“Head to Head: Part 1”
15 MIN READ
She called because she knew I would say, “Yes.” As a rule, summertime is for new undertakings and adventure. And this was about to become my second favorite summer of all time. So, yes.
“Yeah, I’ll stop by around 8. Can I bring something?”
“No. Just yourself and your smile.”
Small gatherings were not uncommon here. I saw Ashara’s brick red locs from the kitchen window and heard her wife’s boisterous laugh from outside. If rooms could glow, it would be tangerine.
I matched my knock to the bop playing inside. The person opposite the door catches the beat and we trade taps like a drum circle or go-go remix. Ashara met me outside the threshold and closed the door behind her for a secret cipher and brief concert.
“Aye, yo! Your name is Cree/ and you don’t know whyyy/ but you’re here to meet the homie Brooklynn to-niiight/ She just broke up with her bum ass chick/ I told her, aye sis, just slang some dick/ There’s no better cure for a broken heart than a fine ass chick who’s down to fuuuck.”
I spit back, “Ain’t had none in a minute, so she’s in luuuuck.”
Our embrace was one part hug and two parts dancing. “I love you, you scandalous bitch. Did you really just ho me out to your friend?”
“Relax, I didn’t say anything toooo her. She doesn’t even know you’re coming so it’s totally up to you.” Ashara hummed, “You’re welcome.”
She opened the door and presented me to the room. “Cree’s here!!” Family gathered in the kitchen eating Ashara’s famous wings with their hands, fresh from the frying oil. Familiar faces illuminated the room and we rushed to embrace, folding me into the vibe, one by one. I don’t see anyone new until I look off into the hallway.
The tallest woman I’ve ever seen walks toward us. She is easily 6’2”. Her cherry wood skin adorned with ink shown off in a tank top and shorts. Her walk was hardy and presidential. Her rigid, teetering shoulders lead heavily planted steps. She approached, drying her hands and I couldn’t help but stare. Her palms were broad, fingers long and bulky. They looked perfectly made for ass-slapping, designed specially by God for lesbian lust. I must have been staring. We locked eyes but she shyly looked away without speaking and fled into the living room.
“What was that?” Ashara whispered into my ear. I suggestively cut my eyes in her direction. Congratulating herself, Ashara quipped, “I called the right one.” I shrugged, raised my eyebrow and cleaned the meat off of a drum. “Your wings hit every time.”
“Don’t you change the subject. You scared a whole Zaddy.”
“Maybe I’m the Zaddy.”
“We’ll see.”
As the mystery woman sat in the other room playing with the dog, we licked salty grease off of our fingers and laughed about nothing. In a moment of pause, I made my way to the couch to introduce myself. Cross-legged and burrowed into pillows on the loveseat, I announce, “Hi, my name is Cree. I’m Ashara’s friend. It’s nice to meet you.”
The dog cheerfully moved to greet me and she followed him with her eyes. He wagged his jet-black tail, slapping it against her knee.
“Ouch.” She looked up, but only at the dog and mumbled, “My name’s Brooklynn.”
Her voice was corpulent, booming and rippled through my root. Her masculine energy radiated from subtle gestures: Legs spread wide and strong and hands fanned out over her knees as she rubbed the one hit by the dog. I noticed a scar.
“Knee surgery?”
“Yeah, an old basketball injury.”
“What position did you play?”
“Three.”
“Oh, me too, once upon a time but wasn’t very good.”
“I played in college but got hurt so I had to quit.”
“That must’ve been hard for you.”
“It was.”
“Okay, well, it was nice meeting you.” I said as I uncrossed my legs and arose. This time she watched me and promptly reattached to the group.
Brooklyn and Ashara became the focus of the room, rehashing memories and discussing the comings and goings of friends. The conversation shifted exclusively to Brooklynn’s recent breakup and the reason for her visit. Another love lost in explosive fashion. Some of the particulars were uniquely familiar so we began to swap stories over drinks and passed J’s. I can see why Ashara invited me. I watched Brooklynn’s golden brown eyes as she spoke to the room but never directed them toward me. When it was my turn to be the center of attention she listened and responded, restricting eye contact to the bottom of her red solo cup.
We all moved to the deck and Ashara strategically seated Brooklynn and I beside each other. The warm air and hanging lights made the weekend feel like a proper vacation. Maybe it was the mood, the weed, or something I said, but, a barricade cracked. A sliver of Brooklynn’s bashful veneer fractured. She skimmed my knee, looked me in the eyes and asked, “Can I get you anything?”
I responded, demure and mannerly, “Water, please.”
Ashara was watching, waiting to catch my gaze for unvoiced conversation and covert conspiracy.
When Brooklynn returned she casually demanded I stay the night. I agreed and stated that I have to leave before six.
