Cumquat

Copyright 2006 Charles George Taylor

My jeans get holes in them because I sometimes stand with my hands in my back pockets.

The holes develop from the weight of my knuckles pulling the pockets from double-stitched seams.

The tears in my straightlegs come in handy when I feel like a slut and get that urge to pick up a stranger from the streets of Brooklyn.

I met Rastus, the man of my wet dreams, in my favorite pair of Levi’s.

He was washing his lime green motorcycle across the street. He used water trickling from a fire hydrant to make his sponge wet and squirted a little Palmolive on the shiny wheels of the fancy bike when he first saw me standing on my steps with a Newport in my right hand and my left placed strategically in my back pocket.

King Street gets very little traffic and the kids who live inside the projects were still in bed at 6:30 a.m. when I first got a glimpse at the biggest cock in the world. Thankfully, I was dressed in hooka- mode, and felt quite comfortable in my Levi’s when I decided to try and lure the man with the motorcycle into my bedroom.

I formed my lips tightly and blew a thin stream of smoke toward the sky as he took off his white T-shirt while scrubbing his hot rod.

The street bike was a perfect fit for a tough, rugged, handsome thug like Rastus. He took pride in every nut and bolt on his machine.

The screeching of a metal door being lifted to open the corner deli violated the silence of the morning and disturbed Rastus’s comfort being half- naked in my presence.

I knew it didn’t bother him that I was checking him out.

He is one of those men who is comfortable in his straightness.

I snuffed out the Newport and darted across the street.

I walked within inches of him and his bike on my way to the deli with both of my hands resting seductively in my rear pouches.

Of course I didn’t have underwear on, it was still early and I hadn’t even showered yet.

These lily white cheeks stick out like grass stains in those Levi’s.

I thought I heard him whisper "wassup" as I strutted by acting as butch as possible.

"Yo dude, pick me up some Brillo’s, aiight?" he request while pulling a ten from his jeans.

Without speaking to him I grabbed the money and felt that it was odd that he would ask a total stranger for such a big favor on the streets of Brooklyn. What the fuck? If the cops saw that they may think it was a drug trade.

The opportunity to look into his deep brown eyes thrilled me. I totally forgot what I decided to go to the deli for while in shock over how fine he was.

His hair was braided and formed a zig-zagging pattern across the top of his head. The braids were pulled to the back and covered with black and gold beads. He puffed on a blunt while washing his bike and his blood-shot eyes sunk deep into his head and face, covered with the darkest shade of skin I had ever seen up close.

He looked me up and down, stoned off his ass and gave me a glance that suggested, "I’ll rape that big round bootie, white boy".

"Nice bike,"

"Thanks! She’s mine and she’s paid for."

"Where do you go? Do you just putt around the hood or do you open her up on the highway?"

"I’m going to drive out to California one day."

"You are not scared?" I asked.

"Scared of what?"

"All those white people between here and there."

He laughed and asked, "You live here in the Stuy?"

"Yes I do."

"That’s pretty brave don’t you think?"

"I suppose so, but hell, all white people don’t come from money."

"I hear dat white-boy, thanks for the Brillos." he said as I pulled a wad of his change from my faded denims.

"Oh shit, I forgot to get my cake mix. That’s why I was headed to the deli."

"You making my birthday cake?" He asked.

"Today ain’t your birthday."

"It sure as fuck is," he said while pulling out his motorcycle driver’s license to prove it.

"I tell you what, I’ll give you a piece of it as a trade for a ride on that bike."

"Naw, dog! Nobody drives it but me," he said while grabbing his crotch like thugs often do.

"Nobody bakes like me! That’s alright. You can drive and I’ll ride on the back. I just want a ride on it. Got another helmet?"

"Alright dude, deal! But I drive fast."

"I ain’t scared," I said while walking back to my brownstone with my fingers resting peacefully inside my 501s.

"I’m a fast cook too. 14 King Street, Apt. #3. I’ll see you in a few. What’s your name so I can decorate it on the cake?"

"TK. They call me TK."

As I closed the door behind me I looked through the peek hole just to see if Rastus was serious about my proposition of baking him a birthday cake.

He had already picked up his sponge, bucket, Palmolive and Brillo pads and was drying off the mean lime green machine.

