9. Kayshon
The date…
Ashari P:
How am I supposed to dress for this date? You didn’t give me any details and women have to know.
“Why do y’all women have to ask so many questions?” I ask.
“Well, that depends on the subject matter. Give me a little more context so I can provide a more thorough answer,” Ms. Aretha says.
“Instead of allowing me to lead like a man, Ms. Ashari wants details on our date.”
Ashari is unlike any woman I have messed with, which says a lot because I’m not big on dating. Fucking is my best friend because it means I can leave my feelings out of my interactions. While Ashari isn’t my first girlfriend or anything like that, it has been a few years since I’ve taken a woman seriously in that aspect.
“I’m not understanding. What details does she want to know?” She gives me an inquisitive look with a wooden spoon in her hand.
“What to wear,” I say.
“Oh, my misguided baby. That’s a necessary detail unless you want her to be dressed like who shot John. Provide those details and let the rest be a mystery,” Ms. Aretha says, smiling and resuming preparing the meal for tonight’s date.
While Ms. Aretha is the reason I know how to cook, she also told me that securing my wife would start with her food versus whatever I threw together. After spending most of the day overseeing the preparations for tonight, I didn’t argue with her. Sighing, I typed out a response to Ashari’s text. I'm thankful she didn’t send a follow-up during my brief conversation with Ms. Aretha.
Me:
My bad, Shari. Dress comfortably but better than you would if lounging at your crib.
Ashari P:
Oh, so the purple bonnet and matching mu-mu won’t work?
“What the hell is a mu-mu?” I ask, frowning. Ms. Aretha laughs heartedly as if I’ve told the best joke she’s heard today.
“The best comfort wear us women can invest money in. It allows us to be completely free. Although I’m surprised you’re asking.”
“That’s only because Ashari is insinuating that it’s what she has in mind with me telling her to dress comfortably but unlike she would at her crib.” I regurgitate Ashari’s words, causing Ms. Aretha to laugh again as my brows wrinkle, unsure of what’s so funny about what I said.
Placing the spoon down, Ms. Aretha grabs her phone and begins tapping before extending the phone toward me.
“This is a mu-mu, baby.”
My face drops, a frown forms, and deep wrinkles spread on my forehead when I see the old lady gown she’s showing me. Shaking my head, my fingers quickly move over the keyboard in response to Ashari.
Me:
Hell nah. As a matter of fact, how many of those shits do you own?
Ashari:
LOL. Fine. See you at seven, Kayshon *kissing face emoji*
“Hold up, she ain’t answer about how many of those granny dresses she has,” I say.
“Leave it alone, Kayshon. Go make sure those workers got your design right,” Ms. Aretha says, pushing me toward the backyard with a smirk I’m not feeling.
“Did you make this food?” Ashari asks, causing my dick to twitch at seeing not only her enjoying her meal but the little moans escaping her mouth with each insert of her fork.
Fuck! We ain’t gonna make it through the end of this night without me dipping my dick in her.
“Kayshon?” Ashari calls my name, forcing me out of my head and the thought invading my mind.
“What’s good, Shari?”
“You ain’t paying me any attention. I don’t like that.”
Trust me. The attention I’m paying you is about to have your pretty ass bent over, taking deep strokes.
“My bad. What did you say?”
“Did you cook this? If so, I might need you to come chef it up a few times a week. It’s so good.”
Ms. Aretha had done her thing with the meal Ashari and I are indulging in, and while I want to, I know it would be wrong to take the credit for it. However, seeing Ashari’s eyes close while sinking her teeth into the parmesan-crusted lamb chop in her hand makes me strongly consider it. Tonight's menu is parmesan-crusted lamb chops, loaded mashed potatoes, broccoli, and a pineapple upside-down cake for dessert. According to Ms. Aretha, the asparagus I had bought would cause me to forfeit sampling Ashari’s treat, whatever that shit means. We’re eating in my formal dining room, which I never get a chance to use despite it being set up all the time. When we’re done with dinner, I have a special setup for us in my backyard that I’m hoping Ashari approves of.
