Mongongo Drupe

I dress for a walk, pull out my “Black Girls Rock” t-shirt for that. A short black pencil skirt—cotton blended with latex— size ex-small (really hugs my figure, that Jesús has seen, but he hugs it better, much better than the skirt), black sheer pantyhose (I’m already thinking about his removing them), rainbow socks, black shoes that Jesús likes. Slight heel.

Jesús wears jeans, black, sneakers, also black. That morning he borrows one of my scrunchies for his ponytail—black scrunchie, and uses my Mongongo oil on his hair, hair that I’ve enjoyed playing with so much—I like the silkiness of it—mine is silky too, but has more density, Indian hair. Seems to me that he likes it, his playing with it says so, and that silk pillowcase has made a significant difference—no rollers at all. Just a touch (few spritzes) of Mongongo oil (by Ouidad) and brush, brush, brush—hair below my shoulders, nearly midway down my back, cage for my head.

Jesús seems to really like the word “Mongongo”—says it several times, sings it.

I like very much when he does that, his own way of druping—I’m not the only one who drupes in this connection.

He wears an olive green vest, long-sleeved shirt. He looks cool. I don’t really care what he wears—as long as he likes it, as long as he thinks that I’ll like it too—after all, he is dressing for me, just as I’m dressing for him. I decided what to bring based on how I thought he would react, and I’m assuming something similar in his decisions—never did I imagine that I was the only one thinking of my partner’s decisions in how he, how I would be seen. I assumed that he was thinking similarly, in hoping that he would be physically attractive to me.

But now, brunch at River Roast. We walk there, not far from the Mandarin Moon.

Live blues—Toronzo Cannon.

We sit outside, next to each other.

I look deeply into his blue eyes . . . He sings to me, and I sing to him . . .

Sun comes out behind me, the Chicago River, and there’s blue now to match his eyes. I never had a thing for “blue eyes” until I saw Jesús—wouldn’t matter except that his eyes are blue: Sky-Blue Jesús—perfect setting: music and food, water, Jesús, and Dream Baby—together . . .

Weather is perfect!

He orders shrimp and grits. One plate. I don’t need an entire separate order. Jesús has to get used to how little I eat and still feel full (but I can eat a lot of him). Tastes good, Jesús—of course, I also really like the shrimp.

Jesús, of course, eats more than me. He’s a big guy!—and he can easily lift me!—can’t explain how exciting it is, to be lifted up and have his hands all over me, all under whatever, if anything, I’m wearing, then land on the bed perfectly, so that he can do more work on me, that dildo named Jesús, and just his hands, his cock—which I prefer to the toys and tools, but that’s not the point. It’s that airborne, for a minute, sex! I love sliding down his body up against his hardness. Seems he must have practiced to have these acrobatics work out so perfectly . . .

Guess we’re just ideal sexual partners. Guess I am a Dream Baby. Guess he is Jesús, provider of miracles, such as the miraculous sex.

We both have some coffee. He remembers how much I like chocolate, and I order “Fat Elvis” for dessert (Jesús himself has been better dessert for me). River Roast’s Fat Elvis is just okay. Wouldn’t order it again from there. We dance a little bit to the music of the band —wish we could also go dancing . . . but we’ve danced in other ways.

Next time.

Next time.

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