One
Four a.m. came way too fast! The alarm shook my ass out of bed as I struggled to keep myself from falling back into the warm confines of my comforter. But today was not a day to reckon with -- no, today I couldn't just lie there and hit the snooze -- not on this day. Today I was going on vacation!
So I held my head that was smarting from the buzz of the alarm clock and ran the shower. Then quickly got into my normal routine -- teeth brushing and shaving my face and bald head with the Braun, and trimming my thick, dark goatee. I was turning toward the shower but then thought about it for one quick second -- I was heading to the islands to play, so I should spend a minute more on grooming, 'cause things like that were important to me. So, I buzzed off what little chest and stomach hair I had, used the clippers (with guard!) to trim my pubic hair down to a thin layer just the way I liked it. Then got in the shower after admiring my taut form in the mirror. I liked what I saw. Firm, bronze-colored body, tight upper body with a hint of muscles, but not overdone, like some fucking jarhead. Tattoo-adorned -- a thin tribal band on my left arm above my elbow; the colorful face of an Indian chief on my right shoulder -- feathers from his headdress meandering down my arm to just below the elbow; and my latest acquisition -- a five-pointed star, almost snowflake-like in form, sitting on my chest above my left nipple. Well-defined legs and a tight ass that sent the women wild (I'm just repeating what they tell me, so don't hate!)
The water running down my bald head, face, chest and arms felt sooooo good, I could have stayed there for an hour. But Air Jamaica was calling my name, "Trey, everyting irie, so get ya black ass down here, mon!" I wasn't about to miss out on any of that. It had been too damn long, ya hear me! Over a year since a real vacation for me. I mean, I've been traveling on business, don't get me wrong, but it isn't the same. This was the vacation that I'd been waiting for all year long. And today was the day. By noon I'd be on white sandy beaches! I couldn't wait.
I glanced down at my flat stomach and dark cock, grabbed the razor and the bar of soap, and went about cutting off the hair around my dick and balls. I loved that feeling of little to no hair down there . . . and the ladies loved it as well. I'm not sure if it was the fact that it made me more sensitive or not, but all I know was that it felt good to be fucking with smooth balls. With each scrape of the razor I thought about the possibilities awaiting me on that island -- all of those dark and lovely honeys . . . six wonderful days . . . my dick began to swell as I thought of the delicious possibilities . . .
While toweling off, I recalled the conversation last night with my boy.
"Speak!"
"What up, dawg? How ya livin'?"
"Living large and in charge," I replied to the routine that hasn't changed in over fifteen years. Vince and I are best friends, homies from way back! He's my man, the one person I genuinely look up to and love like a brother.
"So, my man, you ready?"
"Fuck no, what you think? I got my shit all over this mutha fucka -- looks like a cyclone hit this place. But don't worry, my brutha, I will be ready!"
"I hear that."
"True dat!"
"So, my man, seriously, you gonna go down there to relax, right? Find your flow and do some soul searching?" I could hear Vince through the phone cracking up before my response was forthcoming.
"What you think? I'm gonna tag every ass that winks at me . . . I ain't playin'!"
"Dawg, listen to me -- what you need to do is take it down a notch, find yourself one of those fine-ass Jamaican women, like Rachel on BET, with the long, dark hair, and thick like I don't know what, and romance the hell out of her. Do your thing, dawg, and she'll be like putty in your hands. Then bring her ass back up to the States and make her your wife!" He chuckled but not more so that I did.
"First off, this is me you talking to! Why you trying to play me like that? You know that ain't me. Shit. Wifey??? Fuck that, V. That's you, and listen, I ain't mad at ya, but that, my brutha, ain't me. Wife," I said again. "Nigga, please!"
It always amused me how two grown black men with close to seven years of post-graduate work between us still talked like we were from the ghetto -- hoodlums, like rap stars or something. That's one thing I loved about Vince -- put him in a work situation and he was all professional and shit, like another person took control of his voice -- the way he said things, the manner in which he gestured; and his inflection sounded so damn intelligent and I dare say, prophetic. He was good at that shit -- I mean, to a certain extent I am, too -- I have to be in my line of work, being an attorney and such, but I'm not like Vince. He's 'da man when it comes to shit like that. I guess that's why mutha fuckas pay to hear him speak! Anyway, some things never change between us, and this was one of those things -- the way we spoke and vibed when we were around each other.
