Best Black Women's Erotica 2 by Samiya Bashir

Author:Samiya Bashir
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press Start
Published: 2010-08-16T04:00:00+00:00

Sojourner’s Truth

Ta’Shia Asanti

The foot-stomping twang of a distant blues guitar strummed through me as I entered the festival grounds. The sound and smell of barbecue sizzling nearby snaked its way up my nostrils. I stepped up to one of the dozen or so food vendors and ordered a grilled corn on the cob. I saturated it with margarine and chili powder and at the last minute decided to sprinkle it with just a dash of cayenne. I casually moved toward the bleachers, corn and ice chest in hand, where the rest of the music lovers were bobbing their heads and clapping their hands to the stank grooves and wicked rhythms coming from the stage.

Two steps from the entrance I spotted her. My ticket was still in my hand. I shoved it back down in my pocket as my eyes narrowed to take in the magnitude of her statuesque frame. She was absolutely stunning. Her tie-dyed, orange-gold, floor-length dress hugged every curve and fold of her voluptuous body. The cowrie shells that hung from the bottom of her dress shook like the shimmy in a Shekere. Coyly she sat, aiming her buttery thighs and watermelon breasts in my direction. She was slightly rocking, shielded by the shade of a father tree, her straw hat pulled down tight over bronze dreadlocks and cat-eyed sunglasses.

The reflection of her oval face and oak-colored skin made me simmer like a piping pot of New Orleans jambalaya. I backtracked by her booth, pretending to consider purchasing a purple and gold dashiki from the booth next to hers. I lifted my head slowly, measuring her gaze, conjuring a line in my head that would grab her in the first six words. She glared at me, almost daringly, a challenge I found irresistible. I nodded, hoping she’d say something. Because if she didn’t I was taking my ass home, along with my fantasies and the six-pack of designer beer chilling patiently in my ice chest. I’d sit in the bathtub and dream about her. Picture her there with me. Me pouring lavender oil and cherry wine into the water. Letting the stream of the faucet flow to that spot on her silk, just above the pearl.

She nodded her head and that was the permission I needed to enter. My ego kicked in. My fantasy expanded as I pimp-strolled over to her booth humming a blues song under my breath: I bet she likes to be loved slow/kissed long and steady/ this wild afrique woman/nothing but moans for music/no jazz or blues/no damn rules/just us moaning an original tune/a song for the rest of our life/a song slow and steady/the dog-gone truth/the dog-gone truth. I kept walking and humming. Seemed like a million years went by. I tried my best to pretend that the pounding in my heart wasn’t about to expose what was going through my mind.

“The African dolls are seventy-five dollars, the necklaces are twenty and up. Oh yeah, I do psychic readings too. The cost is a love offering of at least twenty-five dollars.

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