Afro Nerd in Love, page 3
“I was just calling to see what you were up to,” I say.
“Nothing. Just sitting here watching reruns of the Real Housewives of Atlanta.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Not really,” she says.
I can’t tell if that’s an invitation or not, but my heart starts beating hard and fast anyway.
“So, uh,” I mumble. “Uh, you’re just watching TV then?”
“What’s up? You want to hook up tonight?”
Damn. She just put it out there. Like that.
“Sure. Why not?”
My heart is about to burst out of my chest like that thing on Alien, and I’m suddenly wondering if I was cool enough in my response or if I should’ve said something smoother.
“What room are you in?” she asks.
The question catches me off guard. I kind of figured that I would be going to her room. Now I’m rushing around the small space tossing things into bags or drawers while I steady my voice to respond. “116.”
“Okay. I’ll be over in a few. Any idea of what you’d like to do?”
“I’m working on it,” I respond, clueless as to what there is to do in Daily, Mississippi, on a Saturday evening.
When I get off the phone, I am almost in panic mode. “Breathe,” I tell myself. “You’ve been here before. This is not your first time at the big show.” I have no idea of what I mean when I say these things, only that I need to say something to calm myself down. For some reason, I jump down on the floor and start doing push-ups. They tend to clear my head. Plus, she might touch me, and if she does, I want to feel firm, not squishy. Damn, I’m overthinking this thing. “Breathe,” I say again, this time following my own instructions.
The room is as straight as it’s going to be, and now I’m combing through one of my cell phone apps searching for things to do locally. Nothing is coming up in Daily. I refuse to believe there’s absolutely nothing to do around here. I know there’s a movie theater or a mall or something, but nothing comes up on my Internet search. I even call down to the front desk to check with them about malls or movie theaters.
“None in Daily,” an older guy says, his drawl so thick with countrified Confederacy that I know he must be telling the truth. “There’s one down in Pueblo, about twenty-five miles down Highway 50.”
I can barely figure out my way around Daily, so I’m not trying to drive through the boondocks to get to another small town. What if the car breaks down between points A and B? I don’t know anyone around here who could help out. I’m not even sure how long it would take AAA to round up a vehicle to come and get us.
Maybe we can just chill and talk, I think. I fan through the playlists on my cell phone, wondering if she’d like to listen to music.
Really, Chucky? Really?
On these microscopic, bass-less, weak-ass speakers?
What am I thinking?
I flip through the fifteen channels on the 32-inch flatscreen and see nothing worth watching. By the time I hear her knocking on the door, I realize I have no clue as to what we can do tonight, save one thing that I would be too petrified to even propose.
Marcia enters the room, her movements casual and unfazed, as if she were simply perusing the aisle of a grocery store. Clearly, she is nowhere near as nervous about being around me as I am her.
“All of these rooms must look the same, because mine is about the same size as this one. It’s just large enough to turn around in.”
“Yeah,” I say, desperate to sound as carefree as she appears. “I still haven’t used the bathroom in here because I’m afraid I might cop a squat and choke to death.”
She laughs, and I sigh a huge relief that my crude first joke has gone over well.
“Right?” she says, her cheeks still holding a smile. “I wonder why Lailah and Dizzy picked this place.”
“Price probably.”
“Definitely had to be the price.”
“Want to sit down?” I ask, pointing to the king-size bed.
“Chucky, you’re trying to get me in bed already?” she says. “You got two chairs over here, and you are already trying to go there?”
“I just figured the bed might be more comfortable than those raggedy chairs,” I say, hoping to cover up my faux pas.
“Chucky, I’m just messing with you.”
She sits down on the bed, but I remain standing, not sure if it would be too forward of me to sit next to her.
“I was trying to think of a few things for us to do, but I’m drawing a blank,” I say.
“Me, too. From what I hear, this place is pretty dead on a Saturday afternoon.”
“Well, are you hungry?”
“I’ll probably get there in a few. Still feeling that grilled chicken from the reception.”
“ Yeah,” I say. “I feel you.”
“So you’re from Atlanta, too?” she asks.
“Yes. I was telling Dizzy that I was surprised that I never met you before.”
“Atlanta is big. Lots of black folks there,” she jokes. “What do you do?”
“I just got a job at a small publishing company down in Little Five Points. We do graphic novels and stuff like that.”
“Really? That’s awesome!”
I can’t tell if she is humoring me or what. “Awesome?”
“Yeah. I’m a fan of Keith Knight of The K Chronicles, Harvey Pekar’s American Splendor, all that stuff.”
“You have to be kidding me, right? You actually know who those dudes are?”
“I’ve been reading graphic novels ever since I was in high school. I think Ghost World is the first book I ever finished.”
“So then you’ve heard of Cool Empire Press? That’s where I work.”
“Boy, you’re campaigning to become my favorite person.”
For the first time all day, I feel my shoulders drop and relaxation set in. She’s a fellow nerd. I can’t believe my luck!
“You should come by the office. I can show you around, let you see how we put things together,” I offer.
“Are you like an artist or editor or inker or something?”
