PORN: The Sending by TJ Bryan
- Its actually fantasy, not scifi. But still written by a black woman.
The Sending by TJ Bryan
This Red Gyal appears straight outta the humid city night right in
front'a me. No joke, not even a few seconds ago there was no one even
close to where she's standing now.
And I can't say for sure what I'm feeling moreher electric blue 'fro
or the black lace fan she's waving lazily back and forth in an attempt
to cool herself.
Brown eyes flecked with yellow fix on me and I stop dead in my tracks.
Her words: "You called?" The smile reveals bright white teeth. Arms open
and I step to her like this sort'a thang happens everyday. Under a
street light surrounded by uninterested others I nuzzle her throat. I'm
more than a little relieved. Not at all surprised.
See, not even a few days back I filled a glass with cool water, lit a
pink candle, laid down a feather, scattered my cowries, and put in a
call to any Power that cared. Dared ask to hold a body like mine again.
To inhale the crazy-makin' scent of a sista or any She. To hear the way
a woman sounds when she really hungers for me.
Been too long and I wanted to be back. For months now I'd been walkin'
on the boy-lovin' side'a thangs. For a bit, I was all caught up in it.
This intimacy-fearin', game-playin', male-female-battling,
sista-to-sista competing frame'a mind left me pissed and hurt in places
both alien and familiar. Changed in ways I wanna deny but need to remember.
Now, in the shadows of a nearby alley I come home.
We don't even bizness with the stinkin' garbage bags or the big-ass
raccoon in the dumpster. 'Cuz this ain't gonna be a cushy bedroom, soft
lights, and D'angelo singin' falsetto in-tha-background affair. This is
about here and now.
We are frenetic, kinetic. Limbs tangled and connected. Tongues dueling
and delving. I grab her hair, sending her down to where my naked snatch
hides under a piece of kente too brief to be called a skirt. I spread
legs covered in black schoolgirl thigh-highs and begin to ride. But even
as I feel my nature rise, I get wise to the fact that this ain't gonna
Somethin's messin' wit' me. Almost like we got company lurking in the
shadows. Suckin' their teeth and talkin' shit...only ho's and gutter
gyals spread for people they just met...but wait, what sort of lifestyle
is this here? Gyal pickney, ain't you got no brought-upsy? No fear?
I bend my knees slightly and grind my cunt into her upturned face. All
else fades as she reaches up and takes my womb in her hand. If my
brothas and sistas, those dark children who look like me but don't know
how to juk like me, could see us now, I'd grin and say: This is who I
am. This is why I need to do more than quietly smile and pass and lime
then slowly die among you.
I put this thought to one side, knowin' they'll nevah truly get it. And
can I really blame 'em? Red Gyal's teeth on my pussy, expert tongue
sliding as she smears my juice 'cross her face is damn near
indescribable in our master tongue. But that don't stop me from hissin'
encouragements and endearments using every single cuss word I know.
Eyes shut tight, I fumble toward the rainbow side of darkness. An
expectant knot tightening in my belly. Lust coiled waiting. Pooni
throbbing. Nerves send warning. Her fingers thrusting, teasing. Then I'm
As I come down, fighting for breath and control, Red Gyal raises herself
up and moves into my arms. I expect soft lips and instead receive teeth
tearing into my mouth. A gift. I taste my own funk mingled with
copper-tinged blood but don't pull away.
I get up behind her, shove her against the graffiti-covered brick and
run my hands over her clothes. With some help I drag blue jeans and
black cotton panties past her knees and bury my face in the cleft
between cheeks. Her musk is well-spiced and I feast greedily, bitin' and
suckin' as she moans arching her back.
She turns to face me and demands that I fuck her ass. I slick a hand
with spit and work her with as many fingers as she can take. The word
yes repeated to infinity is a prayer. Her tears and cries are a queer
patois I interpret with ease. Her legs clamped tight ¹round me are all
the permission I need.