“Nah. Uh—damn, Shari, you’re killing me,” I say, staring at her lustfully as another moan escapes her throat, causing my dick to jump and push against my pants.
“I’m sorry. Who do I need to thank for this deliciousness?” Ashari asks, giggling lightly.
“Ms. Aretha.”
“Oh, good. She’s close enough that I can beg her to run this back for me the next time I see her.” The jovial expression covering Ashari’s face makes the room feel lighter and brighter with her single act of appreciation.
My chest expands greatly at knowing Ms. Aretha had been on to something with taking over tonight’s meal and allowing me to win some brownie points with Ashari.
“Aye, what’s your stance on staying friends with an ex?” I ask, desperate to change the sexual energy stirring within my body as I take a bite of the mashed potatoes on my plate.
“Hm. That’s random as hell. Did the cat lady beg you to run between us, and did you want to get my opinion without asking or something?”
The instant change in Ashari’s tone and the tightness surrounding her eyes has a slow smirk upturning my lips at effectively shifting the atmosphere.
“Mind enlightening me on why you call that girl cat lady,” I say, smirking.
“Three days after I moved into the community, I saw her trying to walk three cats with tutus and tiaras on their little heads. It was the strangest thing I’ve seen in my life, and it led to the name.”
“Wow. That shit is funny as fuck. To answer your question… nah, I’m cool on her. After being in the presence of a woman like you, a nigga could never go back to subpar pussy.”
Honesty and I weren’t a thing, so leaving her alone to pursue Ashari had been a no-brainer for me.
“Then why ask the question?” Ashari asks, her lip curling while staring intently at me.
“I’m trying to determine if the nigga I saw at your spot is gonna end up on a T-shirt or a milk carton.”
“What ni—oh. Are you stalking me, Kayshon?” she asks as if remembering the nigga I’m referencing without answering my inquiry while waving her hand dismissively.
“At the time… yeah, but that’s not the point, and you ain’t answer my question.”
“We weren’t together back then, so it doesn’t matter who I?—”
“You have been mine since you had me wanting to not only remix an old-school but sing the shit to the top of my lungs. Instead, I settled on letting you in on our future.”
“Wait… what? What song are you talking about?” Ashari asks, laughing like this shit is a game.
“The Rain,” I say deadpan as my chest pinches at the sappy ass song that enters my mind at this moment.
“Who sings that?” Her face, brows, and mouth twist cutely as my heart rate picks up, and a warm feeling spreads across my chest.
Pretty ass Ashari.
“The one and only… Oran Juice Jones.”
“Who?”
“Aw, how do you not know the song, man? What kind of music do you be listening to?”
“Gospel… preferably old school gospel because the new school stuff ain’t a lick of Jesus in it,” she says matter-of-factly, causing me to stare at her blankly because I didn’t see her responding with this genre for an answer.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Uh, no. Don’t be dissing gospel music. I’m a heathen, but gospel makes me feel like everything is gonna be all right, already all right, and will continue to be all right.”
“Let’s change the subject before you have my ass in here Milly rocking with Kirk Franklin to prove how hard gospel goes.”
“Ewe, no. I’m not a Kirk Franklin fan. You totally missed the fact that I said old-school gospel. I’m more of a Kathy Taylor, Luther Barnes, James Cleveland, Mississippi Mass Choir type of girl. Damn, who raised you?” she asks, throwing her hands up. A perturbed expression fills her face.
“Here comes the heathen in you. How are you gonna talk about your favorite gospel singers and then cuss at me a millisecond later?” I ask as a low chuckle slips, and I shake my head at the cute expression she’s wearing like I’ve failed her.
“Oh Lorddd, I’ve sinned, but you’re still calling myyy nameeee. Ohh—,” she starts singing, causing my head to snap back from the assault to my ear canal.
“Whoa. Whoa, Shari. Please stop, and don’t ever do that again,” I say, frowning.
“Forget you. You and your brother are some haters,” she says, laughing hysterically, bringing a cheery feeling to the room as I shake my head at her.
“Whatever. You got Sassy’s ears burning, and she ain’t even here. Damn, your tone-deaf ass wouldn’t fit in a pageant choir sounding like that. Man. Despite this shortcoming, I’m gonna have to figure out how to love you.”