“Well, I’m an editorial assistant. I started temping there a while back and they brought me on full-time.”
“That has to be the coolest job in the world.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I wouldn’t have taken you for a fangirl. You are pretty hot to be a citizen of Nerd Central.”
She laughs. “Well, thank you. I was thinking the same thing about you.”
I furrow my brow wondering how she could have thought that. I wear my Afro Nerdiness on my damn sleeve. But then I remember that I’m no longer the same Chucky Buckner who was 300 pounds and out of breath every time he walked up the basement steps to his grandmother’s kitchen.
“You don’t catch brothas who look like you getting on the fanboy tip,” she adds.
“Well, I didn’t always look like this. I used to be 300 pounds, but I started losing it about nine months ago.”
“Really?”
As she listens attentively, I tell her about what my life was like before I lost the weight, and against what should have been my better judgment, I mention Maya, although none of what I say fazes Marcia in the slightest.
Then she tells me about the last relationship she was in, which, interestingly, was even farther back than my relationship with Maya. For the next two hours we laugh and joke with each other, and by the time the pizza we ordered has arrived, I feel like I have known her for years, and not just these past two days.
I’m not even nervous anymore. It’s not that I’m no longer susceptible to her beauty—because I am—but it’s more like I have come to accept her beauty as being complementary to her personality. It feels as though we are kindred spirits, and I find myself wishing the day would never end.
Roughly an hour and half after we finish eating pizza, with Marcia stretched across my bed, barefoot and in her khaki shorts and t-shirt, she asks me, “Who was your first crush? Like celebrity crush.”
“I’m embarrassed to say.”
“Come on. It can’t be worse than mine.”
“Who was yours?” I ask.
“No. You first!”
“Promise you won’t judge me.”
“Only if you don’t judge me,” she responds.
I wait a beat before opening my mouth. “It was Carrie Fischer in Return of the Jedi. Princess Leia was the sexiest thing I had ever seen. She looked so good in the metal bikini that I couldn’t stop thinking about her for months.”
“Not bad,” she says. “I could see guys crushing on her. Mine is much worse, though. I had a crush on Michael J. Fox, especially in Back to the Future.”
“Interesting choice. I don’t know why I thought you’d say Billy Dee Williams as Lando Calrissian.”
“He was old enough to be my dad! There was no way I was going for that,” she says, laughing.
“So if I put on a sleeveless goose down jacket, some worn out jeans, and a pair of Nikes, you’d think I was sexy.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, then it’s settled. I’m hitting up Burlington Coat Factory as soon as I get back to the ATL.”
She laughs and touches my chest with her hand playfully. It’s the first time she has touched me since she’s entered the room. And I like it.
“Want to hear something crazy?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“I’m wearing my Princess Leia underwear right now.”
“You’re kidding me. No one has those.”
“I don’t mean the actual bikini she was wearing, but my bra and panties look like the bikini, at least design-wise. They’re brown and intricate. I call them my Princess Leia’s.”
No sooner than the words leave her mouth, I feel the flapping of butterflies growing in my stomach. They swoop down fast and furiously, and for a moment I stare at her, trying to imagine her dressed in the Jabba slave suit that had fed my imagination through my many years of self-gratification.
“You expect me to believe you without proof?” I ask, in a desperate attempt to satiate my curiosity as calmly as I can.
“Don’t challenge me,” Marcia responds coyly. “I’m comfortable with my body.”
I want to respond, “I want to be comfortable with your body, too,” but I shrug instead, letting her know that talk is cheap.
She hops up from the bed and takes off her t-shirt so quickly that I want to beg her to slow down and tease me a bit more. Before I know it, her t-shirt is lying across the bed and she is unbuttoning her shorts. That movement, too, is fast, and her shorts hit the floor in half a second, the khaki crinkling into a light pile. She scoops the shorts with her foot and kicks them onto the bed. It’s only when she puts her foot down and places her fists on her hips, like a superhero, that I really get a chance to take in the complete view.
Her light brown complexion looks as if it has been completely moisturized in cocoa butter since she was a baby. Not a lick of ash on her anywhere (I’m just saying, because I’ve seen a few ashy women in my day). Everything about her is sweet and feminine, from her feet, which look like they have never needed a pedicure a day in her life, to her neck, which clearly never saw the activator of a Jheri curl. She looks flawless. Perfect. Her hips are sweetly curved and her breasts are full and round. Her navel is pierced, emphasizing the flatness of her stomach. All I can do is stare for a moment, trying my best to maintain what I hope is a cool facade.
“You look pretty sexy,” I manage.
When I finally notice the design of her underwear, I feel my johnson snap to attention like it just entered basic training. She was right! They do look like Princess Leia’s bikini. Years of fantasies come rushing back to my head, and when they collide in this beautiful brown form in front of me, I find that I have to shift to adjust myself.
“Do you think they look like the ones from Return of the Jedi?”
“Oh yes!”
“So you like them then?”
I nod so furiously that I fear I might snap my damn neck.
She reaches for her t-shirt on the bed.