“Damn baby, don’t rub that too hard,” I whispered from behind the door, watching as his big strong Black hands move a white terry cloth towel in circular motion, absorbing beads of water from the teardrop shaped gas tank where the tall street hustler likely rested his manhood while driving like Evil Knievel on the streets of Brooklyn.

His waist was not more than a 28 but his shoulders stretched for what seemed to be for miles and supported pectoral muscles with dark nipples that looked like the headlights on a hearse.

I noticed the bike was a ZRX1200S, which means absolutely nothing to me, but I memorized the type of bike it was in case our conversation over birthday cake went in that direction.

As I entered the second door, leading into my place, I quickly fluffed the pillows on the three sofas and turned on the light above the fish tank.

I dumped ashes from various trays throughout the apartment and sprayed some Fabreeze to freshen the place up a bit and decided that I was likely over reacting to what was merely a big tease.

“Oh damn!” I shouted to the fish in the tank. “I forgot the cake mix!”

I knew I’d look like a desperate cornball if I went back outside to pick up a box of Duncan Hines. My skills for seducing Black street thugs is unsurpassed and I knew from experience that if a man knows that you have the hots for him, he will leave you standing out in the cold, like a hitchhiker along a California freeway in the dead of night.

I looked around the kitchen to assess my options. There wasn’t much available to whip something together on such short notice. There were two lemons on the counter which were remnants from a weekend of cocktails and more cocktails.

Inside the refrigerator there were three brown eggs inside a cardboard carton which had started to deteriorate from the water which drips inside my ice box.

Way in the back of the cupboard was a box of Argo cornstarch that had to be at least three years old.

I scraped out the little black specks on the top of the white powdery starch and had an idea for TK's birthday dessert.

There wasn’t enough time to pre-heat the oven before he rang the doorbell.

My hands were covered in flour so I wiped them on the ass of my jeans on the way to answer his calling.

He quickly rushed inside as if afraid someone may notice him paying me a visit.

“I see you are not a vampire,” I said while turning slowly and walking down the dimly lit hallway, showing off the white smudges on the back of my pants in a tempting way.

“Huh?”

“A vampire must always be invited in,” I explained while opening the door to my drafty old apartment.

“Oh, word? Are you making my cake already?” He asked while checking out my ass. “I want to suck your blood,” he chuckled with a deep, dark tone.

I rolled my eyes and wish I could say what I wanted.

If he only knew how often strangers ring my doorbell and run in and out, he would have been more at ease while sneaking in on the down- low.

My kitchen is like a café nestled at the end of a cobblestone street in a dark alleyway of Paris. Visitors stop by all the time when they are at wits end and need a friend who will listen to their woes and not drop of a ton of baggage with spoonfuls of sugar.

I have lots of experience in turning out straight trade after living in the Sty for more than five years. I understand, first hand, what men of color go through when sneaking out of closets.

It’s not as simple as deciding that one has a few scratches that need itching when a man of color wants to diddle with another dude.

One slip could cost a thug his reputation in the ghetto—a world where there are almost never second chances.

This one was different and I needed to work him very carefully.

It was not only the sexy motorcycle he drove, his baggy Dickies with the big bulge or his perfect teeth and big fat juicy lips that caused me to salivate.

It was his aura.

There was something about TK that I wanted to possess.

There he was in all his dark beauty standing inside my little love nest.

Stiff hard dicks are a dime a dozen in Bedford Stuyvesant, but men who stare at my ass like that send me over the top and are capable of making me write bad checks and bake for them whenever they need something warm in their stomachs.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I have a different plan for your birthday,” I explained.

“What’s that?”

“I’m making you my signature lemon meringue pie.”

“Isn’t that the stuff Patti Labelle sang about?”

“Yes it is.”

“Never had it, but knock yourself out Chaz.”

“How did you know my name,” I inquired somewhat paranoid.

“It’s on the mailbox. It reads ‘Charles’, but that’s too white for a boy wit flava like you. Chaz is your new street name,” he said jokingly while sitting down on my white sofa.

“You don’t mind if I light this up do you?” He asked.

I lit a Glade candle and placed it on the white marble coffee table and offered him the lighter.

“Nice space. I like how there are no walls in here-- openness. Nice fish tank. Damn, this place is the joint, yo dude, you got a pool table!”

