Black Sweeties

	He likes me to stand, waiting for him. In a dark room, sually. Wearing something not too expensive, but definitely sexy... whatever was a bargain at Frederick's of Hollywood. Sometimes I wear street clothes I wouldn't be caught dead wearing on the streets, sometimes it's lingerie, something lacy. Yesterday was typical.
	ENTER HERE!!!
I decided to be a little daring. I wore a black mini-dress, cotton, with an oh-so-low cut that showed off my best features. And I didn't wear any underwear; the dress would've made that pretty obvious up front if I didn't wear my old friendly leather jacket over it. I've had it for three years, now, and I guess, really, it's my best friend. My armor against the world, especially if otherwise I'm dressed like a two-bit whore. In my gym bag I had sensible clothes: bra and panties, boots and jeans and a t-shirt.

Incredible Ebony Chick!!!

She was black. An incredible shade of black I was not accustomed to seeing in any social or business setting. Not chocolate. Not caf lait. Not the mahogany of the professional models who grace the covers of Ebony or Elle or even Vogue, but a rich, deep, dark, ebony hue that this old man's eyes had never had the pleasure of appreciating in the flesh, so to speak. As she paced back and forth in front of the assembled conference participants, cordless microphone in one hand, the lighting often cast her skin color into the blue-black indigo range of the spectrum. She was extraordinary in her carriage as well. She was not a tall woman; but she was a big woman, perhaps only 5' 5" tall and most likely 145-150 lbs. She was purposeful in her movements and let everyone in the assembled group know that she was a force to be reckoned with. Her most incredibly attractive feature was her hair - long, inordinately long, jet black and brilliantly lustrous in the overhead lighting. Her entire face was set in an inky frame that solidified the idea in my mind that this was a hugely sexual being. A thin sheen of -of what? Perspiration? Natural skin oils? Whatever it actually was, it turned her skin into a shiny obsidian that reflected the light from the small spotlights in the ceiling directly back into my eyes and stunned me with a smothering effect. I stiffened at my table as her eyes found mine, locked for a second, then moved on to another target around the room. Had there been a moment of recognition there? A moment of communication? I felt it; but I did not understand it. My reason for being here in suburban Philadelphia at a conference of advisers and counselors from colleges and universities in the eastern part of the state was simple: I intended to get laid; again. Let me digress a bit here, dear reader. Approximately nine months ago I attended a similar conference in Hershey, Pennsylvania and met an incredible woman with whom I enjoyed an afternoon and an evening of truly romantic passion. For some reason, our goals at that very moment meshed so that both of us attributed the electric charge that surged through us when we were first introduced, as a sign that something else - something much more definitive - was about to take place in our commingled lives.
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