“Fine, as long as you stay.” We exchanged another quick, loaded glance.
As the night and smoke settled, I withdrew to the living room loveseat and drifted off to the serenading hum of gossip and glee. Roused by closer murmuring, I peeked out from under my cover. It was Brooklynn getting settled into the couch across from me.
Apologetically Brooklynn stammered, “I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”
“Only a little.”
“Hey, did you set your alarm?”
“Shit, no.”
“I got it.”
“Awww, Thank you.”
***
Chatter from the remaining people outside murmured softly and I lay disturbed. Not by their noise, but by my own reaction to Brooklynn’s proximity. Wondering, could she hear my heart rate quicken? I tried my best to be still and quiet my roaring spirit while she fumbled with her covers and comfort. One second her back was turned, the next she squirmed towards me. She flipped a few times before settling with her body fronting mine. There we lay, on opposite sides of the living room, her on the couch, me on the loveseat, face to face, divided only by a coffee table. I officially resolved to accept our shared restlessness and brazenly asked, “Do you like to cuddle?”
“I do,” she affirmed plainly.
I purred, “Can I cuddle you?”
She countered by lifting her cover and gesturing for me to be her little spoon. Smoothly, restraining overt enthusiasm, I sauntered over and placed my back against her chest. She wrapped her arm around me, securing my body, explaining,
“I don’t want you to fall off.”
I received that as an invitation to reduce the space between us, so I arched my back and nudged my ass suggestively into her torso. Respectfully clarifying lascivious intentions, I paused and repeated the motion. Intuitively, she transformed into the aggressor and placed her hand around my throat. Her long fingers pressed against my cheek and maneuvered my turning face into hers. I affectionately twist to meet her lips, and as I do, her hand and the other arm around me squeeze tighter. Our tongues writhed despite her merciless grip. My hips roamed free and squirmed like drunk women stuck in a bar bathroom line. She slid her hand under my shirt. “You’re not wearing a bra.” And then the other up and over the elastic waist of my pants. “Or panties.” I seized her wrist and nudged her hand further south. Her arm extended over my body and into my pussy. Amazed she exclaimed, “Fuck, you’re wet.”
I reached behind to cover her mouth and silence her from listening ears in the other room but as she stroked, I became the offender. The more I moaned, the more firmly her palm ground against my clit and fingers curled inside my pussy. I fought for breath when she pulled out and reentered me from behind. Her fingers mercilessly and desperately sought my pleasure. Her free hand wrapped tightly around my mouth to muffle screams as I crescendo and descend into her gravitational pull.
Ashara was right.
***
Brooklynn’s alarm went off at 6 am. I turned it off before she noticed and slipped out. That afternoon I got a text from Ashara. Mobbing tonight. Free wings at the spot before 10. Come, the text reads.
You and these wangs. Brooklynn coming? I text back.
Duh and duh again
Lls. You’ll see me later
I arrived alone and began the familiar parade of visibility and invisibility. Male eyes watch but don’t really see me as I strut over to the bar. I found a spot and waved for the bartender. A quick-moving man slid into the seat next to me and called for her by name. She approached and he asked, “What can I get you?” Responding directly to her, I say, “Ginger Ale, please.” He ordered her to put it on his tab. I politely declined, but he insisted. Fortuitously, as he began to make conversation I felt a hand reach from around my back and a voice speak directly into my ear, low and slow, “I missed you this morning.”
I turned and matched Brooklynn’s possessive body language with a kiss on the cheek. The seated man looked up at her while she both greeted and dismissed him with a head nod. Startled, he retreated in silence.
“I got us a table.”
She placed her hand on the small of my back and guided me through the crowd. Her presence placed us in a fishbowl of protection and observation. I choose to relish in the former and focus on Ashara dancing off in the distance. The reflection of blue lights made her skin look purple and iridescent like a star in the milky way. Perhaps that’s where we went. A cluster of dancing Black women transcending earthly time, our shapely bodies moved without apology into an untouchable space.
Inspired by the freedom of the moment, I decided to make my way to Brooklynn, part her seated legs and dance between them. I glanced over my shoulder to gauge her reaction. She leaned in, sweeping her long curly hair against my bare shoulder. Affectionately, I reached for her arm and placed it around my waist.
“Are you always this free?” She asked.
I responded, “I am no one’s wife.”
“I really like you.” She said kissing the back of my neck. “I could smell you on my fingers when I woke up this morning, but you weren’t there. I felt some kind of way.” She bids, as she planted another kiss on the other side of my neck. “Anyway, I’m glad you came out tonight.”
I countered, “I came to see you. Last night keeps running through my mind.”
“This is my last night in the city,” Brooklynn announced.
Looking back and into her eyes I chimed in, “Then we should probably make it count.”
