The Albatross and the Mermaid by Amanda Fox - HTML preview

Going Away

“I have to go away for a while,” I mumbled, struggling to say the words. It was business--my other business--and I wanted Isabelle to understand. Sure, we both worked at the same law firm, but unlike Isabelle, I wasn’t one of the head honchos. I was never going to be. Agreed, a paralegal makes more than chump change, but a man in my position needs to keep his options open.

Like most black men who are transplants from other countries--who were not born in the land of hopes and dreams but who moved here with their parents as children, or who came here on their own as young adults--like those men, I have more than one job. Note that I didn't say two jobs, I said more than one, the number of subsequent jobs fluctuating depending on their duration and profitability.

I have my main job--the one that pays most of the bills--but I also have a couple of others on the side: temporary positions, pieces of work, if you will. In order to make money, I might even help out a friend with one of his jobs and then take a cut of the paycheck. I've also been known (in a tight squeeze)--when my heat has been shut off or my child support payments are overdue--to hustle for a dollar. Please understand that felonious activities are not practices of which I make a habit, but I have succumbed to the allure of their dividends--had to--on more than a single occasion.

Let me explain what it is I do outside the office. Simply put, I’m a businessman. I buy product in North America and sell it again for profit in the Caribbean, bringing stuff to places where certain items just aren’t available. Usually my trips last for a couple of weeks, but more often than not, it's more like a couple of months. On a day to day basis, I meet with established clients, round up new ones, and chase down customers who owe me money, shuffling around from place to place until my feet hurt and my brain is ready to explode.

It may be difficult, be I love this job. I'm damn good at it too, if I do say so myself. The best thing about it is that I set my own pace and make my own hours, and I would do it as a full time gig, except that it's not very reliable. Some years people want to buy; others, they don’t or can’t. Thus, my sales career stays on the side, wavering in boon from one year to the next.

I'm sure you've heard the saying, “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket." Well, there’s another one that my Auntie lives to repeat and it goes, “No hang you clothes all pon one nail.” As an immigrant whose homeland accent is a constant reminder to the white man that I am a foreigner, in whose opinion (and of this I’m almost positive), I am an interloper trying to usurp his jobs, his tax dollars and his women, I take such messages to heart.

For poor people--not those trying to get by with a single car or those who have to wait a month to pay off their Visa bill--but for people who come from bona fide insolvency--who will never have a Visa card and who know all too well that the women at the social assistance office are bitches--for those poor people, it is engrained in their heads, just like it is in mine, that it can be profitable (almost mandatory) to spread themselves around, sometimes in more ways than one.

As such, I pledge allegiance to a number of different jobs in order to keep my head above water, and I take very seriously the responsibilities of each and every one of them. Some people aren’t set up with their daddy’s money and others don’t have the connections to secure themselves a lucrative profession. What I needed was for my white woman--Isabelle--to grasp and tolerate this mode for survival.

Not only that, but I wanted her to understand the rest of my complexities as well. She needed to appreciate the influences that had shaped my world, and she needed to tolerate all the baggage and history that came along with loving me. She also needed to support the choices that I made, however much at odds those choices were with hers. At that point in time--in the relatively new phase of our relationship--I had my doubts that she would ever identify with me completely.

And so, on the day that I told her I’d be leaving town for a couple of months, I hoped she could see what was compelling me to go, but when I saw the hurt look coming even before the edges of her mouth turned down, I was skeptical. She didn’t want to hear about it. She didn’t want to conceive of the time that we would have to be apart, and as the moment of my departure approached, she became more and more agitated.

I worried that she would assume I was going just to get away from her, or to take a break from our increasingly intense relationship, as some men might do. But to say that she would miss me and that I would miss her, was an understatement. We had become good friends, great friends, best friends, and so much more. We just liked being around each other. She made me laugh and I calmed her nerves. She was quirky; I was sedate.

