Jacky
His real name was Jean Pierre Jacques, but I like calling him Jacky. I think the nickname humanises him a bit. He was of French, Irish, and Ghanaian decent, but grew up in the UK [East London], until he came here to the states to become an artist. And was he ever a beautiful work of art. He was 6'5, 260lbs of raw man. Big! His chest and biceps were huge, his back expansive, and that ass of his was Godly perfection. He was just an incredible fucking sight. Just beautiful with his deep piercing eyes, the coldest of blues. His lips, so thick, so pink. Bubblicious comes to mind. POP! And that perfectly lined beard, that seemed to lay just right against his almost porcelain skin. Only finished off by the long beautiful honey coloured dreads that ran down his back, intensifying his level of beauty to an all time high. He was a God, if I had never seen one before. And for a Philly boy like me, that accent of his drove me crazy. It was like the vocal personification of Irish Whiskey Soul: velvety, deep, and smooth enough to make a dessert cactus wet.
Well anyway, we met one night at a gallery opening in downtown Philly, where he was showing off some of his art. My friend Tina invited me. She was one of those artsy, free spirited types: blue hair one day, pink the next, clothing optional was her go-to style. And her sex wasn't bad either. Did I mention, she was also a dancer... Tina and I were a sort of friends, with the occasional benefit of knowing how to make each other cum on command. But that's another story, for another time, and definitely another audience. But for the purpose of this story, I'll just leave it at this: the extreme level of passion and sex that oozes from every word that Tina and I have ever uttered to one another is matched by none. In the back of my mind, I can't help but acknowledge the feeling – that Tina and I have probably been carnally connected for a millennia and probably will be for a millennia to come. But soulmate, unfortunately, I wouldn't quite give her that title. For I see Jacky in that position, among others...
Initially I didn't want to go to the opening. It's honestly not really my thing; but Tina wore me down. And what Tina wants, Tina gets. And when she showed up at my apartment door that night, wearing that dress she was wearing, [ass, tits, with some white silk somewhere in between], there was no question where my plans for the night lied.
When we arrived at the gallery, the place was filled with all the usual suspects: Rich Hipsters, Poor Struggle Artist, Socialite Posers, and Rich pretentious assholes who'd spend 12 grand on a painting called `A Line Across A Sheet of Paper', which was literally a line drawn across a sheet of paper, just so they can seem like they're so deep and into art. I swear I hated these places, and the assholes that flocked to them every other week, just to get their pictures taken in front of some crappy art, so they can get a mention on an even crappier Tumblr blog. I hated that Tina always dragged me to these fucking shit shows, but I'd do almost anything to put a smile on her face. She's [Bae]. Not to mention the endless fucking material these douchebags gave me for my own little crappy Tumblr blog. But that's beside the point.
Usually, whenever Tina dragged me to one of these things, I made it a point to come dressed as out of place as possible: timbs, baggy jeans, sweats, hoodies, pretty much anything a rapper would wear in the early 2000s to the Source Awards. Shit that I probably wouldn't be caught dead in, in my real life, outside of my little pseudo socio-economic experiment/protest against the bourgeoisie culture vulture posers at these events. It was sort of my armour against their bs, my subliminal fuck you to their trendy aesthetic. It was my attempt at being just obnoxious enough, of clashing just the right amount, to have every one in the room wonder just why this thugged out negro would even be in a place like this. But they'd never dare actually approach my devilishly handsome, chocolate, ghetto self. They were far too intimidated. I imagine they were either too scared of saying the wrong thing in front of their "Society" friends, and coming off like a fascist, conformist dick; or that they actually thought I was a thug, and it rendered them shitless at even the thought of saying anything to me, yet along asking me to leave.
