Yeah, sure, it seems like the real deal. Here he is telling me all of the racing thoughts going through his head the last time he ducked out on me:
Here I go again, why do I keep doing this?
What the hell am I doing?
Ok, just one more time. . . .
And being the dumb blonde that I am, I lap it up like a thirsty puppy. Here is this beautiful man—tall, muscular, charming, delightful-in-oh-so-many-ways—being all vulnerable and shit. I can’t get enough of him baring his soul to me.
As I kiss Panther’s thick lips as he reaches into my top and down into my jeans, I wonder if he is going to stay the night like he has a few times before or if he is going to split. As he rubs my wet pussy with his fingers and finds my neck with his mouth, I figure I have a 50/50 chance of getting laid.
I press my body into his and find him hard, bulging, and pushing right back into me. For years I had wondered if it was true what they said about black men and their penises. Now that I know the answer first hand—at least in the case of Panther—and I wonder what has taken me so long to find out.
Instead of getting down on my knees and worshipping that big, black cock properly, I gently pull away. We are outside on my back deck and I have guests sleeping upstairs. What if one of them comes down for a glass of water and sees me blowing Panther through the window?
ME: (reaching into his pants playfully) I’m going to get ready for bed. Care to join me?
PANTHER: Mmmmm. I’m going to finish smoking this weed. I’ll be up soon.
Once upstairs, I pick out a little pink nightie that barely covers my ass cheeks and nipples, brush my teeth, decide against washing my face, and crawl into bed. My body cannot wait for Panther to come upstairs and lick up all of its juices. I peer out the window once and see him out back smoking away. He seems relaxed, poised for action. I allow myself to believe he will not disappear.
Startled, I awake with my dog scratching at my shut door. How long have I been napping? Pulling on a robe, I scamper downstairs to find my backdoor wide open. Knowing Panther will be nowhere in sight, I still call out his name praying it doesn’t sound too squeaky with desperation. No answer.
Disappointed, but not really all that surprised, I close the door and head back upstairs. The text I send while feeling only just a wee bit helpless and not all that angry is—I hope u were not going to just leave my backdoor wide open. I get nothing in response.
Earlier this summer on the night Panther and I meet, he tells me he has been celibate for nearly a year after a bad break up. As we get to know each other better, he divulges more about his life, kids, plans, fears, and upbringing. Unfortunately for me, I mistake his openness—his raw vulnerability—for intimacy. Through the years I’ve gotten pretty good at differentiating between sexual intimacy and sheer fucking, but I guess I’m still a novice when it comes to picking out the bullshit when a man appears to be baring his soul.
All too often there’s a piece of a man—a quadrant, a percentage—that I completely fall for. I like their smile but hate their lack of class OR I really dig how they kiss me but can’t stand their table manners OR I can’t get enough of their sexual energy but they’re closed up emotionally.
In the case of Panther—my run-and-hide-because-I-just-can’t-take-it-anymore-chicken-shit-mother-fucker—I’m a sucker for just about all of him.
Neither one of us understands why.