Year of the Slut: Voodoo.

I don't remember the number of this one & I can't be bothered to scramble for the list & share it with you because I don't believe it's of any real importance. It doesn't stop it from being a reality. Doesn't stop me from subsisting only on sweet recollection of the entire affair.

Of those very specific moments.

So I'll just call it 'Voodoo'.

This boy, in essence, was sort of like Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde. When I remember his clothed temperament in comparison to his naked one I'm always a little blown away & utterly stimulated. To see such a switch, so real & capable, a man's unmitigated overhaul of his general personality driven by complete passion.

He was electrifying. It's not something I think I'll ever be able to truly forget, because it was just so full of what I demanded from a man, from a soul I'm willing to intertwine with my own. Whether it was passion for my sexual skill or passion for myself, his fire burned me.

He left countless marks.

A Nigerian boy. An Ibo boy. Visually not at all my type, but all the young girls around him were jocking so he was confident enough in himself for me to let this go. There was something about his nature that attracted me at first. When we were in social circles, he was the most quiet, the most concerned & the most distant from everyone else.

Being aware of the unknown potential in such men I was immediately drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. Bee to honey. A fly struggling against a spider's web. I simply couldn't help myself. I had to know.

So I went about it as girls normally do, made myself ever present, seduced through moments filled with smoke. Basically came out of nowhere with my interest in him & then when I fucked him? & woke up the next morning with a slew of hickies lining my shoulder blades? I dived into every part of him.

I was intoxicated with the slight sting my bruises provided the day after our encounters. It was my alcohol. My THC.

I see flashes of him pushing me into dark corners, eyes ablaze with an inferno so sincere that it took my very breath away, I was suffocating in a burning house. With pleasure. Willingly. He enflamed me with the essence of him.

Left memories by sucking on my skin as he buried himself into my stomach. He gripped as he ground against my soul. Plowed into my subconscious. He made me remember. He made me want to remember.

Stripping in the dark. Soft streetlights filtering through the shades illuminating my task. My eyes never left his as I rolled my dress down to reveal nothing underneath but my glistening black beads. I smiled coyly & swayed to his bed, laying down on my stomach, face turned away from him. Poised like Solomon's great black love waiting for her ancient King.

He stood over my body for a moment. Then I felt a finger tip slowly creep up from my Achilles heel, to the back of my knees, to the thickness of my thighs, to the curve of my ass, his nails dug deeper here, to the small of my back, to the side of my neck & then back again.

His imagination is what enthralled me the most. Within that quiet nature, that stoic face & serious manner was a never ending fervency that took over once my clothes came off.

He'd be almost frozen in time, until I reached out to touch him, until I instigated some sort of physical communication then he would just rain down on me. So hard, torrentially, it felt like a hurricane of sickeningly painful indulgence. & what's more, I saw the transformation clear in his eyes.

I watched him turn.

For me.

The way it ended still saddens me in a way. As Mr. Blac Garner says “Can anything end well when you never wanted it to end?”. It was abrupt, illogical & a little painful. Perhaps it was a casualty of my growth, but my body still remember his.

The bruises fade but the feeling remains.

I will never forget that energy he drowned me in continuously.
I will never forget the sting of each mark left on my flesh.
Flesh I thought immune to such.

See, the nigga, SURPRISED me.

His type of loving cut me deep.
Made me appreciate passion once more.
Made me appreciate burning in that pit of fire.

Made me appreciate my wounds.

It's no fun if it don't hurt.

Year of the Slut continues.