But believe me, if they ever did get up the nerve to actually throw me out, I wouldn't be the one they'd have to worry about. I was no thug, but I wouldn't quite stay the same about my little friend Tina. Did I mention she was a ballerina. And the last thing you'd ever want to do is fuck with a ballerina. They are notorious for being bitches. And Tina was on the top of the [Crazy Ballerina Bitch List], especially when you fucked with something she loves. And I just happen to be at the top of that list, only third being her dog Milo, and jelly donuts. For the life of me, I don't get why I'm behind Milo, but I don't mind taking a backseat to jelly donuts. They're fucking delicious. But the point is, fuck with me and a 90lb ballerina just might try to kill you, or a least beat the crap out of you in front of your friends.
Well anyway, as per usual, 10 minutes hadn't passed before Tina ditched me, to take on her role as the unappointed life of the party. And I too, headed off to do what I did at these things: sit back, quietly judge, and get just shy of pissy drunk. The one thing these events were always good for was a quick, free buzz. And as I sipped and observed, and judged, and avoided everyone I possibly could, I saw him.
He was standing there in front of a painting, surrounded by 10 or so hanger-ons, glued to his every word. I initially noticed him because, well... Hell! He was hard not to notice. He was 6'4, 6'5, towering over everyone in his reach. And the manbun of dreads piled so eloquently atop his head only made him seem the more larger than life. He was a giant among "so called" art aficionados, explaining his vision to a crowd that probably couldn't tell the difference between a Picasso and a five year old's finger painting of an elephants asshole. But he drove his point and his vision across, still as impassioned as he could. And of course, they ate it all up. But I of course, could sniff out the bullshit, [his and theirs]. And as he finished his little, I assume, pre-rehearsed speech, I let out a little "hmph", from across the room. A gasp of air for the wind he was blowing. But I didn't think anyone would actually hear me.
Then before I knew it, all eyes were glued on me, including the artist's.... I had never been so embarrassed in my life. I guess every asshole has his day. I just never thought that that day would be mine. "So what do you think, Bruv?" he asked slightly irratated.
Now I had two options here. I could act like it wasn't me and quietly leave before I embarrassed myself any further, or I could concoct the most epic piece of cynical bullshit argument I could possibly spiel.
Long story short, it was fucking epic. I mean, I'm not going to go into grave detail, but even I impressed myself. I don't know how, but somehow I managed to use Slavery, the Holocaust, Cold War, the Bible, Rap lyrics, and an artfully crafted Sesame Street reference to tell this guy just how shit his painting was, and just how stupid everyone around him was for falling into his bullshit hustle. Needless to say, they finally had a reason to ask me to leave. And even Tina had no argument to save me...
I didn't want to spoil her night, so I told Tina to stay, and that I'd grab a taxi home. But I left the gallery that night, with a sense of smug accomplishment that satisfied the beautifully cynical asshole troublemaker inside me. And as I climbed into my taxi, he came running up behind me. "Move over, let me in."
Needless to say, I was shocked, stunned. I was damn near petrified, when Jacky climbed in the back of that taxi with me. "You're a funny one aren't you?" he said to me.
"What?" I responded, with a half flattered, half scared, totally fucking confused look on my face.
"Where to?" the cabby asked.
"University City, just across the bridge." I said, completely ignoring Jacky's presence in the taxi.
"You really think you're funny don't you." Jacky said, this time with a noticeably irritated cadence in his delivery.
"Um. Sorry man, I just said what I felt." I responded.
"Was that really what you felt, cause it sounded like rubbish to me." He said.
I just laughed inside, and smiled. "Why are you here?" I boldly asked. "Don't you have a room full of people waiting to kiss ya ass?"
"See, you are a funny one..." Jacky said. "Honest too. A fucking prick, but honest." He laughed, and nudged me in the side with the elbow of one of his massive arms.
"You still didnt answer my question." I said. "Why are you here [with me] instead of your 'fans'?" I said with an emphasis on fans. I wasn't quite done being an asshole just yet.
And all Jacky could do was laugh. Then he looked me in the eye, and he said, "You're honest.... they're not. I like that. I like you." And then he flashed me this beautiful fucking smile of his.
