NOTE FROM ME: I was raised right, so I like to warn you if the content in the next post might be a little on the mature end for your eyes. In this case it is. Now sex is beautiful and pain is real, and you can do what you want with your one wild life, but if you read it, you’re gonna come across a little bit of both. If I’m doing my job right, you’re gonna be a little better for it.
Either way, enjoy. This post is mature. Be mature.
His name is Ellison, but his sisters call him Ellis and his friends call him El, or just “L” if they’re hitting him up over text or he’s using one of those dating apps that help men needing a little bit of fun in their lives.
Age: The broker part of his 20’s
Weight: Height and Weight proportional (HWP) but that’s being modest, really, the actual answers are tall as hell and big all around the shoulders.
Hobbies: 420 (you can hit him up if you’re trying to match). Video games, just chillin’, laying low
What’s he looking for?: Friends, maybe a smoke bud, wouldn’t mind if things moved into more, but he’s good either way.
Ellis was looking for the pretty ones. He liked the pretty ones and the prettier the better. He didn’t mind the ones who walked hard or talked loud. He didn’t mind the ones who took a long time in the bathroom mirror the next morning on their way out. He liked the ones who took care of their hands and toes, soft-skinned and hairless. L ain’t mind none of that.
His friends, ashy men, who liked women but didn’t love them right, knew L occasionally didn’t mind what they referred to between themselves as sissy niggas, and L liked a “sissy nigga” just as much as he liked a bad woman.
L didn’t care what hung between their legs – A little something extra didn’t matter. A little less was perfectly fine, and nothing at all was cool too. L didn’t worry about that none. He just liked em’ soft and pretty.
He liked thick hips. He liked long hair, he liked wet and full pouting lips either the kind that rested under a nose, or between a set of meaty thighs. L liked what he liked and he didn’t care who liked it. At any time, he could be staring at a bouncing, backside in a filled out sundress, or spying on the switch of a man that liked the way L watched.
And nobody asked L about a damn thing.
Because it wasn’t none of their business.
And maybe L’s friends would whisper to one another, but nothing out loud and never anything that would change him for the better.
And so L went about his business, conducting it with damn near everyone and anyone he pleased, and my God did he please.
One time it was a thick yellow women in his accounting class.
Another time with a brown boy, real wide in the back with glitter on his face.
Another time with it was two girls, new to college, hardly old enough to buy a pack of cigarettes, and wanting to try something new, together and with him, and long story short, they were all happy.
He ran through the boy working drive thru,
and slid into a church girl with neon curl rods in her hair, and questions in her head about who God really is after she and L smoked together.
L never lacked company, and that was on the count of his “gift to the masses”. While his friends lied about how perfectly they could fill out their baggy sweatpants, L knew what he worked with; for L and his lovers, life and death existed in the power of his tongue.
Night after night, sometimes five and six nights a week (and at one point during the summer, damn near every night for almost a month) a willing body found itself pressed face-first deep into a mattress, a counter top, couch cushions, plush carpet, bathroom tiles, or cold garage cement. An ass would be spread open and lifted as close to heaven as it could be while still doing earthly good.
L explored deep and wide as he could, knowing parts and places that made men moan. His wild tongue got friendly in places that made women wet. L would do it like it was his last supper before crucifixion, and his first meal after a long fast.
“L!” every weakened and trembling voice would call out, “Ohhhh L!”
And like picking a lock using only the top of his tongue, L knew just how to unlock delight, pleasure and dare I say freedom, on just about everybody’s body.
L wasn’t a novice to a good stroke either. With his hands on the smallest part of his partners waist, he’d push into them slow and deep as he wanted. Each partner making them self the sacrifice after a perfect anilingus performance from his miraculous and perhaps healing tongue.
Women and men talked about the work of his tongue like it was legendary.
Beauty supply stores and salons were good for hosting a few of his past lovers long enough to swap stories, compare details, and entice curious eavesdroppers and envious busybodies.
Men who didn’t like men knew their women liked L, and even in the unlikely event L’s friends brought their girlfriends to smoke sessions, or to hang out, they watched as their women chatted up, flirted up, and talked up L in hopes to be eaten up.
Everyone wanted what L had to give, and if they didn’t want it, they wanted someone who did.
Eventually, what L wanted didn’t matter much.
When the tall tale got large enough, enough tail shimmied out of denim jeans, sometimes before L could close the door behind him, full brown bottoms displayed and presented before him even before a ‘how are you?’
They knew what they wanted before they showed up,
He knew what it was when they walked in.
Discussion wasn’t necessary.
And objection would be awkward.
So just like that, L went to work doing what he was perhaps created to do – who are we to judge anyone’s ministry?
On his knees and in between unfamiliar legs once again; Their pleasure became his duty. Their orgasm became his mission. Their “legend” became his damnation.
Sometimes while he ate and sucked the nectar out of them, his wandering hand toyed with himself, hoping to rush the moment to completion so that he could send them home and sit with himself and roll a blunt he wouldn’t have to share.
With enough effort and fiddling around in the right spots, eventually,
Sometimes afterwards, there was small talk.
and sometimes he would ask a subtle and unconcerned, “so what you doing tomorrow?”
And without listening to the answer, he would tie his hair down for the night, and move to the bathroom to brush their taste out of his mouth.
Sometimes him and his piece for the night didn’t look at each other much after everything was done. They checked their phones and maybe wished they were anywhere but that room. Dismissed by L’s fake yawn, the lovers would leave until they wanted his magic all over again.
And L would have em’ over, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted the company.
Because L wasn’t sure what he wanted.
Someone that held or someone he could hold?
Someone who wanted more than the stories they’d been told?
Maybe something real? Something warm? Someone whole?
Yes, that boy could eat an ass, but that ain’t gonna feed his soul.