"I'm just saying, if it were me and I was heading to Jamaica for six days, I would be on the lookout. There's something about the islands that gets my juices flowing . . . when I'm around those beautiful beaches and sunsets it makes me feel all romantic inside. Make me wanna grab a honey and wine and dine her all night!" Vince was laughing now, but I knew his words were speaking the truth. That was the major difference between the two of us -- the way in which we viewed the world. Vince was a serious romantic through and through -- he still got plenty of play, but his approach was totally different than mine. Me, well, I'm just a stone-cold playa! I'm in to pussy, for real! The punany, plain and simple. I don't fuck around -- when I see something I want, I go for it -- no long-term romancing allowed! Just not part of my rules, ya see!
"I promise you this, Vince," I said, as I closed my garment bag filled with clothes for every possible occasion -- my favorite dark, Italian-cut, three-button suit for the club; black, tight leather pants and stretch muscle shirt; a few button-downs, a thin pullover in case it got chilly; assorted jeans and shorts; and loafers and two pairs of sandals -- black and tan. An unopened box of Lifestyles condoms (lubricated) lay in the upper right compartment of the garment bag. "I'm gonna relax and I'm gonna chill, but I will tag every fine piece of pussy I see. I ain't playing. This ole dick of mine is gonna get itself a fucking workout! Ya hear me!?!"
"You mean more than normal?" He laughed some more. Then we hung up after saying our goodbyes. I had to finish packing a second bag . . .
Both bags along with my leather carryon were currently sequestered in the trunk of my black M3. The engine was running and humming as I prepared to leave. I was dressed casual -- over-dyed jeans, polo shirt -- robin's egg blue, black leather jacket, and my fav Nikes, blue-tinted sunglasses perched atop my smooth dome -- yeah, casual, yet stylish and fresh as only I could be -- this I'm thinking to myself as I checked myself out in the full length in the hall before setting the alarm to the crib and jetting -- after all, as I'm fond of saying -- image is everything! No need to have the panties flying just yet. I mean, it wasn't even daylight yet. Yeah, mon!
Fast forward six hours. I was forty-three thousand feet in the air and cruising above Cuba at five hundred forty-five miles per hour. How I know? 'Cause I'm a gadget freak and brought along my handheld GPS. I pointed that bad boy out the window (I was in the aisle seat with nobody beside me), got a fix on a handful of satellites (my shit got a twelve-channel receiver!) and bam! My position was instantly calculated and displayed on a small LED screen. Kind of nice to know just where a mutha fucka is at all times!
Anywho . . . we'd been flying for several hours and the flight had been un-eventful. Security at Baltimore-Washington International had been tight, but nothing overbearing -- my designer belt buckle had set the metal detector off (what else is new!) and then they went through the pockets of my leather jacket because my Beemer key looked suspiciously fat under the X-ray machine. (Don't any of these fuckers drive a luxury car???) I was frisked by an elderly white guy (hourly employee, no doubt!) under the watchful eyes of a pair of National Guardsmen dressed in camouflage with their fingers on the trigger of their M-16 rifles. After that I chilled at the gate until boarding time, looking around like a hawk at my fellow passengers, trying to see if there were any fine honeys that I might get next to. Alas, no such luck. That was cool with me -- I needed to save my strength for when I arrived in Mo Bay, ya know? I decided to call my other best friend, my boo, Erika, a.k.a. Sassy, even though it was before seven a.m. Shit, she hadn't even called me last night to give me a send-off, so screw her if I wake her black ass up!
"Sassy, what's up, girl?" I said, booming into my cell.
"This better be a fucking emergency, I swear to God." I could hear her turning over in her bed. Good, I got her at just the right time.
"What up, boo? You forgot about your main man or what? Gonna let me get on a plane without any goodbyes? You know that shit ain't right!"
A stream of expletives escaped from her mouth, and I just had to laugh out loud. I loved it when she talked dirty to me. Erika and I have been down since I don't know when. At least as long as Vince and me. Actually, we had been friends since our college days, staying tight and sharing with each other the kind of things usually reserved for same-sex friendships. But Erika was down. She was cool. One of the fellas. I let her know that every chance I got.
"Look, baby girl, sorry to wake you, but I just had to holla at you before I go."
"No, your dumb ass just had nothing else to do while waiting at the gate! Am I right?" Erika responded...