And before I knew it, we were back at my apartment... And we stayed there all night, drinking whiskey, talking about art and life, and the fact that neither of us knew much about either. That we were both just bullshitters in a world that was just fine with accepting our bullshit, and for art at that. But Jacky and I grew an understanding with one another. We understood that under the bullshit, that we survived off of, there was honesty, heart, maybe even a little integrity. And as the whiskey dried up, we understood that there was passion too.
Oh yeah, and then we FUCKED each others brains out.......
"So this is your flat? It's nice." He said. But I still didn't know why he was here, or why I let him come back to my apartment. But I invited him in anyway.
"Kick you shoes off for me." I asked him, as we stepped into my apartment.
"Oh you're one of those." He laughed.
"One of what?" I asked.
"A nutter." He said.
"A what? I responded.
"A nutter, a crazy person. A clean freak."
"No...." I said eyebrows raised, attitude on level 10. "Your fucking shoes are dirty. I don't know what kind of shit you got on the bottom of them boats.... Shoes off or get the fuck out."
"Okay, take it easy bruv." He smiled, showing off these amazing fucking dimples.
But I still didn't know why he was here...
He was tall, really tall. I'm around 6'1" and he still towered over me. He was big too. That's all I kept thinking when he was bending over untying his boots. What a big motherfucker, I thought. "What a big motherfucker", the thoughts seeped out of my mouth, and under my breathe, almost in a moan. But he didn't hear me, he was too preoccupied with my request.
"Can I keep my footies on?" He asked sarcastically.
I rolled my eyes. "I guess I'm not the only funny one, am I." I responded.
"I guess not." he said flashing that fucking smile again. Then he winked at me, and slipped out of his socks. And fuck were his feet big, and long too. And fucking jacked. They were like giant grotesque looking chicken claws. Just disgusting. I guess we all have a flaw, even the Gods.
"I'll be back." I said as I left the giant barefoot stranger alone in my living room. And still I didn't know why he was there. Then when I came back, with a bottle of whiskey and a few cups, "You drink Jamesons?", I asked. Jacky was sitting there on the rug in the middle of my floor. It was weird to me, because with all the furniture in my place, that's usually where I liked to sit too. I guess assholes do think alike.
"Jameson's? I thought all you American boys drank Hennessy." He said.
"Well, I ain't like any other American boy. You drinking or not?" I asked.
"You are definitely not like any other I've ever been with?" He said. Then he ran his tongue along the bottom of his teeth, in his attempt of trying to give me a seductive look. Or maybe thats just the way I took it. "You gonna give that shot or what." He said.
I gave him his shot. But I was still stuck on [been with], and that look he gave me when he said it. The hell did he mean by [been with], I thought. What's with this guy? What's his deal? Is he trying to throw me a hint or something? If so, he had better come better than that. "Been with". I laughed to myself. A subliminal, "Let's Fuck", if you asked me. To be honest I'd probably respond better to a "Let's Fuck", than to him hinting that he's messed with guys before.
"So you [been with] dudes before?" I just went on and asked.
And that's where it began. I ended up next to him on the floor, throwing back shot after shot, spieling off our bullshit perspectives and philosophies on the world, and life, and who we've [been with]. We talked for hours, until we both passed out drunk on my livingroom floor.
Around 6am the next morning is when I woke up, with his giant grotesque feet in my face. I nearly jumped to the cieling when I saw those things up close like that, waking Jacky up in the process.
"What's wrong bruv?" He yawned, as he came out of his sleep.
"Your fucking feet is what's wrong, BRUV." I said, as I walked towards the kitchen. "They were almost in my fucking mouth. Disgusting. Just nasty." I said.
"Aw, take it easy princess. How'd they taste?" He asked.
"Fuck you is how." I responded.
"Well looks like someone isn't a morning person." He said to me.