She didn’t need me though and the more I got to know her, the more I knew she was definitely not another Shana. Isabelle didn’t need me to take her places or do odd jobs for her. She likewise didn’t need me to support her emotionally or financially. That was obvious. She had a loving family, supportive friends and she made a shit-load of cash as a lawyer and soon-to-be partner at Braun and Bower. Indeed, she wasn’t like most other women, and certainly not like any other white woman I’d ever met.

But before continuing with this discussion, let me tell you what I thought I knew about white women back then. Yeah, I’d heard black people talk--my cousins, my friends, my friends’ sisters, men on the street, the women at church, etc. etc.--and the outlook for a black man and a white woman to make it as a couple seemed to me about as good as shooting oneself in the foot.

First, there was the “big picture”--the panorama that I was forced to confront each and every day of my young life. If you don’t already know, (and if you don’t, you must be white), you might wonder why some black people feel so strongly that blacks and whites should remain separate, particularly when it comes to dating, falling in love, and propagating the species. Well, that’s easy. Consider for a moment that whites enslaved blacks for hundreds of years. Recognize further that many of them still don’t see blacks as equals, that they don't trust us, probably never will.

But if the general mess between the races wasn't enough to deter me, there were also the specific personality flaws of the Caucasian female that, from what I’d been told, could only cause heartache and pain in the long run. If you asked them, any number of black men (or women) would tell you the same thing. They would say that white women only want black men for their bodies and supposed sexual prowess, that they are depraved and spoiled sorts who only want big cocks and swerving hips in order to fulfill a couple of forbidden fantasies. But beware, you’ll be told, she is fickle in her desires, dropping the object of her lust like a hot potato once she has used him up.

And it doesn’t stop there. As used to getting her own way as she is, the white woman is basically submissive, self-deprecating, and vacuous. That’s how she will snare the black man in her trap, doing what she’s told, servicing his every whim and engaging in all kinds of kinky sexual stuff that any self-respecting sister would never do. But in the end, she can never be satisfied or faithful, having to slake her desire for change and lust by taking more than one man into her bed.

She sounds pretty terrible, doesn’t she? However bad I thought white girls were, it wasn’t bad enough because even with this long list of considerations, I ended up with my white girl anyway, though afterwards I was kicking myself for having done so. Of course, I never thought that Shana leaving had anything to do with me at the time. In my mind, there was no way that our separation was anything but her fault.

Back then, friends and family did their best to make me feel better however. “You can’t trust ‘em you know. Not any of them,” said good ole Mr. Lespinasse, a friend of my father’s. This was his comment when I first brought Shana home. It was also his comment when we broke up.

After Shana, I told myself to stay away from those white imps and I managed to do just that for about five years, dating a number of women from various ethnic groups to pass the time. Though none of these relationships ever really got off the ground, they were all very nice women who were special in their own way. It was almost as if I was subconsciously waiting for someone else to come along though, and I kept my distance emotionally, using them for sex and companionship.

Now, when Isabelle entered the picture, I felt the attraction immediately, but I tried to stay away, reminding myself just how hurt I'd been by Shana. You can't control lust though, can you? Besides, Isabelle seemed different from Shana and different from what I’d been told about white women in general.

For one thing, she was strong--physically, emotionally and spiritually. Furthermore, it appeared that she knew what she wanted out of life and that she was on the right track to achieving it. Moreover, she had the cast of an authentic human being, like what she said she meant, (with the exception of her sarcastic comments), and like what she intended was for us to be together forever.

On the subject of sex--and this is where you might say I could’ve been fooled--I never thought that she wanted me because I was black. In my opinion, she wanted me for me. OK, I’ll admit, she wanted my body to both pleasure and consume in every way known to man, but I honestly didn’t think that it had anything to do with the color of my skin. That was a key part of what I held to be true about Isabelle. My happiness with her was and is, based on this assumption.

Considering all the racial issues, I count it as a good thing that Isabelle is white. She managed to get past my defenses that way, and she fooled me all right, but not in the manner I'd been warned she might. She never pretended to be stupid or obsequious to get me into bed, and she never gave me the impression that she wanted to use my body and throw me away.

