Just as Jesse jumped up to get us some drinks, I heard the thrum of an acoustic guitar and turned toward the stage. A young, Asian-looking, black woman in tight stone-washed jeans stood under the hazy lights, sensually gyrating her hips and thighs, and strumming away. Her arms were bare and finely sculpted; the biceps swelling and receding with the cadence of the music--a blend of blues, classical rock, and soulful funk with which she was so skillfully jazzing the air. A jewel gleamed in her navel. Her nipples, like pebbles, strained against the fabric of her T-shirt.

I felt the table wobble when Jess returned with our drinks. And I reached for my mine without looking; my eyes glued to the stage. 

“Man-oh-man, Cherokee,” (his high school nickname,) I blurted, “she’s good.”

“Who,” Jessie giggled, “ya mean Quinn?”

My eyes went wide. “Oh my God, Cherokee,” I croaked, “ya know her!?”

“Yeah,” he said, with another chuckle. “I’ll introduce ya after her set.”

Her set lasted for five songs, my eyes and ears hungrily devouring every second of it. Especially when she finished thanked the audience, and then pulled her tulip-red guitar strap over her magnificent swash of hair. A Mohawk-cut. Just like I had. Only hers was blessed with glorious, radiant curls that shimmered under the glow of stage lights. My knees betrayed me as I rose to my feet. I had to grab the table to steady myself before setting off for the bar at the back of the room. Before anything else, I needed another drink. It was all too much. That face! That body! That voice! That hair!

And just to think this lowly human being was about to meet her, was unimaginable. 

I took the drink from the bartender and made sure I got a good pull on it before heading back to where Cherokee and I were sitting. Just as I was settling back in at our table, there was Quinn, making her way over to where we were. Our eyes locked, as she neared and glided into the seat next to mine. So close, I could make out the beads of perspiration glistening in the curls of her Mohawk, and smell the China Musk, she was wearing. Her upper lip was arched in an ambiguous one-sided half grin.

My heart pounded.

“Quinn meet Dee,” Cherokee blurted. “Dee-Quinn.” 

We shook hands.

I hardly recognized my own voice when I squeaked, “I really enjoyed listening to your music.”

“Thanks,” she said a sweet smile now on her lips. “If you stick around for my next set, there’s a song I’d like to play, especially for you.”

Goose bumps sprouted on my arms.

I gave in to a sudden urge to look down at my shoes.

“Thank you,” I sputtered.

“Damn Girl,” Cherokee broke in, “your sound gets better every time I hear you!”

“I hope so,” she giggled. “I’m at the studio so often I barely remember what my place looks like.”

“Rumor has it that folks from Capital Records have been checking you out,” Cherokee announced.

“And until I get that record deal,” Quinn chuckled, glancing in my direction, “that’s all they are, friend; rumors.” 

I punctuated my timid silence with belts of my drink as the two old friends carried on like this for several more minutes: Cherokee pelting Quinn with flattery and Quinn fending it off with good-natured modesty. Yet, more often than not, her responses were delivered with solicitous side glances my way. Almost as if… But what on God’s green earth, I told myself, could this goddess possibly see in the likes of me? As I said before, it was just too much. Too much to dare hope, too much to try not to. Oh, ye of little faith, I imagined hearing my mother say, as she would whenever she heard me putting myself down. You’re leaping to conclusions. I cautioned myself. You need to get a grip. Step back. Get a little perspective. I excused myself, fled the table, and headed for the bathroom. 

In the lady’s room I stopped at the sink and dab water on my face to cool my rising fever. Cupping my palms, I sipped water as images of the lady filled my mind, I couldn’t do anything but drink her in. Her jet-black Mohawk curls, perfectly accentuating the almond shape of her eyes and enhancing her Afro-Asian features, gold G-clef earring swaying in her left ear animating her amber skin with dancing refracted light.

A goddess!

