At this point in my life, I was a broken man.
My dream woman had abandoned me for her on and off again ex-boyfriend whom she’d claimed to be done with before we got involved. She’d broken things off and acted like we’d never been together at all, and to add insult to injury, I had to see her everyday at work until she quit a year later.
That’s another story for another time, but it’s the catalyst that began this new chapter of my life.
I’d just turned 30, and instead of spending my birthday weekend with her on a retreat we’d planned a few months before, I started this new decade alone at my apartment, drowning my sorrows in an expensive bottle of scotch – as I’d done most nights since the breakup.
By design, that was the way most nights ended after working long hours (when I could avoid interacting with her) doing more than my required tasks to take my mind off of the pain. The gym became my refuge for exuding the anger and frustration I harbored; running and sweating helped release endorphins while feeling like I was escaping grief with every treadmill mile. The muscles I grew from lifting massive amounts of weight gave me a psychological faux-armor that protected what was left of my shattered self-esteem. My apartment was the place I’d go and descend into TV binge watching with my bottled friends until I passed out.
I couldn’t create, I couldn’t write, and I couldn’t be inspired. The creative voice was still there, but I had no desire to project any of my abilities onto a canvas. For the first time in my life, I ignored the demands of my imaginative being and used its energy to seek temporary satisfactions in the abyss of momentary pleasures.
It was in the abyss where I rediscovered myself.
One night as I was pulling into the garage of my apartment complex, a stocky Black guy in his early 40’s wandered in front of the building. The way he kept looking around the place, I could tell that he was trying to get in.
As I waited for the gate to open, he approached my car in the most non-intimidating way a Brother could in a nice neighborhood late at night – slow and with his hands slightly raised.
“Hey man, sorry to bother you. Do you live here?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Do you know Kate who lives in 210?”
“Nah man, sorry.”
“She’s expecting me but I cant get a hold of her. Could you do me a favor and knock on her door and tell her that John is here?”
“Sure, no problem,” I said, to avoid asking him if he thought I was stupid enough to knock on a woman’s door at one in the morning and tell her that a big Black dude was waiting for her outside.
“Just tell her that John is downstairs. Thanks man, I appreciate it.”
I nodded and descended into the underground garage as the gate closed behind me. I didn’t think twice about Apartment 210 after I went upstairs; I figured that he’d give up and leave soon anyways, so it was scotch and sleep for me.
The next day as I was leaving for work, curiosity got the best of me and I decided to go to Apartment 210 to meet Kate and tell her about my encounter the night before.
I knocked a few times and Kate opened the door. Dressed in a pair of baggy sweatpants, she was tall and blonde with a curvy, hour-glassed figure, cat-like green eyes, and massive breasts that seemed like they were about to burst through her trendy wife beater. She was very comparable to Kate Upton.
Kate greeted me with a beautiful smile as I introduced myself and told her about the guy that was outside the night before. Slightly embarrassed, she laughed and thanked me for not letting him in, telling me that it was a big misunderstanding on his part. She made a couple of jokes about the situation and after hearing her side of the story, it became apparent that it was a failed booty call. After a few more laughs, I bid her goodbye and told her my apartment number in case she ever needed anything.
A few weeks later, I exited my apartment with a laundry basket full of clothes and Kate almost collided with it.
“Are you stalking me now?” she asked with a smile.
I smiled back. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“Laundry night, huh?”
“Yeah, fun.”
She held up a brown paper bag that sheathed a familiar-shaped liquor bottle. Bloodshot veins surrounded her emerald pupils as she peered at me with drunken seduction.
“You should come by later and have a drink with me, unless you’d prefer to do laundry.”
“I think these clothes are more important than having a drink with a beautiful woman, so….”
We both laughed.
“…I’m kidding. That would be great,” I finished.
“It’s 210 in case you forgot,” she said as she walked away and smiled over her shoulder.
“Should I check to see if anyone’s downstairs waiting for you first?”
She laughed as she rounded the corner. “Good one!”
I tossed my laundry basket inside and ran to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror. After the self-approval, I locked the front door behind me and headed towards Apartment 210.
Kate welcomed me into her apartment. It was trendy and comfortable, mostly due to the decorative choices of her gay roommate who was never home. Her bedroom was cluttered with clothes, shoes, and plastic IKEA storage drawers that were packed with all sorts of crap. The volume was low on the small, flat screen TV on the dresser that illuminated the room. She apologized for the mess, explaining that she was in transition from moving out of her previous living situation.
We sat on her bed and consumed the vodka from the bagged liquor bottle as we laughed and talked. Kate had a wicked sense of humor, wit, and intelligence that meshed well with my own and helped reintroduce those parts of my personality that had been repressed since the breakup.
Her alcohol intake was much heavier than mine; the vodka depleted from the bottle much faster on her end. Kate was using it the same way I was at the time, except hers was to divert the emotions caused by complicated and strained relationships with some of her family members and the failures she’d experienced while striving for her goals.
However, she was a master of cracking a joke that would snap her out of her woeful state and reset her cheerfulness; another coping strategy. I couldn’t fault her though, for I was coping with my own issues in ways that weren’t the most optimal.
Kate’s sly aggression towards me manifested as the night went on until I caught her peering at my crotch and biting her bottom lip. I’d been aroused by her all night; now that I’d seen her notice, I became even more turned on.
“So is it true what they say?” she asked.
“Who are they and what do they say is true?” I teased.
She teased back, “You know, they… those people that find out stuff about other people.”
“Where do they get their information?”
“That’s a good question. They might not have the most reliable sources.”
“Maybe it’s best you do your own research.”
I placed her hand on the bulge coursing the left inner thigh of my sweatpants. She stroked her fingers down the shaft like car commercial models do to the hood of a waxed vehicle.
“Damn,” she muttered.
“Were they right?”
Kate reached underneath my boxers and gripped my cock. Her big, green eyes widened as she squeezed it.
“Oh my God. I’ve never had anything this big before.”
“First time for everything…”
I pulled down my sweats and revealed my erect rod. Towering in the light of the muted television, she gauged it for a moment, then looked up at me and grinned.
“You’re definitely fucking me tonight.”
Continued in Birth of a Modern Mandingo: Part 2.
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