When we first started dating, it was my perception that she only wanted to love me, and it was because of her color that I let her into my world. After Shana, I'd been guarding against those evil Caucasian attributes, but when none of them ever surfaced, I allowed Isabelle to breach my outer trenches. After that, she wheedled her way in past the rest.

Isabelle, in all her alabaster glory, was everything my mother had taught me to find in a lover and partner, but I didn't realize it in the beginning. All I knew at that stage in our relationship was that my going away, (whether it was something I felt compelled to do or not), was going to be tough on the both of us.

When I called to remind Isabelle that my flight left at three, she said, “I’ll be over within the hour. I have something for you.” At this, I smiled because she always had something for me. From home-baked goodies to movies she thought I might enjoy, her hands were always full. And true to her word, when she showed up at my door fifteen minutes later, she was carrying a tiny present bag. "Here. I made this special for you."

"You can't look at it yet. Wait until you are alone and things are quiet, OK?" She leaned in for a kiss.
"OK," I said, happy to have her in my arms. "I think we have some time before my cab comes."
"I like the sound of that," she purred, leading me down the hall and into the bedroom.

Squirrel-dogs and Bubblegum Wrappers

“I must warn you Isabelle, I don’t talk very much,” Adrian confessed one day, about a year into our relationship. It came out as we were walking in the park one afternoon.

“Well, that’s great news. And why are you’re telling me this now?” I asked, somewhat perplexed.
“I just thought that before we go any further, you should know what I’m really like.”
“Go any further with what? This walk?” I knew what he was getting at, but I wanted him to say it.
“You know, with our relationship.”
“Oh, that little thing...”
“Yes Isabelle, that little thing. The little thing that is turning into a really big thing.”
“Big? I hadn’t noticed,” I said, trying hard to keep a straight face.
“Don’t lie. You know things are getting serious between us.”
“It seems to me that things have been serious between us since the day we met, so why are you just now giving me the lowdown on your shortcomings?” I wondered what kind of thought process went into making a statement about one’s own faults. “Are you trying to make yourself look bad or something?”
“No.” Adrian answered plainly.
“Besides, you seem to have done a pretty good job at keeping up your end of our conversations so far,” I said. And it was true. We'd had some great discussions.
“I just want you to know about all of my bad traits before we get too involved.”
“Too involved? Haven’t we already established that we are fairly involved with each other?”
“You know what I mean. Before I ask you to marry me or something.” I think the words slipped out.
“Oh, OK.” I smiled despite myself. “So what are your other bad qualities then?”
“Well, apart from being quiet, I can be messy. Not too messy though. And I like to sleep in. Not like noon or anything, and only if I’ve been up late the night before.” He continued, “I leave gum wrappers in my pants’ pockets a lot because I like to chew gum, and they usually end up in the washing machine. I also have this thing about dogs. I’m afraid of them I mean, but only the little ones. They are yappy and they remind me of squirrels. Whenever I see one, I picture it lunging at my face like the rabbit in that Monte Python movie.”
He rattled on for a good four or five minutes, listing all of the qualities he thought might ultimately send me packing. Finally, I had to cut him off. “Ummm, Adrian, you’re not being too quiet right now. It sounds to me that you enjoy talking,” I laughed.
Caught, he cleared his throat. “Well, I am quiet most of the time, unless I have something really important to say.”
“You mean like squirrel-dogs and bubblegum wrappers?” He had no comeback to my sarcasm, so I took advantage of the silence. “Well, I think I have a pretty good handle on what you’re all about and besides, who said that being quiet was such a bad thing? Maybe it’s good. You know, you think before you speak. If anyone has a problem, it’s me. I’m the one who talks too much. So if you talk a little and I talk a lot, then maybe we’ll balance each other out.”
“That sounds about right," he said.
When I turned to kiss him on the cheek however, I saw that he was frowning. Suddenly, I felt queasy. “Unless of course you are telling me this stuff to get out of our relationship,” I said, kicking at a big pinecone. “If that’s the case, then you just need to say it.” I was being insecure; I knew it, though I couldn’t figure out why he’d ever want to break up. Things between us were going great.
“Jeez, don’t ever think that,” Adrian pleaded. “I just don’t want to get in too deep, and then have you bail. I couldn’t handle it. Not with you. So I need everything to be out in the open.” At that point, he steered us over to a park bench and we sat down. “Speaking of out in the open, there's something that I’ve been meaning to tell you."
“What is it?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“I have to go away for a while." He was staring at my mouth.
“Where?”
“Remember I told you? I have to go south to sell off all the stuff I’ve been collecting over the past year.”
“Yes, I remember,” I said, sad almost immediately. “So when do you leave?” I didn’t want him to go, and I couldn’t imagine being without him for more than a day or two.
“Right after Christmas. That was the only time I could get off.”
“How long?”
“Two months probably.” He looked away.
“Two months. That’s a long time.”
“Not that long. It’ll go by fast. You’ll probably be so busy with work that you’ll hardly even notice.”
“Yeah, hardly.”
For a while, we sat in complete silence, me stroking the stubble on his chin, Adrian twirling the ends of my hair around and around his fingers. Nothing more was said. Nothing more needed to be said. I knew that he valued his jobs. They weren't something I ever wanted him to stop doing, but I won’t lie and say that my stomach didn’t hurt already from missing him so much.