“Unh. Unh. That’s it, Shari. Take this dick like a good girl.” Slapping Ashari’s ass cheeks, I thrust into her warm, sopping pussy from behind, trying not to cum too soon.
It’s crazy because one minute, we’re chilling inside the tent in my backyard with Ashari in the nook of my underarms. The next, I’m undressing her, then myself, and positioning her on all fours before entering her inviting walls. I blame Love Belvin and that dining room scene in Love Uncharted for writing such sexual content that Ashari’s arousal hit my nose like a fucking speed bump. I dare not blame Ms. Aretha for the book recommendation when I told her my idea for how Ashari and I would end our first date. Trying to give Ashari a new experience, I had a tent with lights around the opening. Campers' lanterns were strategically placed in front of the tent to provide lighting on the outside. Inside the tent was an air mattress, a small table with another lantern, and the temporary bed that had been made with my reading device lying in wait.
“Hold on, Kayshon. Go sl—mm. Go slower,” Ashari says, reaching back to push me off her.
“Fuck. This shit is too good to slow down. Move your hand.” Slapping her hand like she’s a two-year-old, I dig deeper into her guts.
“Kay—Kayshon. Wait,” Ashari says.
Ignoring her pleas, I thrust into her tunnel with punishing and deep strokes, chasing my nut as my toes begin tingling, forcing me to grip her waist. My mouth twists as I clench my teeth, and I feel the familiar sensation rising to the surface.
“Fuck!” I shout when my nut shoots from the tip of my dick into the condom I thankfully took the time to put on. Stilling over Ashari’s back, I hover as sweat drips from my forehead onto her bare back.
“Wow,” Ashari mumbles.
“I know. This shit was banging.” Easing out of Ashari’s pussy, I drop beside her on the mattress as it squeaks in protest.
I throw my arm over my eyes and attempt to regulate my breathing as silence fills the air around the tent.
“Uh, can you take me home now?” Ashari asks.
“I thought you could stay with me. I had this space set up for us,” I say without the presence of my eyes as my dick twitches slightly.
“Humph. Wow. Okay.” Movement from Ashari hits my ears simultaneously as fatigue begins taking over my body.
In a matter of seconds, I’m out like a nigga who's been in the ring fighting an opponent with Evander Holyfield's speed and accuracy. Uncovering my dick to dispose of the condom, make sure Ashari is comfortable, and anything else takes a back seat to allow sleep to take precedence over everything.
*chirp, chirp, chirp*
The sound of birds chirping has me stirring and opening my eyes to realize that I’m still lying on my back with the condom covering my dick as it hangs on my thigh. Looking beside me, I frown instantly at not seeing Ashari lying next to me.
“Where the hell is she?” I ask groggily.
Sitting up, I look around the tent as if Ashari would somehow appear, despite the small capacity within this space. Without making a mess, I slowly peel the condom from my dick and tie it in a knot before grabbing my discarded clothes. With my mind on Ashari’s whereabouts, I quickly put on my clothes and leave the tent. The lanterns still glow despite the sun shining bright in the sky, causing me to turn them off before making my way to my back door.
“Ashari. Ashari,” I call out as soon as I enter the house as silence pierces the atmosphere, causing my forehead to wrinkle. “Where is she?”
Moving further into the house, I first head to the front door, noting that both locks are secured. My eyebrows squish together as I rub my beard before disengaging the locks and pulling open the front door. Stepping onto my porch, my eyes dart left to right before I reenter the house, lock the door, and jog up my stairs to the second floor.
“Ashari,” I call as silence again greets me like a bucket of water, letting me know that Ashari isn’t here. “What the fuck? Where the hell did she go, and why didn’t she wake me to say something before doing so?”
Entering my bedroom, I plop down on my bed before removing my phone from my pocket and dialing her number.
The customer is unavailable.
“What the fuck,” I say when the automated voice sounds in my ear, causing me to hang up and dial Ashari’s number, only to get the same result. “I know she didn’t block my fucking number.”