It happened again. Different setting mind. I had no clothes on at the time. Neither did she. What is it with this book?
"I've got to go buy that" she said, pointing at the bound pages nestling in the side pocket of my bag. I was, at this point, still in recovery from an intensely erotic play time. A very slow, sensual, long build to an almighty climax. I'd acted on an impulse, and it proved correct. Her full lips and wide mouth created the most beautiful smile and the most erotic kisses. Her silhouette was hourglass, her skin as black as midnight, her compliments and laugh disarming. Disarmed, defences down, I surrendered. We kissed and touched, teased and squeezed, licked and sucked and mine was loud, but hers was louder (and longer).
And then in the afterglow, perspiration running down my back, she exclaimed her desire to read about Mr Obama, President-elect Obama.
So that's twice. Two moments. Two black people. One white boy. The same comment. Not a definitive survey, no statistics can be determined nor confidence quoted, but a pattern nonetheless. But not yet half way through. Page 164, Chapter Nine, working in Chicago. Still time for more.