A World Apart

After a four and a half hour flight, and a long drive to the motel, I was finally supplanted in a musty room with floral upholstery and matching bed coverings. Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, I yawned deeply and reached in to empty out my pants’ pockets.

It came out of the left side, along with one tiny paper clip, two pieces of balled-up lint and a handful of bubble gum wrappers. The thin parchment--a flecked colorcombination of eggshell white and waxy green--was like an accordion, a hand-folded band of paper about two inches wide by what must’ve been twenty-eight inches long. Weaving back and forth, it collapsed on itself in the shape of a perfect square.

A delicate souvenir, it reflected the discriminating nature of its maker and as I expanded the pages of my simulated book, I caught a glimpse of seven different shapes drawn in black ink. “Seven symbols for seven days. Study one each day until the week is over and start again as needed,” Isabelle had said--demanded almost--earlier that afternoon. I knew it was important to her that I did this right, so I carefully repositioned the keepsake back to its original form and turned my attention to the image on the front.

Day one. The first page was almost blank except for a single character etched in the shape of a slightly deformed letter “H”. An alphabetical aberrant slanting casually to the right, it looked like a feeble old man ready to topple to the ground. Beneath it was a word written so small that I had to squint my eyes to make it out. It read “fortitude”.

Philosophical as always, Isabelle had given me a gift that left me wondering. I thought about that first word, “fortitude”. What did she want me to think? Was my trip supposed to be a trial of sorts? Was it a test for me, or for her, or for the both of us? Would she need to call on the gods of “fortitude” to help her get her through my time away, or did she assume I would?

On the second day, I was presented with another odd-looking symbol, this one in the shape of a very tall letter “M”. Its corresponding word was “progress”. Again, Isabelle had me guessing. Was I supposed to be making “progress” while I was away? I sure hoped so. That was my main goal.

With each day came a different symbol and another word--more messages and more hidden meanings--“strength”, “peace”, “fortune”, and “patience”. Her inner tricky white girl was finally coming out, and as the week went on, every moment that I missed the touch of Isabelle’s hands on my face or the taste of her mouth on my lips, I found myself thinking about her booklet.

Admittedly, she is a smart woman and she knew that I’d need a part of her with me--something that could speak for her when she couldn’t, something that could touch me somehow when her hands were so far away. By giving me the booklet, she was forcing me to think about her and about our relationship.

