Drive Me Crazy by Eric Jerome Dickey

kegels.
    I slapped her backside, rubbed her Sankofa tattoo, squeezed her flesh over and over.
    She said, “You are so doggone mannish.”
    “You know you like it.”
    Her pheromones made me lose control. Made me wanna act like I was in a Lexington Steele video and do some special things to her. Don’t know why we had that kinda chemistry.
    She kept talking, swaying and sounding like she’d had two shots of my friend Jack Daniel’s. “Seems like forever since the last time I had sex. I’m tighter than new braids.”
    Her sounds spread around the room.
    She turned over, got on her knees, ass up high, that heart-shaped backside looking good in the morning light. I rubbed her flesh, ran my fingers over her Sankofa tattoo, held her waist.
    “Damn, Driver ... sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus. Driver. That’s. My. Spot.”
    Couldn’t count the number of times I’d had sex to see if I could still feel. The same way people hurt themselves to see if they were alive, I fell into the arms of nurturing women. I focused on pleasure instead of pain. For some people sex was the same as self-mutilation, and serial sex could be more anesthetizing than anything. It wasn’t always about lust or getting over. Some of us had to be reminded that we could still feel. Even if it was just in our loins.
    “I’m ... coming ... again ... Driver ... you are so hard ... hurts so good ... hurts so good.”
    Her left leg trembled and she held on to the sheets. She was intoxicated, in a good place.
    “God, you’re hard ... that’s it baby ... ooo yeah ... I feel you ... come for me ... come for me.”
    Electricity moved up and down my spine.
    “That’s it baby, take this pussy, take this pussy.”
    Heaven surrounded me.
    “Mmmmmmhhhh. Oooooo. Driver.”
    She moaned so sweet. Her hands gripped the sheets, nails dug into the covers. I held her hair, spanked her, bit her, gave her measured strokes. But most of my mind was somewhere else, doing the quick math on my life, not liking the bottom line.
    “Get it baby that’s it get it baby Driver mmmmmmm damn mmmhhhh.”
    Sweat dripped from my flesh. I grunted over and over. If I had a heart attack on the downstroke and died this morning, I’d die with nothing to show I’d ever lived.
    I showered while Panther rested underneath the colorful quilt and soft sheets.
    Tiredness heavied my eyes. Lisa wouldn’t leave my mind.
    Fifteen thousand in the hole.
    I stared at the money scattered on Panther’s dresser.
    She moaned. “Nice suit. You’re sexy as hell.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Dag, Driver. You sex so doggone good.”
    “That’s your wild ass.”
    “You’re the best I’ve ever been with.”
    “Yeah, you too.”
    “Now I’m blushing.” Her smile was so broad. “Thanks.”
    “You feel it, respond to touches, kisses, not a boring lover.”
    She laughed. “Sex is only as good as the weakest partner.”
    “Well, you’ve raised my game.”
    On the dresser was the smoky money from her late-night hustle. We sexed each other every now and again, but I didn’t know her in a way that would allow me to form my lips to ask for a loan, not even for one of those smoky greenbacks, let alone fifteen thousand. Sex was shared, company shared, but when it came to money, that was a lot of people’s line in the sand.
    I asked, “Know where I can get a burner?”
    A burner was a gun. Hadn’t had one in years. Never thought I’d need another one.
    Without questioning me she yawned and asked, “What you looking for?”
    “Something easy to hide with a decent kick.”
    “Something to stop a man or a mule?”
    My fingers went to my fresh injury. “Both.”
    She became silent. That made me uncomfortable.
    I went on, “I know a couple people, but they can’t get what I need as fast as I need it.”
    “Why not ask them then?”
    “One’s dead. The other in jail.”
    The other truth was that I was a felon. I didn’t have the right to bear arms anymore. I’d rather let Panther get me what I need instead