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I leant against the tree and he approached somewhat cautiously. Before he was too close I said, ‘two things. One, this means nothing. Two, don’t speak.’ I saw him nod his agreement as he approached with more confidence. He almost dived towards me and I felt his warm breath against my face as he stepped through the cold air to kiss me. Compared to the last kiss I had had, with Issy, this was a disappointment. There was no passion and he seemed to just want to get his tongue as far into my mouth as possible. This served to, quite literally, force my hand. While continuing the kiss I removed my gloves before I reached down to find the button and zip of his trousers, then undoing them. I thrust my right hand into his boxers and felt that his cock was already getting hard. I wrapped my hand around it and gently pumped it, feeling it harden even more. He returned the action, reaching forward to lift my dress and quickly sliding a cold hand inside my tights and knickers. I felt his finger. He’s so gangsta. You know what I mean? Keeping it real. From the streets. Word. Me and my girlfriends would love to just hang out with him and his homies, ya know?” She turned up the radio as loud as it would go and leaned out the window like she was a Crip in South Central. Never mind the fact that the closest she’d ever been to any hood was getting lost in Hartford once and driving into an area where she felt like she had to lock her doors. “And his wife Beyonce is so pretty right? She’s got a real badunkkadunk. She’s got some junk in the trunk, you know what I’m saying? Drop it like it’s hot. Drop it like it’s hot. Black women have the best asses. I wish I had a big ole booty like black women.” Darren was concentrating on the drive home. He contemplated telling her that Beyonce was married to Jay-Z, not 50cent, but what was more important to address was the fact that she had struck a nerve with him and he had to set her straight. “I don’t like those big, jungle.
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