aisle 9 jamila asha johnson The first time I laid eyes on him I wanted to fuck him. I wanted to ride him from here to Peru. I wanted his toes to curl, his body to buck, and I wanted his ass to be red from the trip. Instead, I said, "You must be Nicolas. I am pleased to meet you. Why it is a shame we have never met before. Yes, Cynthia talks about you all the time, and I just cherished your last book." But, you see, I wanted to put my hand out and shove him against the wall. I wanted him to bite the buttons off my shirt and spit them from his mouth like a fountain. Instead I said, "Can I take your coat?" It was probably good I didn't make passionate love to him in the foyer. First, what would the other dinner guests have thought if at a dinner party I threw my clothes off and tackled Nicolas before the soup? What would my house cleaner have thought if she had to come in to 15 broken dishes on the floor from when he picked me up after throwing all the plates, forks and fingerbowls to the ground? Perhaps more importantly, what would my boss think if I fucked her husband the way he had always wanted to be fucked? I am sure she must be ghastly in bed. She has all those short thin limbs. Not hips like mine. No full lips that taste like cherries. She doesn't have legs like mine-legs that linger. "I hope you both brought your appetites," I said, realizing full well that I had the smile of a game show host smeared across my face. We have the most amazing conversation. We talk about Polio, Cancer, AIDS, and poverty. I was sure by then he was wondering to himself why he had married his wife when standing next to the two of them was me-filled with cheer and optimism. Did I mention my legs? He must have been fantasizing about me going down under the tablecloth, on my hands and knees. About me taking him deep into my hot mouth until waves crashed in his head. Until the ringing begins. Until he sprays salty juices. Or perhaps he was thinking, "This is some good soup." The second time I saw Nicolas I was in the grocery store. There he was on aisle nine, under a marvelous florescent glow, buying Frosted Flakes. Suddenly my mind raced. I pictured him naked in my shopping cart, me slowly lowering myself onto his raging mushroom hammer. I saw sweat and semen mix, and touch. Then I looked down at my cart. There was definitely not enough room in my cart for hot sweaty fucking with the cabbages, milk, 6-pack and corn chips. "Nicolas, how nice to see you again." He remembered me. I knew the first time he had been fantasizing about me, too. I laugh. We talk. My heated giggles lead to me brushing his bicep with my hand. I swear if he had breathed on me the right way I would lose control. No, there is no way to ride him on the checkout conveyor belt. There are too many people with their 12 or less items. The stacks of apples in the produce section would surely not support us. No, I need to run into him somewhere that held more potential for unadulterated sex. Why couldn't I have run into him in a hotel lobby, I think. For the next couple of weeks I pick up two new hobbies. Each morning, instead of getting the paper delivered, I buy it in musty smelling lobbies of hotels across the city. I get my coffee there too. At night, I fuck myself all over my house imagining every inch of his beautiful tanned body. With one hand I cup my Pandora's box, with the other I squeeze hard on my nipples. I picture him in all his grace. I know how he tastes in the spot of skin in the space above his thighs. I know what it feels like to grab him in the area below his flat stomach and above his hips. I know what his erect nipples feel like between my teeth; I know what the skin of his neck smells like. My body feels like the ocean when I picture him. My body is electrified and I am alive like I have never been before. Yes, it probably was good that I didn't rock his world in aisle nine, because then what would I have done those few weeks. One morning I woke knowing I could no longer take it. I called into work. "No Cynthia I will not be coming in tomorrow. Not the next day, either. I think this is me quitting." I roll back under the covers again. I run into Nicolas a third time, after having quit my job and fucked my hand more than a 12-year-old boy ever would. I was jogging in the park. I heard someone call my name. Never before had the name Paris been so much a part of me. It was my skin, my breasts and my sore thighs. I turned to see him there with his black Labrador. "Hi, Nicolas. How is Cynthia?" They what! They are filling for divorce. I tried to look sympathetic. I tried to feel bad. I tried not to scream, "thank you lord, I am going to hit this ass." I say, "I am sorry to hear that. Hey, would you like to take a walk with me." We walk through the grass and I stop in front of a tree. He's saying something, but at the moment the content perplexes me. I am just looking for hints, for a clue, for permission. I look at him, and look around. "What the fuck," I say out loud as I jump on him and knock him to the ground. I scare his dog, and rouse barking. But I have him on the ground in the leaves in his trench coat. I press my lips hard onto his and pull his arms up above his head. I kiss him like I have never kissed another soul. I let all of me fall into his mouth. He kisses me back. He lets go of the dog leash and the dog runs to another tree wagging then sits down sniffing the leaves. I meanwhile am working on the fastest method to rip him out of his trench coat. I fumble, perhaps because he is working so hard to get my shirt off. We are a mound of body parts desperately fighting to get free. I finally get to his prize, but this doesn't go the way I had expected it to go. Instead he is pulling at my underwear. He is fighting to get between a second set of my wet lips. I lay there, spread eagle with him between my legs. I never picture what the top of his head would look like. It is the best sight of my life. He is going to town. Tongue circling a shaven garden. I feel my body temperature rising, my breasts feel like they are going to explode. My toes start shaking and I scream and moan for the first time during sex. I can't keep it inside. I was mainlining pleasure and Nicolas was my syringe. I don't know if I can brace myself when I come. My hips shoot upward and for a second I think his head is going to disappear inside me. He rises upward. I toss him my shirt and he wipes it off. I lay breathless as he gets on top of me. I think how I was supposed to rock his world-how I would be riding him to Peru, but a funny thing happens. We don't fuck. We make love. It is sensual, soft and rough all at once. We make love in a way I had never felt before. In a way that I could feel is hefty slab of meat inside every inch of my body. He moaned and bucked in me and I felt Nirvana and "oh, fuck yeah. Right there." Yes, I am glad I didn't fuck him in the foyer, or in aisle nine.