~Ava~
This was it. The moment I had been waiting for the entire week. My hands were nearly shaking with the rush of adrenaline and surely from the release of dopamine in my brain every time I clicked the “Buy” button on my IPad. I settled warmly into my cushy couch with a bottle of wine in one hand and my other ready to flip through pages for the rest of the night.
You see, I am a romance junkie. Like a hardcore romance junkie. I’ve read them all. Go ahead, just test me. Oh, you’re too shy now…mmhmm. I gotchu. Anyways, I had been waiting for the release of this book for months! Instead of dinner, I planned to gorge myself on a fantasy world where there was always a happily ever after. Sigh. They’re my favorite. I may be obsessed, but at least it’s calorie free. Hey, don’t look at my wine! I deserve at least that for nutrients.
But it seemed like my excitement all came crashing down on the first page. My eyes honed in on those keywords I always dreaded and had been haunting me with every new book I seemed to get my hands on. Curly straight hair. Green eyes or some other light-colored bullshit. Milk-and-coffee skin. What the hell does that even mean? Oh, and let’s not forget: small button nose and the model figure. I’m so overwhelmed by the need to gag I just shut down my tablet.
Another one bites the dust. I’m sure you’re thinking: what’s wrong with heroines like that? They’re people too. That they are, my friend; there is no denying that. My problem with these stories isn’t that they exist, but that lately that’s all I keep coming across. There are authors out there that refuse to write about women darker than a paper bag. Do you get the reference? Or with hair curlier than 3C. Hello, where my 4B and 4C sistas at?
I’m an unapologetically Black woman, meaning no one would ever confuse me for being anything else. My hair isn’t an organized curl, and I can rock my Afro with the best of them. No, my features aren’t tiny or cute. I have a wide-nose, big dark brown eyes, and luscious lips- if I do say so myself. No one would ever mistake me as a model either because I’m only five foot two inches tall. But I have a rockin’ body. And for those of you who don’t know what that means…my ass is more than a handful, my tummy isn’t flat and never will be-I refuse to give up my carbs- and my breasts are small and perky. There is no shame in my game, and quite frankly, I am sick and tired of women like me being rendered invisible even in fiction. Are we not beautiful too? Hello. Did you just hear me describe myself? I’m gorgeous!
I know what you’re thinking. If you’re so damn gorgeous, why are you at home alone on a Friday night reading sappy romance novels? The answer is simple: the world has yet to appreciate my beauty. You got your evidence right here in these books. Yes, I get my fair share of guys who want to roll around in the hay and fuck up my hair for a bit, but that’s always where their interest ends. I am always something to try, and so I’ve officially taken myself off the toy shelf. No more unreturned phone calls, no more ass fetishes, and no more men. Period. But like any red-blooded woman, I do yearn for the romance. So now do you see why this means so much to me? For these few moments a week, I get to bask in the unending and sappy happiness of a romance novel. It’s sad to some people; they may think I’m desperate, but I’m not.
You see, outside this fantasy world, I have a great life. I’ve accomplished most of my goals. I am a highly educated marketing specialist. You heard it people! And it is quite honestly the best job I’ve ever had. Okay, I’m overdoing it a little bit, but it’s not the worst job either. I get to do what I love most- conduct market research and work with the best companies in the country, sometimes even the world. I know about everything in my firm, from the business to the gossip. And as we all know, information is power.
And yet with all that power, I am now left bored on a Friday night. The television stares at me in all its prospective glory, but I still can’t help but look dolefully at the disappointing eBook on my tablet. I was hoping to at least get some action tonight, but it seems yet another author has left me to my own wiles. Grudgingly, I turn on the remote and settle into a ridiculous yet guilty pleasure reality show.
~Thor~
“Thor!”
I wanted to roll my eyes as this woman continually screamed my name. Mind you, my masculine pride definitely appreciates her energetic response, but if this woman did not stop squirming beneath me like an eel, I was liable to completely fall out of her pussy and onto the floor. Before I could do just that, I took hold of her petite shoulders in my hands to pin her down and slam my hips forward in short jabs. I could tell she liked the stimulation more at her entrance. I mean that is where all the more sensitive nerve-endings are. Color you impressed? I’m named after a God because I fuck like one. And that can’t happen if I don’t know a woman’s anatomy. It comes with the territory and reputation, and man do I love it.
Pussy, that is. Not her.
In fact, I can’t even tell you what her name is. Sahara? Zara? Ahara? It’s something weird like that. I can’t judge though. I mean, I am named after a Norse god. It’s as if my parents were determined to have my ass be the butt of jokes for the rest of my life. I look nothing like him. I’m not blonde, I don’t have blue eyes, and I damn sure don’t have any goals of looking like a meathead. Instead, I take pride in my jet-black hair and emerald green eyes. I take after my Danish ancestors in height and build, leanly muscled. But apparently none of that could help protect me from the practical convulsions this girl was having beneath me.
We met in the club, as these occasions tend to happen. She wasn’t bad to look at in her skintight bandage dress and sky-high heels, not that she needed them. I’m sure she stood far above the average height for women in the U.S. as she seemed to be pretty close to my own height, and I’ve always towered over my friends and the general populace. With her wheat-blonde hair and come-hither lips, I decided she would be enough of a distraction for this Friday night.
“Yes, yes!”
I can’t help the deep sigh of pleasure. To her ears, it might seem that I am into it. But it is more a sigh of relief. As soon as she comes, I can be done with her. And that’s exactly what happened. Her convulsions come to the ultimate climax nearing the cataclysms of an earthquake. I swear I felt the ground shake from her exaggerations. I know I’m good. But nothing should feel that damn good you risk breaking your back or breaking your partner’s nose, right?
Anyways, I come quite anti-climatically. Ha, get it? The most intense anti-climax climax if there ever was one. But hey, it is all just to pass the time. And immediately, like clockwork, I rolled over and reached for my pants. I’ve learned from experience it’s best to get going while the sweat is still slowly cooling on the girl’s skin. As she tries to catch her breath, I’d be catching mine while simultaneously shoving my legs and arms through my clothes. By the time her breath is even, I’d be out without a backward glance. That’s how it’s always been, and it’s worked for me so don’t judge. You get while the getting is good and then you get the fuck out. That’s my motto.
“Thor?” She whispers into the dark emptiness of the room.
My only response to her is the front door closing in her small studio apartment. We fucked. Enough said.