Have you ever feasted on someone?
Had them feed on you too?
Zombie love, ravenous,
draining and energizing at the same time.
A banquet of human flesh and imagination.
Sensations that carry you beyond
everything.
Leaving the table full and content.
Have you ever been consumed with lust?
Ravished all night long with tasting
Pleasure beyond your wildest dreams?
I have…and I want more.
First, Ibrahim Ibrahim, was a Civil Engineering student getting his masters at the University of Washington in 1966. I saw him across a crowded room where my girlfriend and I had gone to a foreign exchange tea for new students and we were looking for guys. I found one. He was a black version of my father who was a Civil Engineer. It was an instant attraction and he came right over to me. We were together for the next two years. Together isn’t really the right word. We were entwined in very unique ways for awhile. I was so young and he was careful with me. I was a virgin.
In those days it was necessary to be a virgin when you were married. I thought long and hard about that and Ibrahim and I only necked and fondled each other madly in his little apartment. He and I did meet for coffee on campus and he would get me back to my sorority just in time for the curfew. That is when one of the sorority sisters saw that he was Black. She told my mother who was in tears the next time I went to visit her.
Then I got pregnant. The condom had slipped the one time we had attempted to “do it” and I can remember Ibrahim saying, “Oh my goodness.” He said the same thing when I told him on the phone that I was pregnant. He was half way back to Sudan by then and that was all he could say. I wonder if he thinks he has a child in America. He doesn’t because I told my mom and my parents paid for a trip to Japan to have an abortion. The baby would have been like Obama is now, same age and skin color. I know I wouldn’t have done the same job his mother did tho. I was a hippy by then.
Being a hippy meant that you spent lots of time on the fringes of the university. They were first called “fringies” in Seattle and then hippies. I met Wayne in the Art Department. No, I can’t remember exactly where we met. Time plays tricks on me sometimes. I remember him coming to my apartment near the University of Washington and laying on the pull out sofa with me. He asked me if I was ready and I didn’t really know what that meant. Then he showed me. I never was really ready for him but he was so beautiful to look at that I have only positive memories of him.
I remember how he walked in the Seattle rain with his face upturned to the drops. He was very powerful. I remember his drawings. He had a friend named Fritz who liked me too. He was short, fat, white and fuzzy. We had sex a few times. The best memory of my time with Wayne was when we “hid” in the bushes on the fringe of the campus to smoke a joint. A campus cop came by and interrupted us but Wayne knew him. They had a nice little chat and then the fellow went away. Wayne and I seemed invincible. The last memory I have of him is when he was walking on a sidewalk and noticed me walking by with my girlfriend who happened to be a beautiful, tall black woman. I remember him taking her in and coming over to say “Hi”. I don’t think anything came of it. Life moves fast sometimes.
Then came the Chef. We met on the internet when I was in my fifties and working at the Art Supply store in Seattle. He came to the store and oogled me. He was married to an alcoholic and very sad about that. We met only one time and had coffee in the eclectic neighborhood of Fremont in Seattle. After our tea I took him back to my little seculed apartment by the fish pond and we made love. The light came thru the window on our chocolate and vanilla swirl and that vision will always be a wonderful one for me. He had to deal with his wife and I never saw him again.
My last Black Lover is coming thru the door in about fifteen minutes. He is twenty six years younger than I am and has the same birthday as my father. He is one of the best lovers I have ever had and he likes the things I do to him too. I wish him well in this world as he is a veteran of the mideast wars and even tho he is strong and big he is fragile. I do what I can to help him and he helps me. That is all we can ask in this world. Mix the races and be kind.
I had a cold for a few days last weekend. Low energy and a fight for survival and health. It took my mind off of sex. Now I am back and feeling alive. Energy. All of a sudden I remember the sexual energy I have been so fortunate to experience in my life. I want it to fuel me.
This energy is holy. People are afraid of the abuse of this energy and rightly so. However there is a use for it we cant access if we are too afraid. Channeling that tingling in my pussy to make me sit up straighter and swivel my hips a little.
I can feel the pull to be with another person intimately. I know several people who could help me ride the waves of this energy. I know how to surf by myself but it is nice to share. It actually multiplies the feeling a hundred fold with the right partner. Of course with the wrong partner it can drain whatever high you have right into an abyss.
My heart is broken. It broke a long time ago when I was a little girl. I don’t know what love is except maybe for my daughters and granddaughter. I try to love my mother but she is difficult. It is like hugging a pordupine and that is the title of a book about people with PTSD.
However, my emotions don’t seem to damper my sexual desire. I crave the high. Relationships can make sex go away. Love always breaks your heart because either the partner goes away or dies. So sex without relationships should avoid pain. Right?
I see hotness everywhere. I remember a group of home school mothers who wouldn’t let their children watch tv. The hottness reminds them of HELL. So when they feel that little tingle in their pussy they wince. I can’t relate to that.
I’m done with my cold and I’m happy, happy, happy.
Zanelle 