Yeah, I guess you could say I was a sex fiend back in the day. Fishnet thigh-highs, a well-stocked castle, lashes so long you could lose you car keys in them. I was no joke. But before you step on that shoebox in judgment, let me take you back for a second. Let me re-trace the steps leading up to the famously freaky one-nighter you’ve all heard about. Let me take you on the trip that lead me to that stank place in my broken soul, to that hotel lobby in Minneapolis where it all began.
It started with a couple of buppies in love, me and Darin. I was Nicole then, not yet Nikki. Daughter number three in a clan of upscale New York Negroes. Bougie to the bone; we could have been the Huxtable’s next door neighbors. I was Daddy’s little good girl, boasting straight As and none of the wanton ways that later became my trademark.
Darin’s tale was much the same. Soft-smiling brother with a law degree and impeccable hair. It was a nifty arrangement: He supplied the career, the social standing, the clout. I brought to the table a pretty face and child-ready hips. If you didn’t look too closely we seemed like the perfect pair.
Only one problem: my insides ached for more. More passion, more surprises, more of anything but the same old, good-girl-on-the-bottom, legs-up-lights-out-every-other-Thursday-PG-13 caboose rattling.
When the game grew stale, I stopped waiting for him to channel his inner Billy Dee and tried to kick start the party my damn self:
There was the lunch break blowjob in the janitor’s closet between boring meetings.
There was the nothing-under-my-trench-coat ensemble I rocked while picking him up at the airport once.
There were the handcuffs purchased in a blur of gleeful depravity that wound up collecting dust in my purse for too many years to count.
These breaks from the routine were fun, but they didn’t usher in a new Darin or a new Nicole for that matter; they were rocks in a river of tedium, nothing more. Truth is I wasn’t a very good freak.
But then I hadn’t met Diana yet.
Diana swaggered into our lives just when we needed her most: in the midst of a yawn-inducing dinner sponsored by the United Council of Uppity Black Attorneys or some damn thing. Diana strolled inside and took a seat at my left like she belonged there – which she didn’t; she was far from uppity, she was nobody’s attorney, and she wasn’t black (if I had to hazard a guess at her ethnicity, I’d say Greek. She had the cheekbones and frisky bearing of a re-born Aphrodite.)
With a raise of her wine glass we all became extras in her movie. She was the star, the focus of every eye at the table. Then as if she hadn’t rattled the evening’s vibe enough with her sensual entrance, she leaned into my ear and offered this:
“What does a gal have to do to find a stiff bronze cock to sit on around here?”
I could tell then that this ride was going to get bumpy – in the best sense of the word.
For the next three hours, while the stuffy dinner guests swapped corny jokes and insincere praise, Diana and I scanned the table for likely suitors. We found only old-timers who probably the lacked the stamina for what she craved and baby-faced blerds (i.e. ‘black nerds’) who couldn’t have found Diana’s sweet spot with a GPS. When the hunting got grim, she inquired about the handsome man on my right.
“That’s Darin,” I answered. “He’s mine.”
“How nice for you.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I mean, sometimes it’s nice, sometimes it’s not. Mostly it’s boring.”
I didn’t bother to whisper that last line. I didn’t care if he could hear me. I was that close to packing my bags and moving on. And Diana didn’t seem unhappy about this.
“What you need, my dear, is a cup of spice to sprinkle on those everyday pork chops and gravy,” she said.
“Please. I’ve tried spicing things up. Lingerie, edible panties, bubble baths.”
She gave me a look of pity. In her eyes I was an amateur, a novice in the game of freakdom. She invited me to her hotel room. We would talk and maybe she’d have a surprise for me.
I accepted then slipped away for a phone call. Mom and Dad kept me on a pay phone for an hour, checking up on their little girl’s trip to the Midwest. After I had assured them that I hadn’t spotted any Klansmen hiding in the cornfields, I raced to Diana’s room like a ten-year-old chasing the ice cream man. I was ready for fun.
Surprise number one: my girl’s room was loaded. Whips, chains, vice grips, jars and jars of lube. Everything you could imagine, plus stuff you never knew existed. My eyes had never been wider. My heart had never raced with such a violent a thud. This was scary. But I was in the mood for scary.
Clad in a dangerous blur of black and red, Diana announced this:
“You left your purse at the table. And I found something inside it.”
I took baby steps into the next room and found surprise number two sprawled across the bed: Darin handcuffed to the headboard, his eyes bulging with fear.
Yes, this is just Part One of Donnie’s sexy story, come back to read Part Two in one week! Until then read the other stories Donnie has had published here.
Donnie Magazino a writer of thought-provoking smut. His alter ego, Copper Smith, is currently working on the serial fiction story ‘Kitten in the Crosshairs’, a tawdry tale of clandestine passion, betrayal and orange jumpsuits. Check it out at UppercutAvenue.com.