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well as playing.
She was single now, twice divorced, having had a few steady and sort-of-steady men in her life since she was twenty or so; she was, she informed us, forty-two, and she looked not a day over thirty.
Her skin was smooth, flawless, as was her complexion. Her smile could light up a coastline, and her humor suited ours as well; sardonic, sarcastic, and not taking herself very seriously.
When she found out that Ali and I were, indeed, a couple-she had suspected as much she told us, watching us walking around at the art show-she smiled and said that she hadnt gone down that road, yet, but had thought about it quite a few times.
"Im a bit of an explorer with the mysteries of life," she said, clearly stoned after we finished the first, fat doobie.
"Preaching to the choir, girlfriend," Ali said, her words a bit slow and stoned, as well.
"This is really good shit," Di said as we prompted her to finish it and to eat the roach.
"Yep, it is," I said, and then proceeded to roll a couple of bones for her, surprising her when I handed them to her.
"Oh no, I cant," she said, "But thank you for the thought."
"Of course you can, and we insist," I pressed on.
Seeing we were serious, she graciously thanked us and accepted our token of new friendship.
We exchanged numbers and email shit, promising her that wed come and see her in a couple of nights and hang out with her at the piano bar.
We walked her through the patio, to the gate and pausing, she hugged us both, seemingly comfortable with embracing a couple of lezes. Saying goodnight, we watched her walk back towards the gallery and her car.
"Want to just stay here tonight, since were already here?" Ali asked as we walked back to the apartment, our arms around each others waist.
"Sure, might as well," I agreed.
"Shes a hottie," Ali offered, "definitely, a hottie."
"Yep, she surely is," I agreed.
"Would you do her?" she asked.
"Yep, would you?"
"Yep, I would," then laughing at some thought that had just occurred to her.
"How ironic it would be if I fulfilled my secret Southern Damsel Fantasy of fucking a Black by said Black being a woman," she finally shared with me.
"Ironic, indeed," I agreed, locking the door behind us, taking her into my arms and attacking her lustfully, fueled by thoughts of a reverse Oreo cookie; two white cookies with chocolate in the middle.
Pushing her backwards towards the couch as I kissed her hard, my tongue reaching deep into her mouth and throat, my hands practically ripped off her clothes. My animal lust for Ali at that moment was beyond anything I had ever experienced before, with a man or a woman.
Alis head was on the couch-arm now, her body being forced into the cushions by my own; her hands were pulling at my dress, raising it to my hips, slipping her thigh between my legs. I leaned into it with my pussy,
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the heat from the both of us palatable in the air, as was the smell of raw sex.
As I continued to grind my pussy into her smooth, warm skin, I lowered my head to her breasts, sucking and licking with a frenzy. Drawing her nipples into my mouth, one at a time, I bit hard enough to cause her several gasps of pain/pleasure.
The mind-movie playing in my head as our lovemaking became hotter and hornier was of Ali and I doing this with Di as a partner.
Sliding my tongue from her red, swollen wet nipples, I pulled her thong off of her as she crossed her legs behind my head, trapping me against her crotch.
Ali liked what I did to her that night; she liked it a lot.
"Lynn, these are powerful, girl, really fucking powerful," Ali said, laying the 8x10 glossies down on the desk.
I had showed her a few of the shots that I particularly liked from one of the photo projects that I was working on.
After I moved to New Orleans, I began shooting pics of the Ninth Ward, pics that showed the despair of its denizens, pics that showed the devastation that surrounded them on every side.
There was no way to escape the horrible reality of their particular situations. Those that didnt move away were reduced to living in those FEMA joke-trailers for the most part, if their homes were not in livable condition.
Sitting outside to relieve the cramped condition of their living arrangements provided no relief or solace. To sit outside was to gaze upon mounds of devastation, still here after what was then, almost two years since Katrina.
No, there was no escape for them; for the brave who sought to rebuild this city, not into what it was but into what it could be, should be. No, there was no escape and yet they were still here.
Against all odds, they were still here.
Those were the glossies that Ali had looked at, gazed at, studied; she was moved by my photos, moved by the emotions that I had hoped the photos would stir up. They had, and I was pleased.
"When Im through with shooting, I think Ill have enough material to be able to show if theyre good enough," I offered as my motivation for the endless hours of work I had already put in on the project.
"Baby, dont even worry about they being good enough; as an artist, I can promise you, they are good enough, and yes, we will have a show for your series, whenever youre ready," Ali said to me, her eyes wet from the welling of tears.
She did see it; she saw the scenes just as I had, and as it had me, it brought forth the tears of an emotional connection to the horribleness of this particular truth.
Life continues to remind the human specie just how much of a bitch she can be.
~
"Well, if it isnt my two favorite queers," Di said to us when we
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