I turned my body to face her almost entirely and ran my hand over the tattoo on her neck. I gently tilted her head to get a better look and take note of a design that trailed down her shoulder. As I ran my finger under the collar of her shirt to touch a bit of the unseen I asked, “Do you talk about your ink?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, is it okay if I ask questions?”
“About this one?” She asked, patting her shoulder. “It’s a dinosaur. I loved them as a kid but my mother wouldn’t let me play with “boy’s” toys. No matter how many times I asked, she always said, ‘No.’ So, one of the first things I did when I moved to LA was get this T-rex. It makes me feel connected to the little boy I never got to be and reminds me to show up for the masculine side of myself now.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you for that. Can you show me later?”
“I can show you now, if you’re ready to go.”
I turned to straddle her still-spread legs, reach between them and challenge reality. Hoping sensitivity and imagination prevail, I gave her jeans a sturdy tug. She kissed me deep and hard. I submit, captured and dominated by her gentle strength. Our tongues were pendulum orbs giving and receiving force, exchanging vibration. My body’s reaction to her touch reminded me of the night prior and its response to her hands so I reached for them.
“Are you left-handed?” I ask, isolating my attention based on her reply.
“I am.”
I wove my fingers into hers and drug them up their length, gently grazing and building a tickling sensation. I lightly jerked the one in the middle, isolating it, twirling and pulling more and more firmly. “This one’s my favorite.”
Her mouth sits agape before declaring, “I’m getting the house keys. Don’t move.”
***
We sat in the back seat of our Lyft, cuddled up like familiar lovers. Brooklynn’s arm draped over my shoulder and her fingers gripped my ribcage, just below the breast. The driver made conversation and I found myself bothered. Brooklynn, sensing the stiffness in my spine, synchronously responded to us both. She sociably replied to the driver and suggestively answered my body language with some of her own. Her fingers silently slipped under the bottom of my bra and over my breast. She casually circled my nipple with the tip of her index finger, awakening her resting toy. As she spoke to this woman in the front seat, two feet away, she rolled my nipple between her fingers, underneath my shirt and out of view.
In that moment, the power shifted. Brooklynn’s touch awakened my skin. My sun-kissed shins prickled, the slightly-exposed skin on my sides jealously begged for attention, the tender skin between my legs tingled and dampened, the skin on my nipple tightened and gathered all of itself to feel her.
Indulgently tranquil, my spine relaxed. Every thought drowned out by her alternately grazing, twirling, and pinching fondling. Aware of our company, I tried to muffle the audible evidence of pleasure. But, like the night prior, I failed.
The driver peeked into the rearview mirror but politely continued conversation. After a few secret glances back she noticed my satisfied eyes waiting for hers. Startled, she jerked them away and carried on pretending not to see. I raised my volume just a bit so she could hear.
Brooklynn squinted her eyes and fixed her mouth to silently command my silence. “Shhhhh,” she mouthed while squeezing a bit harder. I obeyed and turned my body towards hers to breathe silently and rapidly into her chest. Her conversation stopped.
Anticipation felt like a banging drum no one could hear but me. Brooklynn steadily thumped against stretched rawhide and her vibration was trapped inside me like sound waves against hollowed wood. At this point I would let her lay me across this backseat or pin me to the grassy lawn in front of the house for the neighbors to see. The prospect of her being inside me outweighed logic or care.
On the verge of orgasm, the car stopped and Brooklynn said, “I’m giving her a good tip.”
Breathless, I reply, “I think we already did.”
***
Once inside, Brooklynn boxed me in between the closed door and her towering frame. She placed either hand beside my head and aligned her collarbone to my lips. Her body was like a cage of sugar over some fancy dessert. It was me. I was the decorated delicacy waiting to be devoured. She was the fragile barrier between restraint and decadence. We both came to indulge.
Brooklynn kissed me as passionately in private as she had in public, this time asserting her strength and gallantly lifting me off my feet.
Audibly surprised, a series of erratic “Oh’s” flow out feverishly. She carried me into the bedroom, placed me on the mattress and bid me to, “Take off your clothes” before retreating back into the hall.
I removed them, layer by layer in the moonlit room and seated my naked body atop the soft, down comforter. She re-entered, warm tea in hand and gasped, “Fuck, you’re beautiful. You must hear that all the time.”
“I like hearing it from you.” I genuinely responded.
She set the warm mugs on the table beside the bed and leaned in for another slow, deep kiss. The fantasy I imagined after last night’s tryst was about to come to life and I found myself exercising restraint.
Retracting, I ask, “What’s your favorite part on a woman’s body?”
Mirroring the action, she retorts, “Well, all women are different so it depends on the person. I can tell you what I like about your body. I like your eyes and the intensity of your stare. I really, really like your thighs. This place right here.” She said, squeezing the meaty part beneath my hip bones and pressing her thumbs into the inside of each thigh, like she was catching a football. Her hands were a revelation.