“Go check out the back yard I fixed up,” I said while scattering flour across my kitchen table. “There’s a vegetable garden back there.”

He looked over my shoulder on his way to the bedroom and garden and offered me a hit on the blunt.

“Maybe later,” I said while mixing flour and salt in a glass bowl.

He was alone in the backyard for almost five minutes. By the time he had returned I measured out a cup of Crisco and began blending it with two cups of flour and a teaspoon of salt.

Slowly I dribbled in a few table spoons of ice water and he watched closely with his sexy eyes as I slowly formed a ball of dough from the pea-like mixture and flattened it with my hands before reaching for my marble rolling pin.

“What are you making?”

“This is how fresh pie pastry is made,” I explained. “I hope you don’t mind, but I think you will like my pie better than a cake that comes in a box.

He pimp walked back to the sofa and put his feet and timberland boots up on the coffee table.

After fluting the edges of my pastry inside a pie pan and placing the naked shell in the oven, I carried the two lemons and a grater and sat down next to him on the sofa and began to carefully remove the yellow zest of the lemon.

“You got a bitch?”

“Naw, I’m laying low for a while,” I mumbled.

“I got plenty dawg. But I ain’t got one yet who can take dis rod night after night,” he said mesmerized at the powdered like pile of lemon I neatly scraped onto a black saucer.

“I hear that. Fuckin’ bitches,” I said in the most authentic rapper tone imaginable.

“I see you play chess.”

“Oh that. That’s not my chess board, it belonged to my roommate. I can play, but not like he did.”

“I’m da friggin’ master at chess, dawg, especially when I’m stoned.”

I returned to the kitchen and divided my eggs into yokes and whites and suggested that he not touch the chess board and its pieces.

“Why?”

“Did you ever hear of an Ouija Board?” I asked while pouring the yellow part of the eggs into a sauce pan with almost a cup of the salvaged cornstarch and a quarter cup of water. I stirred in the lemon zest and squeezed the stripped fruits above the pot and added their juices to the pudding- like concoction. I sweetened the meringue with a few handfuls of sugar.

“Ain’t a Ouija board some witches shit?”

“Yes it is,” I said while I stirred the brew on the stove and waited for it to thicken. “My roommate said those chess pieces were hand carved by a man who raped and murdered seven women and one man in Los Angeles. I’ve always been too spooked to play with that. When I touch it, I get really strange vibes.”

He held up a wooden horse and carried the board and all its pieces to the coffee table.

“The only vibe I am getting is the urge to play a good game,” he said. “Are you smart? Can you play?” He asked.

As I poured the lemon mixture into my baked shell I promised to take him up on his challenge, but I needed first to get the pie in the oven.

He walked over to my butcher block table and stared as I plugged in an electric mixer and began whipping the egg whites until still peaks formed. After a foamy substance appeared, I slowly added some sugar.

“You wanna be white or black,” he asked.

“Black,” I said while pouring the white meringue over the lemon mixture.

I placed the assembled masterpiece in the oven after carving “TK” on the waves of whipped egg whites that covered the meringue like puffy clouds in a warm June sky.

We faced off at the chess board. I sat on the floor and T.K. remained on the sofa. I could not believe the handsome man who I met on the street moments ago was now sitting inside my apartment.



It’s not true what they say about Blacks, they all don’t look the same. Even their hair is of different textures and shades, just as with white folks and most are far more intelligent that society recognizes.



It was obvious his perfect white teeth were not originals, but none the less, he had a damn good dentist. Mine are worn and tattered and barely strong enough to bite a forbidden fruit or an apple.



I get nervous around people with bright white teeth, especially men who smile like sunshine with dark skin to contrast the pearliness. Perhaps I am just jealous because of the gaps on my gum line and poor bonding.



I am not comfortable having strangers in my house, but because he had such a nice smile, I made an exception to my rules for inviting strangers in to play games, despite the fact the he was Black and I found him in Bedford Stuyvesant, the home of all the hard-core rappers.



I thought perhaps my teeth would turn him off so I smiled at him only with my lips.



Very few manage to squeeze a full-fledged smile out of me, no matter how funny they are, but I smiled inside when we started to play the game.



