“I’ve only kissed a black girl. Once. At knife point.”
I almost spit out my Russian stout.
“This was way back in the day around high school. I was in the band and she was a cheerleader.”
“Typical high school story..”
“Yeah, well she was one of those white black girls. Possibly the kind you bring home to mom, if you’re mom is cool with that type of stuff. This was about 20 years ago so things were a little different back then.”
Every Friday I join some friends for post-work beers at Dave’s co-working space. It’s a fun time, hanging out, sharing stories and talking about life. They’re all a little older than me, which is cool because I really enjoy listening and learning from friends who are more experienced in the ways of the world.
A few craft beers and the stories come out. Today one of our topics is girls of different races.
“This girl was incredible. Cheerleader. Popular. Dated football players. You know how it is. Definitely out of my league. I was in the band, but not one of those band kids. I was the one smoking cigarettes behind the school.”
He takes a sip, time traveling back.
“We were shooting the shit after practice, the cheerleaders standing close by, just finishing up. Of course we were glancing over in the direction of the mini-skirts.
“I’m pretty sure the primal need to stare at cheerleading outfits is built into every man, on a biological level. It’s science.”
Dave talks slowly with a west coast, surfer drawl acquired after two decades on the west coast.
“We were standing and talking when I notice this bomb shell peel away from her group and start in our direction. Not shyly. Not scared. Purposeful. Powerful. Confident.
“Her long model legs were headed straights towards our group. She was holding something in her hand but I couldn’t really tell what because I was too distracted by her red and white cheerleading outfit pushing her breasts into the perfect staring point.
“She closed in fast, heading right towards me as my friends stepped out of her way. She stopped within inches, the gap only distanced by the eight or nine inch height difference.
“That’s when I heard the click.” A grin breaks across Dave’s face as he relives the experience.
“She’s staring straight into my eyes. We hadn’t broke eye contact for her last 12 steps but now, as I felt her press something against my crotch, I had to look down. Pressed against my balls, sharp sides perpendicular to the ground, was a five inch switch blade, slightly lifting my package.”
“No fucking way.”
“Swear to god. She didn’t even look away. The flip, the movement, all of it was done in one smooth motion, never breaking eye contact.
“I lifted my eyes back to her deep brown gaze, a sly smile peaking out the side of her lips. ‘Kiss me’ she said.”
“I lifted my eyebrows, trying to show my man power, testing her, as a smile crept to the side of my mouth.
“She lifted the knife a little more, just to make her point.
“I slowly raised my hands to her cheeks, wrapping my fingers around her neck, moving slowly. No erratic decisions when you have a knife pressed against your sack. I kissed her as sexily as a high school kid could, sliding my fingers through her hair as I bit her bottom lip. Just for a few moments, to say just enough but not too much. I pulled back, staring into her eyes.
“She was a breath’s distance away and I could smell the spearmint gum I tasted seconds earlier. She took a half step back, pulling away from my grip, still staring, and flicked the knife closed. Seconds, minutes, hours, I’m not sure how long we stood there, staring. Then, with the same purpose with which she arrived, she turned on her heels.
“I stood still, staring at her ruffle-covered ass bouncing away. She never even looked back.”