Mad Love

Prologue

Drawing my arms tighter across my chest, I glanced down at my crossed legs, ensuring I wasn’t exposing more of the goodies than I’d intended. While I felt a bit embarrassed sitting on the blanket-covered floor, naked as a jay bird, I also felt oddly invigorated – and thanks to a few hits of Harris’ joint – high as a kite. It wasn’t my style to be so uninhibited. If my mother knew I was in some boy’s studio apartment posing in the buff, she’d have my bare ass for a midnight snack.

Portia Belcher had been very clear with my baby sister, Julia and me about what it meant to be a black woman in America. Our very survival depended upon staying focused and clear-headed in order to successfully maneuver a lifetime’s worth of tricky emotional and psychological terrain. For a black woman, black men were both her greatest gift, and most deadly vice. According to my mom, it was more than okay to love him, but the smart sista never lost sight of the monumental necessity that was shoring up the invisible foundation – one that didn’t depend on love, emotional support, or a man’s paycheck -- on which she and her children could sustain should her black prince ever leave. And the chances were good that sooner or later the brotha would venture away in search of that something that continued to elude him.

It wasn’t until after my father walked out on my family shortly before my seventh birthday, that I came to truly appreciate, and respect my mother’s wisdom. Following her advice had kept my heart from being broken. It had also made it nearly impossible for me to ever truly love a man. That was until I met Harris Sifuentes.

“Tilt your head just a little to the left for me.”

“Is this okay?” I said, doing as instructed.

“Ah, Thalia,” Harris said in a sensual growl, his eyes drinking in my naked form. “You’re perfect.”

Oh how I so loved the sound of that man’s voice. It was melodic, mesmerizing almost. And the way he said my name – Thaaalia – was orgasm-inducing.

“You are so beautiful,” Harris said, working feverishly to capture my image on the canvas. A wistful smile formed on his hair dusted face as he took a step back to study the painting. “Absolutely exquisite.”

My cheeks flushed as I sat there watching him watching me. It was the height of flattery that a man like Harris found me so captivating.  Truth be told, it was his fine caramel colored self who deserved to be immortalized -- preferably naked in all his delicious glory. I’d never actually seen Harris in the buff, but something in my gut told me his body was a work of art. Just the sight of him taking a bare-footed step in his ripped jeans and paint-stained wifebeater was enough to make me wet.  His lean, naturally muscular body moved with a dancer-like fluidity.  Harris was the kind of man that made other men nervous when they were around him. He was only five-feet-nine, but had a self-assured air about him that suggested good things indeed came in small packages. And if that twinkle in his hazel eyes didn’t make a woman weak in the knees, the snow-white come-hither smile would.

Carefully I shifted my aching butt. I didn’t want to break his flow, but there was only so much longer I’d be able to sit like this.

Harris snapped out of his artistic haze long enough to ask, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile as my legs started to cramp.

“Just let me finish your torso,” he said, his voice pleading for my indulgence. “Then we can take a break...okay?”

“Okay.”

I studied him intently as he returned his attention to the canvas. The way his long fingers wrapped themselves around the paintbrush, the wrinkle in his brow, the intensity in his eyes; I loved everything about that man.  Lord knows I’d tried so hard to resist Harris that first night we double-dated with my sister and her dick-du-jour. But without even trying too hard, he’d pulled me into his zone. By the time he kissed me goodnight, ever-so softly on my forehead, I knew I was in trouble. But, I didn’t care. Most of the guys I’d dated prior had only feigned interest in my mind, all the while silently charting the quickest route to my panties. Harris was different. He was genuinely interested in hearing my thoughts and opinions. In the two-months we’d dated, I’d shared things with him I hadn’t even told my sister. For Harris, the litmus test for every choice was “will doing it make you happy...will it bring value and joy to your life.”  He was the type of man my mother had deemed most dangerous: one who dared to dream.

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