooked.
His hands are cupping her ass. His fingers like warm grass or warm and supple vines. One thumb—she fancies she feels the whorled print—makes a circle in the wetness of her anus. She shivers. His tongue gently laps her vulva as it enters her, his top lip caressing the clitoris. For five minutes she is moving along as usual. Blissed out, she thinks to herself. Then she stops.
“What have you got?” she has asked him.
“This,” he replied. “And this.”
A gorgeous black woman who looks like her friend Fannie has a good friend (white boy from her hometown down South) who is basically gay. Though—. “Fannie” and let us call him “Fred” pick up a hick tourist in a bar. They both dig him, the caption says. He is not gorgeous. He is short, pasty, dirty blond. Slightly cross-eyed. In fact, looks retarded. Fred looks very much the same. “Fannie” invites them to her place where without holding hands or eating or bathing or putting on music, they strip and begin to fondle each other. “Fannie” looks amused as they take turns licking and sucking her. She smiles benignly as they do the same things to each other.…
“And this.”
A young blonde girl from Minnesota [probably kidnapped, she thinks, reading] is far from home in New York, lonely and very horny. She is befriended by two of the blackest men on the East Coast. (They had been fighting outside a bar and she had stopped them by flinging her naive white self into the fray.) In their gratitude for her peacemaking they take her to their place and do everything they can think of to her. She grinning liberally the whole time. Finally they make a sandwich of her: one filling the anus and the other the vagina, so that all that is visible of her body between them is a sliver of white thighs. [And we see that these two pugilists have finally come together on something.]
She is sitting with her back against the headboard of the bed so that her breasts hang down. This increases sensation in her already very aroused nipples. He crawls up to her on all fours like a gentle but ravenous bear and begins to nuzzle her. He nuzzles and nuzzles until her nipples virtually aim themselves at him. He takes one into his mouth. She begins to