His eyelashes were long and black, like the legs of a spider. He blinked them rarely and looked from side to side, almost bashfully. Perhaps he wasn’t comfortable hooking up with a white guy.



He relit the blunt and handed it to me. I took a little puff but didn’t inhale.


“Hit dat shit right!”



I sucked hard and immediately felt myself relax.



Suddenly I didn’t care that my teeth were a mess.



He reached across the back of the sofa while taking several pulls and picked a boogie when he thought I wasn’t paying attention while setting up the pieces.



I knew he felt at home in my house.



“Honestly, I only know how the pieces move. I really don’t know how to play the game well,” I explained before the first move was made.



“It’s alright dawg, just go with your instincts.”



He lifted one of the little figures in the front row and slid it two spaces forward. I faced off that little bugger with the same exact move.



“Wait a minute, I’m Black and I go first,” I said.



“You do know how to play dis game, don’t you Chaz?”



“Better than you know T.K.”



He managed to put me in checkmate before I had a chance to move out my queen.



Although only 10 minutes had passed, I realized that the pie in the oven was probably done. Because one pre-bakes the pie shell and cooks the meringue in a saucepan, it is not necessary to cook it for very long. The egg whites which line the top of the dessert turn golden brown and if left in too long, the pie will be a dusty brown and unappetizing.



The carving of the initials “T.K.” in the white meringue worked perfectly. The pie looked far more exotic than a typical birthday cake.



“Happy Birthday I said as I pulled the gift from the oven.”



He jumped from the couch and came into the kitchen.



I believe he was touched, but downplayed the moment by saying, “You are a dude and I ain’t ever saw a pie like that. Even my grandma never made something like this on my birthday. What’s it taste like?” he asked.



“It has to cool off first, and it should be chilled a little. Re-match?” I requested.



As the second game started, I felt a strange vibe from touching the chess board pieces. I hadn’t gone near the haunted checkerboard and its hand carved characters since the day I was sitting alone in the living room, watching Martha Stewart Living and the bishops, knights, kings and queens started moving around on their own.



I wasn’t high when the aberration first occurred. But they certainly moved on their own. One piece at a time, back and forth they went, the black and white pieces until eventually one of the colors lost. It seemed as if two ghosts were matching wits over the game of strategy and luck.





It frightened me terribly and I remain convinced that the game, created by the hands of a mad man, was possessed by evil spirits.



The weed intensified the sensation I felt when making my moves while playing T.K. I picked- up my horse and slid it one space up and two spaces over and snatched his queen without consciously planning the take over.



I thought I heard a faint scream of a woman outside.



“Did you hear that?”



“Hear what?”



“Never mind,” I said while realizing those voices from the board were returning and I may have to conduct another exorcism to clear out the negative energy in my apartment.


“What da hell? Damn, how did I miss that?” he asked.



I looked him in his eyes, smiled widely while rearing my ugly teeth.



He formed a fist and brushed it against my shoulder in a playful way, realizing he had met his match.

T.K. put me in check again, and again, game after game.

I sat on the floor with my legs crossed and my hands balancing me from behind and pondered for at least five minutes on how I could out maneuver him with my remaining bishops.

He left me sitting there and walked slowly around the apartment.

He saw my Holy Bible on the end table next to the sofa.

“Born again?” he asked while smiling.

“That’s not funny.”

“I didn’t intend for it to be.”

“I was once trapped inside this fable,” he said.

“It is poetry that has survived for thousands of years. You should not question God’s word,” I said.

“Who is God,” the tall street thug inquired.

“Yeshua is the Lord and has appeared in many shapes and forms over the centuries,” I said.

“You have remembered me. Come over here,” he requested softly and for the first time looked me directly in the eyes.

I stood up from the floor and walked in his direction as he leafed through the gold lined pages.

I noticed he had an erection.

“Pray with me,” he asked.

“I am not worthy of you, my Lord,”

“What’s the big deal, Chaz? I only need a little head.”

I was shocked at what he had said. I got off my knees, denied him his pleasure and walked back to the kitchen where I doubted him again.

“Thomas! Look at me,” he said.

“My name is Charles George Taylor, I am not Thomas anymore.”

“You will always be my Beloved, Chaz.”

I remembered him then and knew he had returned for me.