The truth was, he was right. I wasn't a morning person at all; and right now he was pissing me off. And I still didn't know why he was here.
"Yeah and it looks like its time for someone to get the hell out of my place. And take your dirty fucking boots with you." I said, with my usual morning "don't fuck with me" attitude, as I made coffee and sneered at Jacky throw the kitchen.
He just laughed at me, in an almost charming way. "Why you so angry Bruv? God created this beautiful fucking morning, just for you and me. And you're angry." He shook his head and laughed some more, as he started walking around my apartment touching my things.
"Well bruv." I said sarcastically. "I don't believe in God. And I'm definitely not a morning person. And most of all I hate when people touch my shit." I said as I walked up behind Jacky, who was rummaging through a stack of books on my coffee table. He stopped, when he felt me come up behind him. "Coffee?' I offered. He was so startled he almost fell. What a death drop that would have been from way up there. But he caught himself just in time to grab the cup from my hand.
"So you don't like mornings, you don't like art shows, and you don't like people touching your stuff." He asked in this devilish way. I knew he was up to something. I just didn't know how well I would react to it. Tread lightly motherfucker, I thought to myself. Tread Lightly.
"Not one bit." I replied, as stern faced as possible.
"So what about this.?" He asked, touching those same books as before. "Does this bother you?"
I just gritted my teeth and rolled my eyes. "You really know how to push buttons don't you." I said.
"So does it bother you?" He repeated.
"Yes. It does." I finally answered.
"Well, what about this?" He asked, as he stepped closer to me, nearly face to face, and stuck his finger in my coffee.
This guy must really have a fucking death wish this morning. I was slightly boiling inside. I knew he was just joking around. But I didn't like to be tested. I was just glad his dumbass got humbled when he damn near burnt his finger off in that hot coffee. "See that's what you get." I said. I laughed a little, but I don't think Jacky found it nearly as funny. But he kept on with his little game.
"But the question remains: did it bother you?" He said as he stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked in air, to cool it from the hot coffee. He was persistent.
"Not as much as it bothered you." I said still laughing at him. He laughed a little too. But wasn't done yet with his game.
"But what about this? He said, as he stepped towards me even closer. Our chests nearly touching. Then he reached behind me and rested his hand on my ass. "Does it still bother you, when I touch your stuff?" He leaned in and whispered in my ear. "Or are you getting used to my touch?" He said as he cupped and squeezed my ass.
I didn't know if I was expecting that or not, but I was suddenly starting to realize why he was here. But he didn't give me much of a chance to respond. The next thing I know, his tongue was in my mouth.
I could taste the mix of coffee and the whiskey from the night before on his breathe. An acquired taste, that I quickly learned to enjoy. I gave in and accepted his tongue. And in response he grabbed hold of my thighs and lifted me up and on to his body. I told you he was big. He was strong too. He picked my 190lb frame up off the ground like it was nothing. And I wrapped my legs around his waist, and my arms around his thick neck. I don't know what came over me, but suddenly I thought to myself, I'm gonna let this man fuck me.
The next thing I know we're both on the floor naked. I was on my back and Jacky's massive body was on top of me. And I mean massive. Jacky was a fucking giant. And his dick was even bigger. I mean that thing had a face on it. Anaconda would be an understatment. And despite the tight fit Jacky somehow made a space between my thighs. And his dick, a home inside me.
The fullness that I felt with Jacky inside me was like nothing I ever felt before... It was like his dick took me to another plain, another plateau, another deminsion of pleasure. I was floating and his dick was my guide along the way. And I for the first time ever in my 28 years on this earth, came like a faucet without my dick ever even remotely being touched. It was like Jacky hit a spot that I didn't even know existed. That I didn't know could exist. And as I shot my load straight up into the air, drenching us both, Tina came barging in my apartment... Like She Always Does!
Thanks Guys for reading...
This was my first story in over a year... I hope you guys enjoyed it.
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