And all the while, there's this look on her face that's messing wit' my
mind. Making me bump and grind as if my life depends on it. Making me
wish I knew her better. Don't even know her name. Damn! But right now I
love her. Love her for coming when I called. Love her for being a vision
manifested in tha flesh.
Growls in a bass tone I don't even recognize are punching their way
outta me. I'm riding Red Gyal's thigh, legs spread wide, my head thrown
back. What little bit'a clothes we've still got on are fast coming off.
Breaths synchronize and I realize that this vibe has done more than rock
us here tonight.
The shades of blood ancestorstough muthas who survived Middle Passage
horrors, broken ones who passed over before the ships ever landed, young
girls and crones with folds shut tight who fought and died with no on
their lips, sistren who gave it up and lived to kill another dayhave
been drawn into the love we've made.
These souls been on ice but ain't quite passed ovah. Their fate was
desire controlled by others. Juicy-sweet heat deferred for survival's
sake. Their insistent murmurings, black doves circling, crying:
"Sankofa!" Silken whisperings 'bout a plan: "Go back to cum forward. The
time is right."
To us they offer true emancipation. They open our mouths and our minds
to one strange and forbidden fruit we can safely cherish, savoring it to
Their spirits mount us and ride our riddim. Sublime conjuring. Unearthly
possession. Each loving word is a treasure shared among us in dialects
both living and dead.
This raging continental tide of drumming rhythmic cunt beats is a
freedom train, one helluva ride. They fuck us invisibly. Suckle and bite
our nipples. Unseen hands smack and tug and pinch and stroke.
Their hunger is massive. From within and without they push our
overheated bodies past tolerance, past caring. The staccato slap of
flesh against flesh quickens our pace. We struggle but do not stop.
Even though passersby are no longer passing by. Though our hearts are
pounding uncontrollably in our chests. Though we can¹t seem to take in
enough air. Though purple night is giving way to magenta morning. Though
the ground under our feet trembles and shakes and whole universes of
custom threaten to collapse, we cyan't stop.
A growing crowd of onlookers is gathering not even a few feet away. But
that's about as far as they can get.
Some shout out their rage. Others tantrum and self-destruct. Others
still simply explain in moderate tones that they're okay with what we
people do as long as they don't have to see it. But for once the
powers-that-be are fully on our side. And all they can do is watch.
Red Gyal and I are grooving, simultaneously moving toward one hell of a
peak. But we are eclipsed by the cries and shrieks of a million dark
divinities about to get off.
And when they cum we are deafened by their jubilation. When they cum we
are almost crushed in their contractions. When our foremothers finally
claim the right to cum, all present are washed clean, baptized in the
salty sea water of their astral ejaculations.
Then, released, their essence leaves this place for good.
Emptied, spasming, and once more alone in our own skins, Red Gyal and I
laugh and cry and embrace. What began in the past has ended in this our
freedom time. We are their daughtas for truetwo revolutionary sluts
who lust fearlessly and speak in ecstatic tongues.
I open my mouth to ask her name, but the light touch of her fingers on
my lips interrupts me. Instead I kiss her sticky palm and promise to
remember all. Vow to remember their story, our story, and the place
where we all came together.*oob*
*T.J. Bryan* is a black conscious, working-class, caribbean/urban queer
polyamorous femme who has been re-born many times. This time around she
is a perverted African queen on a mission of politically conscious
flirtation and fornication. T.J. is a widely published author and former
editor of /Fireweed/ magazine. She cofounded the black lesbian
production house De Poonani Posse.
- --- In SciFiNoir_Lit@yahoogroups.com, Nadine <anacaona@r...> wrote:
> Its actually fantasy, not scifi. But still written by a black woman.And very well written by her! I enjoyed it even though it struck me
> The Sending by TJ Bryan
> This Red Gyal ...<
as more erotica than porn. But that may be only because the style is
so much superior to what one usually finds in porn.
Also, an interesting idea. Imagine if the ancestors were around and
interactive all the time. It would make for some interesting