“Hold on,” I say, pulling the t-shirt away from her.
She smiles in response. “What?”
“I just want to look at you. It’s like Eddie Murphy said in that movie Life. ‘Why fo can’t I just sit here and look at yo ass?’”
She laughs and does a little dance in a circle that allows me to see the complete dimensions of her body for the first time. I am now rock hard, like Medusa sneaked a peak of my joint. I feel like I can bang my shit against a windshield and crack it all the way through.
“See?” she says, feigning model poses, clearly comfortable in her skin.
Again she reaches for her t-shirt, but I pull it away a second time.
“What?” she asks, the exasperation in her voice very contrived. “Why do you keep moving my shirt?”
“I don’t know. I guess I like looking at you like this.”
“You guess?”
“I could look at you like this all day long. For real.”
“So you want me to sit around in my underwear?”
“If I had my way, I would definitely want that,” I say, smiling, but deep in my stomach, I am more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
“What about you?” she asks. “Why should I be the only one sitting around in underwear? Go ahead, Magic Mike. Come up out those clothes.”
This is the first time that a woman has ever—in my life—requested that I take off my clothes, and I’m even more excited than I was a few seconds ago. I want to comply with her request, if only to make her happy, but then I can’t ignore the fact that I am sporting an erection you could pitch a tent on.
“I would,” I start, “but I’m having some technical difficulties.”
“Technical how?”
I lean forward putting my elbows on my knees. She sees this and laughs, not in a bad way, but in an amused way.
“I won’t judge you.”
“You don’t understand. I need to wait a few minutes before I take my pants off. You know, it would help if you talked about something else, like your favorite book or something like that.”
She laughs again and sits down on the bed beside me. For a second, I fear that she might reach over and grab me—which I pray she won’t do, because I’m too excited right now and don’t want to pull a Moby Dick (thar she blows!)—but she doesn’t.
“I like Tayari Jones, Junot Díaz, Zadie Smith, Victor LaValle, Tananarive Due. You know? Writers who are doing something other than street stuff. I don’t know if I have a favorite book though.”
“Yeah. I feel you,” I say, but in actuality I am trying to remember the starting line-up for the last three NBA World Champion teams (my trick for calming myself down when I get too aroused).
She looks at me for a moment, the silence of the room filling the void between us.
“Maybe I should put my clothes back on,” she offers.
“I really don’t want you to do that.”
“Well, find a way to even the odds then.”
I point to the light switch on the wall. “Could you please turn off the lights?”
She stands up and turns them off, tugging gently at the already closed blinds to ensure that they remain closed. Now I can hardly see her, which is perfect, because then she won’t be able to see me either.
“Is that better?” she asks.
This is all new territory for me. I’m already starting to feel embarrassed for acting like a little kid with the lights and all, but with Maya, things were slow and glacier-like, in terms of speed. Now, it feels like Marcia and I are about to start whatever this is with a bang. That’s definitely a first—and it’s a hell of a lot more pressure than I ever thought I would have in a situation like this. I don’t even know what to say right now, but I hear an affirmative hum buzz behind my sealed lips.
I stand up and remove my shirt, feeling blanketed by the darkness around me.
“Your silhouette is kickin’,” Marcia says.
“Oh. Thanks,” I mumble, not realizing that she could make me out in the dark.
I angle my body away before removing my pants. I’m starting to calm down a little, until I feel her hands touch my shoulders.
“You don’t have to be nervous around me. I like you. It’s cool.”
My pants hit the floor and I turn my head slightly. “I know you might not believe me, but I’m not all that smooth with this kind of thing.”
“Don’t worry about it. Most brothers have too much experience with women.”
“Well, that’s definitely not me,” I say, still angling my erection away from her, although, in all likelihood, she can’t really see me that well anyway.
“We don’t have to do anything that you don’t feel comfortable with,” she says, and I swear she sounds like a dude when she says this. “Keep in mind, the moment you tell me to put on my clothes, then we can turn the lights back on.”
This is intended as a joke, but I can only get out half a giggle before I decide to just turn around and go for it.
I don’t know what I expected before our lips touched, but it is nothing compared to the softness that I feel now. I’ve never been kissed like this—which isn’t saying a lot—but it feels like this is the first time a woman has actually desired me. And the feeling is amazing!
“I want you,” she says softly, her breath tickling my ear between light touches of her tongue.
I lose myself, and for the moment, I am not Charles Buckner. I am the passion of a Marvin Gaye vocal; I am the embodiment of every note, every melody, every lyric to every great love song ever written.
As my fingers massage the soft skin of her back, I moan in return, “I want you, too.”
We lie in a warm, damp embrace, and I can still feel my body tingling, remembering the feeling of her legs wrapped around my waist. Even with her naked backside now spooned against me, I can feel the phantom movements of her warmth stroking up and down my shaft. I kiss her shoulder blades and she moans softly.
“That was incredible,” I whisper into the nape of her neck.
She reaches back and takes my johnson in her hand and begins to massage me back to full erection. Once she is satisfied that I am aroused enough, she turns over and rolls on top of me, straddling me.
