Nothing will ever top that one special day at his sister’s house. That one Saturday morning when he called to say his sister was gone for the day, and he had to have me. That one Saturday morning where he actually made love to me. He never admitted it. He didn’t have to. I saw it in his eyes as he eased his sex-stick in and out of my heavenly split. I could feel it when he lightly kissed my breasts. I could taste it when he softly slid his tongue in my mouth countless times. He had to have me, and I had to have him. We were one for the entire sex-capade.
That same Saturday morning, he had to taste me. He had to kiss both sets of lips and taste both insides. He wanted me. He craved me. He needed me. And I, the same. Each time he looked at me before gliding himself deeper inside of my moistened cherry palace, he gave me that sexy grin. That grin that said, “My boo,” in that nice, yet thugged-out tone. He was sensitive to my needs. He was man enough to direct me, and man enough to hear me. He heard what my body wanted, yet words were not spoken. He listened to my body. He listened to his body. Our bodies gave each other pure bliss, that one Saturday morning.
As I reminisce, the chorus of Tupac Shakur’s, “Thug Passion,” sung by R&B singer Jewell, comes to mind.
To end our sex-capade the right way, he gave me thug passion. That thug passion he knew I craved. That thug passion he knew I desired. That thug passion he knew I could not get enough of. That thug passion that wore this punany out on many occasions — many nights at many parks, parking lots, and back alleys. That thug passion that pulled my hair, yanked my head and forced his male wand so far inside my tight treasure all I could do was cry, scream, and scratch in euphoric rapture. Smokey Robinson once sang, “The Agony and the Ecstasy.” This man gave me agony and ecstasy that one Saturday morning. That’s that one Saturday morning I will never forget. That’s that one Saturday morning he was number one in my book. That’s that one Saturday morning, never to be repeated only in memory. Thank you, Mr. Thug Passion!
Writing Waves 