On the seventh day, returning to my motel room completely exhausted, I almost forgot to check my manual of revelations before dropping off to sleep. But whenever I climb into bed, (even thousands of miles away), I think of Isabelle, and thinking of Isabelle made me remember to check my final message. When I flipped open the booklet this time however, I didn’t see exactly what I was expecting. There were no more symbols (at least no more of the kind I’d been getting up until then), and no more words either. On the very last page, she’d simply drawn a heart.

During the day and into the early evening hours, time flew over the next five weeks, but each night, once I’d gotten settled at the hotel, it was just the opposite. That’s when I got lonely. Back at page seven of my gift--the heart page--I stared at the symbol. Of all of them, at least I knew what it meant--what she meant. Isabelle had proclaimed her love for me many times before that day, and the feelings on both of our parts were definitely there.

As I held the paper that Isabelle had so carefully crafted, I thought about her hands, and thinking about her hands made me think about her stroking the smoothness of my back or flitting her fingers over my penis. Slow and gentle at first, I envisioned her tracing back and forth over my swelling member, as usual, provoking more restlessness that release.

It's on a very rare occasion that Isabelle will bring me to the top of the mountain and shove me straight over, and in one instance, she actually walked away completely. I remember that day only too well. Isabelle was in the middle of giving me the best blowjob ever, when suddenly she stopped and got up. “Where are you going?” I cried as she fixed her clothes, preparing to leave.

“I have to be in court early tomorrow. It’s a huge case, and I still have some last minute preparations to address. Please say you understand?”
When she leaned down to give me a good-bye kiss, my hard-on practically clawed its way up her leg. “Ummm, but, couldn’t we just finish this. I mean, you're not going to leave me here, are you?" Frustrated, I wanted to grab her hips, hike up her skirt, and jam my cock into whichever hole it found first, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to scare her off. We'd only been seeing each other for a few weeks by then. Instead, I just lay there and watched her leave.
Talk about blue balls. I ached for hours, even after playing with myself multiple times to ease the throbbing. Of course, I wasn’t too happy about it at first, but when she came back to me four days later, we fucked like no one’s ever fucked before, and when I did cum, I was surprised that the blast didn’t shoot out one of the various openings in her head.
I've since figured out that her little stunt was a test to see how I would react when she asserted herself. Really, she wanted me to use force and bring her back. How do I know this? Well, the next time she pulled a similar trick, I did just that--I couldn’t stop myself. I let her think that I was allowing her to go, and then I chased her out to the kitchen and pushed her facedown onto the table. She sang for me louder that day than I’d ever heard her.
When I’m with Isabelle, my body demands urgency you see, but that’s hardly ever what I get. And maybe it’s because she doesn’t always give me exactly what I want when I want it that has me hooked. Who knows? In my lumpy bed that evening--so far away from home, so far from the woman I was growing to love--I was desperate for her touch, and kneading over the thickness that was mounting in my drawers, I vowed to prolong my pleasure in a manner similar to hers.
Without Isabelle there to hold me back however, my hand was inside my shorts in no time flat, visions of her body loving mine dancing in my head. And as enticing and romantic as that sounds, after about one minute of jerking off, I discovered that things were not going as usual. Whether it was from being away from her for so long, or from not engaging in sexual intercourse for weeks, it didn’t matter. I was beating my meat for all I was worth, yet my penis was sloppy.
“Fuck!” I yelled, the word echoing off the walls, confirming the fact (as if I wasn’t aware of it already) that I was alone in a crappy motel room. Diagnosing the problem as a state of hyper-arousal (if such a thing even exists), I was determined to make it work. Thinking that it couldn’t hurt, I tried pleading with my own manhood. “We’ll see her again soon,” I soothed. “But tonight it’s just you and me--like in the good old days. We’ve had some fun times together, haven’t we?” I tightened my grip. “Come on...” Tighter. “Can’t you just pretend that she’s with us tonight?” And like I’d said the magic words, my wilted flower began to grow.
Performing up to speed, I shoved my pants down to my ankles and sped up the tempo of my cock play. In my head, I tried to mellow things out, concentrating on an image of Isabelle poised between my legs ready to take me inside her mouth.
“Do you like this Adrian?” In my daydream, she fluttered a kiss onto the tip of my penis, then began licking from the very base of the shaft right up to the top. “Do you like it when I lick you this way?”
As it happens, during sex, Isabelle often asks questions. It seems that she really wants to know, do I like the way she licks me, touches me, or kisses me? Is she doing things right? Of course I do, and of course she is, more than she could ever imagine. “Do you like it when I lick you this way?” Yes. It's the same every single time. “Am I wet enough for you?” Yes. “Do you want me to take you all the way inside?” Yes, yes, and more yes!
For me, making love to Isabelle is easy and we've never had to try very hard to make it work. For the first year however, my all-consuming passion for her, lead to a fear of losing myself--of loving her too much--and of giving myself over to another person completely, none of which I’d ever done before.
In my room that night so far away from home, those fears came rushing at me like a rhinoceros in heat. Back at the motel, I looked down at my penis--erect and raring to go--and I mulled over the moments before when it was hanging like a limp noodle. It was then that I saw the depth of Isabelle’s influence over me. She'd invaded my system and I knew that if I stayed with her any longer, that I'd be lost to her love forever. This implied that I could never leave, and it also implied the reverse, which is what I think I was having the most trouble with--that I would die if she ever left me.
Inundated by thoughts of a heavenly ball and chain, and hounded by a cock in desperate need of some release, it was all I could do to finish what I’d started. So I put the issue of our relationship on the back burner, reassured myself that I wouldn’t be without her much longer, and watched as my phantom lover went into action, her mouth hovering over the tip of my cock as she swirled her tongue around its head circle after slow circle.
I imagined Isabelle plucking at my nipples like she was pulling feathers out of my chest, her golden hair flowing onto my thighs as she laved up and down my shaft-tonguing it, pressing her lips to it like it was some giant popsicle on a hot summer’s day. “Don’t do it on the side like that Isabelle. I don’t like it."
“Don’t you?” I knew she would ask.
“No, I like it like this.” I visualized myself lifting her head and shoving hard into her illusory mouth, urging her to go faster and harder.
Now, it would’ve been nice if I’d actually squirted into the back of her throat, and it would’ve been great to see drips of cum dribbling down the sides of her face. Instead, when I came, the white liquid hit me square in the eye, blinding me for a few seconds until I was able to get a washcloth to wipe myself clean.
The rest of the trip progressed pretty much the same, and by the end, I was more than ready to see Isabelle.