“What about on your own body? What parts do you like?”
“I don’t really think about it. I guess I like being tall.”
“I like it too. Okay, how about this. Where do you like to be touched?”
With a languid sigh she responded, “That’s a complicated question. It’s hard to talk about. I like to be touched on my neck and the back of my head while we kiss. If I like you, you can touch my ears.”
“Like this?” I whispered, leaning forward to kiss her earlobe.
Breathlessly, Brooklynn whimpered, “Yes.”
I casually lifted off her shirt, undid and tugged at her pants with her assistance. Sweat gathered in the divide that ran down her core.
Dragging my hand over the lines along her sides I jabbed, “Don’t stay with me because I will feed you and happily ruin all of this.” Shifting my touch to her broad shoulders, I added, “You weren’t kidding, this is a dinosaur.” Tracing ferocious, exposed teeth with my finger tips.
“It’s a predator, like me. Let me eat you up.”
I leaned back, welcoming the demonstration of her expertise. She leaned forward, hovered over me and sealed our connection. Her golden eyes fixed on mine as I ran each middle finger along her jawline. From behind her ears, down to her chin and back again, intentionally firm and tender.
I raised my knees to her hips as we kissed. She rolled her back and thrust her hips demonstrating her stroke. I unconsciously spread my knees, wrapped my legs around her waist and granted her entry. “I bet you’re dangerous with a strap.”
She kissed me harder before arrogantly stating, “Yes, but I don’t need it.” All of her weight bore down on my body and her pace became slow and deliberate. I squeezed my legs and everything between them to pull her closer. Something inside of us connected. Startled, Brooklynn drew back and looked at me with new, almost loving eyes. Slightly tearfully she shared, “I want to love someone.”
“I won’t hurt you, Brooklyn.” I comforted, kissing her cheeks and forehead. She released a deep sigh and collapsed. Petting the back of her neck and planting another kiss on her forehead I said, “We can just lay here if you want.”
For a brief moment, she felt resigned to my nurturing caress. Until, without moving, reached down with her left hand and easily slid her middle finger into my warm, wet, pussy. Her mouth beside my ear, in a deep and throaty voice she bellowed, “That’s not what your pussy says.”
“Uhhhhhh.” I groaned. She was right. My selfish pussy knew that this was all we had and my heart knew she was leaving in the morning.
“Your pussy feels like a warm bath. Slippery and swelling. Open up for me.”
A few strokes of her long middle finger confirmed her command. Its straightening and curling movements amplified vibrations of pleasure. She twirled her finger with the same motion I used to tangle her curls into my own digits. I could feel the walls of my pussy blooming, expanding and contracting. Sensing my heightened degree of readiness, she pulled out, braced herself against the bed and slid herself down the length of my body. Burrowing her face between my thighs, she opened me herself: waving her tongue from side to side, traveling up my lips, undoing the embankment, spilling streams onto the shore.
The house was silent. Wailing cries played a game of catch between the walls and our ears. My wonton, whining yelps spilled uncontrollably into the empty room. Brooklynn’s rhythmic tongue screwed tighter into obscurity and robbed me of all restraint. She dominated movement itself, detaining my legs with her hands and swaying her face to unknown measure and meter. She switched motion, licking up with the tip of her tongue and down with its textured underbelly. The cadence of her pace seemed completely dictated by my response to her touch. When I was swollen and full she wrapped her lips around my clit, dragging its length with their soft inside, alternating light pull with the firm push of her tongue.
This time, I didn’t need to muffle the screaming or shy away from heavy breathing. Rumbling shouts released into the air as I pulled at Brooklyn’s hair and fuck back into her face. Her neck swiveled like ancestral clapbacks and her face slid like an iron against their Sunday best. And then, like a chorus erupting in blissful, bountiful praise, I sang. Eyes closed, fingers splayed like a choir director keeping time, legs slammed shut like french double doors, I sang.
Ashara was right.
***
The following morning I opened my eyes to a room I hardly recognized. The woman beside me was deep in sleep. Her back was turned and her hair was wild. I placed my hand at the center of her back to wake her. When she didn’t stir I resigned to prayer:
Please comfort Brooklyn and care for her heart. Let the people in her path have good intentions and let her experiences going forward be healing. Let love find her and shine through in her life.
I placed my feet on the floor and began to get dressed, somewhat thankful for the absence of a formal goodbye. A notepad and pen sit on the desk beneath the window. I wrote this note and placed it on the bed along with a small rose quartz from my purse before letting myself out.
Dear Brooklynn,
This weekend was perfect. Thank you for letting me share space with you. My body thanks you and my heart thanks you. You have such a sweet spirit and I know love will find you. Travel safe.
—Cree