A Woman Possessed

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Carter went to his downtown studio after dinner and I retreated to my writer's haven, the terrace. It's 21 stories closer to heaven, and I can just close my eyes and listen to the leaves applaud. Across the street is the verdant Riverside Park which runs alongside the Hudson. Jersey water-front condos protrude in the distance. Carter and I are around the corner from the Columbia University's campus in an elegant, academic neighborhood known as Morningside Heights. Some cynics refer to it as 'White Harlem' when they think no one's listening... But it's all Harlem to me.

West of Riverside Avenue the streets slope downward toward the edge of the island, secluding us here at the bottom from the wood winds of city life. The white sidewalks of my street are lined with petite uniform trees and neat flower plots. Elaborate cornices and wrought iron dress the brownstones. Dramatic marble entrance halls call to mind lace gloves, Bogart films and Gershwin tunes. The setting evokes vintage glamour sans the upper-east side affectation and I am completely at peace.

I figured I was giving up quiet moments like this when I moved in with Carter. Seriously though, it wouldn't have mattered. Forget the fact that I’m a writer who needs alone-time to do my thing and an only child. Carter’s fly Harlem loft home was the trump card. I mean, too bad for my life.

I expected Carter around five this evening. He was coming in from a performance in LA. Given that we're still in our honey moon phase, minus the wedding, I wanted him to come home to a spectacular home cooked meal. Really I was putting up one hell of a front but I'm sure Carter didn't fall in love with me for my domestic skills. He’s the far superior cook.

I made Jamaican stewed chicken. It’s my well-rehearsed dish that’s capable of tricking any hungry man into believing I can burn for real. It’s quite good, but requires a little too much labor for my taste. I mean I spent this Saturday in a hot ass kitchen chopping and marinating and dodging hot chicken grease.

I was going for the jugular, Vivian Banks meets June Cleaver. I wanted Carter to come in to the warm inviting smell of island spice. I was going to set the dining room table. Spin the Isley’s “Love Songs” albu and let ‘Voyage to Atlantis’ transport us. I was going to dim the room, light some candles, pour some Cab, and greet him in a flirty Ralph Lauren.

When I heard the rattling of keys an hour before show time, I hurried to brush the loose pimientos from the granite counter tops onto the floor. My failure to read the recipe closely meant I had to manually crush them with a can of beans. Too bad. Sweat beads were falling down my face and my pressed hair had frizzed to the point that it no longer blended with my weave . My apron and camisole were on the ground next to the trash can. I was wearing a lace bra and Sevens and I was sweating like a pig. I looked crazy!

In spite of all things chaotic, the place straight smelled like a mom-and-pop joint in the middle of Kingston.

“Hey gorgeous."

“Sweetie, you got home early,” I said forcing a smile. Would it have killed you to call?

“I caught an early flight. What are you making in here?” He dropped his leather carry-on to the mahogany floor. He was wearing an afro-blues tee with an argyle sweater, dark jeans that skimmed his lithe runners frame, and a pair of running shoes. For a man in his mid-forties, he had young approach to fashion. His long locks were nestled in a bun, accentuating the strong feline nature of his face; dashing cheek bones, translucent cognac eyes, and shapely mauve lips which at the moment grinning like a Cheshire cat. When he smiled you could see a a few of ages parenthetical marks but by far, he was the sexiest brother I'd ever laid eyes on.

I think he was laughing at me. "What are you making?"

"Brown stewed chicken. Rice and peas. Plaintains. Steamed vegetables." I smiled.

He made his way into our open kitchen, where I was stirring the stew while it thickened. “Look at you throwing down!

I held back girlish giggles. “You know how I do sweetie, and despite the fact that everything looks a mess, it's going to be good mon".

He approached me from behind, placed his palms over my stomach and kissed my shoulder blade. I didn't really notice the kitchen." He said in between kisses. "The food does smell good though."

"Doesn't it?"

"You smell good too." He nestled into my neck inhaling the bourbon notes of my signature perfume. "I missed you."

He squeezed me closer and I felt how much I'd missed him as well. Shocking. We were long distance lovers for three months before I moved to Harlem, and into his place. I was good with distance, never needed to be up under anyone. A little mystery is essential in seduction. But now that we were cohabitating, our bond was steadily growing stronger.

"How was your gig baby?"

"The usual." I felt his breath on the nape my neck. I was swaying to his slow rhythm as he wrapped his arms entirely around my torso and squeezed. "How much longer?"

"I'm about finished. I need to get the kitchen in order though."

"No you don't." He slid his hands over my breast and unsnapped my brassiere in one fluid motion.

Taking the next step in our pas de deux, I turned off the heat and faced him full on. We kissed and I could feel his skilled fingers rediscovering the indentations of my back. His devoured my lips and neck like a biscuit sopped in gravy. Unable to take the teasing, I wrapped both legs around him and let him carry me to our brightly lit bedroom, a soft cocoon of browns.

He pulled my pants and panties off in one motion. Good thing I swear by pretty intimates. I stepped out of them and we collapsed on to the chocolate comforter. I exhaled heavily as his tongue flicked my breast, grateful to be reunited with the feel of his locks in my hands. Too hungry for long foreplay, he removed his clothes and entered me deep. I wrapped my legs around his torso and held on like a crab. It's what I do when I just want to feel him entirely-- skin to skin, eye contact, kissing, inhaling each other’s chemistry.

Whenever we make love after being separated for a period of time, Carter’s anticipation ruins his longevity. To quote a comedian, "The first nut will always betray you". We made love quickly and passionately, and then he held me close where I could hear his heart beat against my back. We just lay there, in the quiet, sun light pouring over our bodies. After he regained his energy, he turned me on to my back, parted my legs, and placed his head in between. He knew I hadn’t arrived and he always wanted me to have maximum pleasure. That’s part of the magic of being with an older man.

After napping, he and I finally had dinner in our boxers and panties. We were sweaty. My hair was tousled. I wasn’t made up. But I felt so loose and wonderful.

I think I know how Cleopatra must have felt, feasting across from Julius Ceasar, realizing he was successfully under her spell.

This was love and even though mom was off somewhere shaking her head muttering “Why by the cow if the milk is free”, and Caroline called me “ a woman possessed” I refused to come down from the clouds.

If this was what it was like to be a woman possessed, then that’s the only way to live.

-Noni J.