Coming Home

Adrian had been gone a couple of months--seven weeks, one day, and five and one-quarter hours, to be exact. Just as he'd predicted, I'd been busy with work, but busy didn’t take away the sting of his absence. It couldn't keep him out of my head and interestingly enough it was the topic of conversation when he called me just two days prior to his return.

I hadn’t more than said hello when he asked, “Do you see me everywhere you go Isabelle? Do you look for me, even if I’m not there?”
“Yes,” I replied truthfully. I thought about his charismatic smile and his sexy, brown eyes.
“I am on your mind then?”
“Of course you are on my mind, and quite frankly, I don’t know how you can even ask me that question. I am obsessed with you, don’t you know that?” I was desperate to see him.
“That’s good, because I’m going crazy here without you too. Literally.”
“What does that mean--literally?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. It's just that my body isn't working properly.”
“Your body? Are you sick or something?”
“No. Not sick. I’m having some trouble with my penis, that's all.” Adrian sounded forlorn.
“Maybe something is wrong with you. You’ve never had a problem before."
“Oh, I know what’s wrong, but I won’t be able to fix it for another few days.”
I still hadn’t clued in. “Aren’t there any doctors down there?”
“Jesus, Isabelle. You are so dense sometimes. My problem is that I miss you. My penis especially.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, my vagina misses you too.” And she did.
We both missed each other and on the day of his homecoming, I couldn’t get anything done. My stomach was in knots and I had a million questions running through my mind. Would Adrian be the same? Would his absence have changed things between us?