Pop This Pussy Like a Pimple (Black Man Magic)

He was Black Man Magic. Glittering in the most masculine way possible, it seemed that when he inserted himself we would secrete sunshine and sparkles. I was convinced it was a pixie that was giving me back to back orgasms. Half pixie, half scientist at least. I’d holler tears compounded with carbon-man-don’t-leave-me and sodium-nigga-I-wish-you-would, as our chemical composition created more than Oxycontin; he finessed my logic.

If anyone was to sit back and watch us creating, they would think they were watching a tornado at midnight. Arms wrapped up each other’s gifts, lips sucking on all exposed flesh, sweat blended with saliva and orgasm. We were gods dancing horizontally on black sheets; we imitated our imaginations on our sheeted canvas. Each time my magical magician would bend me into yogic poses to tap my solar plexus, climbing another rung past my sacral,  I’d confess another sin until my throat was as raw as us.

I promise you pornhub has nothing on us. That’s mediocrity at its finest. We didn’t create blockbuster movies; we developed indie films that only the cool kids new about. We were robotic in our consistency when it came to precision and depth, but we were fluid when it came to motion and spirit.

He’d turn me over with the aggression of a mad man, applying all of his strength to break me only to enjoy building me up again. His calloused hands would spread my seat, one of his extremities holding my womb, while the other played in my alternative entrance. I’d cry in agony, in joy, in fear of a heart attack.

“We don’t know boundaries.” He’d groan into my ear, “we are spirit.” And just like that my mind and yoni would simultaneously allow him his way. Crying, struggling for breath, grinding, and praying we would fuck each other unconscious because that is the only way out. Binding his seeds to my acreage we would collapse into earth and wait for reality to set in.

He perspired heavily, part of him still deeply embedded in outer space, while the other part now dripped cold now that it was coated with earth fumes. I saw the earthling return in his eyes, I saw his lips fumble with excuses not to love as sincerely as he thought he could, I saw fear become his getaway escape as he questioned what kind of man he would be to exclude himself to fidelity and caking.

I felt my own body cover rapidly with goose bumps as the wind of his harshness enveloped me. Olympus had fallen. Scurrying toward sheets that were no longer black but white, I wrapped myself realizing for the first time that I was naked. Whimpering like a wounded animal I left my crown on the pillow trading it in for thorns of shame.

He said that this was fun and that he liked to dabble in magic in his free time but that he wasn’t a full time magician-this was his side gig, during the day he was actually a plumber; laying pipe is what he did for a profession. I told him that I understood and that it would be best if we not see each other again, I’m not interested in building mountains just to tear them down.

Disappointed he clothed himself in standard jeans and tee-shirt, kissed me on the forehead and bounced. I sprawled out on the damp canvas, inhaling our creation that still hung on the bedroom walls, basking in the stickiness of it all.

Sometimes artwork can invoke tears, sometimes eruptions of anger, and for others sometimes it means nothing.

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