Quinn, as sure as Jesus wore sandals, mesmerized me with the hope that our little tryst in CBGB’s would be the beginning of something more. But the rational, more doubting, less confident part of me had already accepted that, a fine, black, Asian beauty like Quinn had only hooked up with an ugly goose like me for the convenience of the moment. I certainly never expected her to call me up just two days later and carry on about how much she had enjoyed it all and tell me she wanted to see me again the very next weekend. And I sure as hell never imagined she’d call again, just minutes after hanging up, to tell me she just couldn’t wait until next weekend; that she had to see me now.

She didn’t have to ask twice.

It was a fine enough Sunday afternoon. We met in Prospect Park, where we casually strolled the grounds, engaging in the stop and go, sometimes awkward, kind of conversation that people who have intimate feelings but know little about one another have. 

Quinn didn’t like talking about her early childhood. It wasn’t until weeks later that she let on that she was born in Vietnam, and that her father--a black soldier who had been stationed there at the time--brought her to the US from Saigon to live with him, his American wife and their two children in Maryland. Yet, she ached and longed for her Vietnamese mother and had nightmares about their separation. She has since heard that her mother was now living somewhere in Manhattan’s China Town, and has been on a relentless search for her ever since. 

I told her that I was at odds with my parents too. Being gay was not the problem at home. Getting high was. They worried for me and feared that my bad habits would have a negative influence on my younger brothers and sister. The one difference was that Quinn longed to live with her mother, I didn’t. I moved out when I was nineteen. 

There was no booze this time, just the two of us enjoying each other’s company. Yet, as we stopped at Carvels, and took turns licking each other’s cones, and later browsing a florist’s stand, where Quinn bought two roses and stuck one of them in each of our Mohawks. I was still haunted by the feeling that I wasn’t good enough or pretty enough for her.  Yet, this utterly romantic stroll, had me falling quicker than I believed I should for this chick. 

But it was the ride home that really did it. 

The D train was crowded. We couldn’t sit together. So, Quinn took a seat directly opposite and across the aisle. As soon as we got comfortable our eyes locked, I didn’t mean to stare. But I couldn’t not look at her. I was enchanted by one black curl, shaped like an upside-down question mark that drooped from her Mohawk and encircled her eyebrow, and I was delighted by the G-clef in her right ear and guitar in her left, both swaying with the cadence of the train.

She watched me. 

Satisfied that she had my attention, she relaxed her back against the seat as my eyes surveyed her plaid cotton shirt, where a few buttons had magically become undone, exposing her long pretty neck, abundant cleavage, and braless breasts, as the rocking train caused them to do a jig within.

She watched me.

As her eyes bore into mine, she drew a breath deep enough to make her cantaloupe-size bosoms leap from her shirt.

My lips twitched.

In the window beyond, the sun was going down, highlighting the twin peaks of her nipples in a fiery red orange.

My pussy throbbed.

A fog seemed to descend over the train. The voices of passengers, snatches of song from a boom box, drifted faintly to my ears, and the aroma of a marijuana cigarette perfumed the air. She watched me and crossed her legs, then, ever-so-gently, she let them gap, sending into my view the full crotch of her jean slacks, beneath which all the pleasures of heaven lingered.

I gasped.

She gazed at me and precipitously smiled—her unique smile, half shy, and half assured. I fell back against my seat. Dizzy! On edge and on fire! I was experiencing something I hadn’t before. It was thrilling. Yet at the same time uncomfortable. It was powerful, yet it made me feel weak. I turned away. 

The next stop is Parkside Avenue. Parkside is next, blared the loudspeaker. 

Without looking her way, and on shaky legs, I stood and moved towards the doors. I was grateful that the movement of the train and the horde of commuters camouflaged my unsteady sway, since we both knew that it was, she and not the train that had seriously rocked my boat.

Quinn rose and followed.

As the train pulled into the station, she pushed up close behind me and pressed her cantaloupes into my back and planted one Timberland boot firmly on the right side of me, the other on my left, and wrapped her arms about my waist.

“Oh God,” I moaned.

Faith was beginning to replace my doubts. As my juices flowed, I was excited to see the magic that was about to unfold. And suddenly, I knew that my flaws were perfect for the woman who was sent to love me.

———

Excerpt from Hairalujah, O’labumi’s forthcoming memoir. Contact O’la for publication information.
Photo courtesy of ©Tasha A.F. Lemley.