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The cab driver, a real cutie that spoke very little English, took me to the San Juan Marriott Resort and Stellaris Casino. After I checked in, I arranged with the concierge to have my luggage taken to my room, while I went down to the La Isla Grill and Pool Bar, and ordered another drink. "Kettle One and orange juice; and let me see a menu," I told my bartender as soon as he dropped the napkin in front of me. I’d been drinking cheap vodka on the plane, and my stomach was paying the price.
The bartender placed my drink and a menu in front of me. Then he promised to remember me, and have a drink ready for me next time I did my drinking poolside. I assured him that by the time I left, we would be the best of friends. My plan was to spend a lot of time drinking. Liquor has a way of focusing, or I should say intensifying, whatever it was I was thinking about. I wasn’t planning on getting drunk, but I truly planned on staying fucked up.
The bartender, whose name was Manuel, and I chatted while I looked over the menu. Once I told him what I wanted to eat, he left me to do my drinking in peace. I gazed aimlessly at the pool, looking at what appeared to be nothing but couples having fun. Not that I was there to try and get with somebody, but damn, if I wanted to, it would have to be with one of the locals. And that wasn’t happening. Then I saw this fine-ass brother walking by the pool. Now, I could get with him, but he was with somebody. I turned around on my stool and looked at the beach. The view was breathtaking. I had chosen wisely. I just had to get out of New York for a while, and away from my husband Tyrone.
Tyrone and I met my freshmen year at Syracuse. He was a career student, and at that time, he was working on his second masters. His first was in economics, the second one was in finance. It was my second day on campus, and I was trying to get adjusted to life out of my parent’s house. We met in line at the cafeteria. He was in line behind me. I was about to reach for something, I don’t remember what, but he stopped me. "You don’t wanna eat that," Tyrone said.
"Why not?" I asked, and put it on my tray anyway, wondering who this man was, and why he was trying to tell me what I should eat. But it was my second day, and I thought it was inappropriate for the around-the-way-girl from the Bronx to come out.
"I can see that you’re new here," he said.
"Sure am."
He leaned close to me and whispered, "The food here is terrible. I never eat here," Tyrone said, and I noticed that he didn’t have a tray. "You should let me take you to lunch."
I thanked him very much for the invitation, but told him that I would have to take a rain check. After all, I didn’t know him from a can of paint, and I was not about to go anywhere with him.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah," I said, and paid for my food.
"Well, my name is Tyrone Petrocelli."
"Avonte Braxton."
"It’s good to met you, Avonte. That’s a very pretty name for a very pretty lady."
"Thank you," I said graciously, and kept it moving, hoping that he wouldn’t become a pest, and I’d have to call security.
"I’m sure I’ll see you around," Tyrone said. Then he saw some guys he knew and went off with them.
After that, I saw Tyrone around campus from time to time. Anytime he saw me he’d come over and speak. We’d chat about how classes were going for me, and he’d invite me out to eat with him. I would always decline his invitation with some excuse about classes, or the need for more time in the library to study— which was true. Less party, more study. It’s not that he wasn’t a nice guy or that I was dating anybody else. I just never dated a white guy before. And it wasn’t because he wasn’t fine as hell for a white boy. He looked kind of like Brad Pitt.
By sophomore year, Tyrone had worn me down, and I agreed to go out to dinner with him. When he picked me up at my dorm in a white Lamborghini Diablo convertible, I thought I would faint. Over dinner and drinks, Tyrone told me that his father was in the shipping business, which he, at the time, thought was the most boring thing in the world—something he had no interest in whatsoever.
I had fun with Tyrone that night. Those years I always did. We went out a few more times before I finally agreed to come to his apartment for late-night cocktails. I knew what that meant and I was ready. Truth be told, that night, I was more than ready.
It didn’t take long after we got there for things to start happening. As soon as the door closed, we were all over each other. Tyrone turned me around and began kissing the back of my neck, and squeezing my breasts. Then he lifted my dress and leaned me over the table. Tyrone quickly took off my panties and entered me. It took some wiggling on my part, but soon he was deep inside me, moving his hips. I rocked my hips until I had him where he could hit my spot right. Tyrone squeezed my breasts as he moved in and out of me. I closed my eyes because it was feeling so damn good. I looked over my shoulder at Tyrone taking off his shirt, all the while pounding away.
Then, Tyrone abruptly pulled out of me. When I turned to face him, he took me in his arms, kissed me, and then he picked me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on tightly. He kissed me again, and we stumbled into the wall as he tried to carry me into the bedroom. He pinned me against the wall, and kissed and sucked my neck and breasts.
My fingers dug into his back when he pushed himself inside me again. We were going at it so hard that after a while, both of struggled to breathe. Tyrone took me in the bedroom. I unzipped my skirt, and it fell to the floor. My stiffened nipples were popping out of my lace semi-cup. I stepped out of my dress and joined him in the bed.
I lay there next to him, not believing how hung he was. Every time he sexed me, I had to fight the overwhelming urge to explode as soon as he entered me. And when I couldn’t, Tyrone would drop between my thighs and try to sop every drop of my juices.
I knelt down on the bed because I love being taken from behind. Tyrone grabbed my hips again, and trusted himself deep inside me, finding my spot once more. My mouth dropped open, my eyes bucked, and I let go a gut-wrenching scream. When my body trembled from the pleasure, I knew he felt my warmth overflowing. I was in ecstasy.
We dated for the remainder of the year, until he received his masters in finance. He left Syracuse, and reluctantly, went to work for his father. We stayed in touch and would visit each other during my junior year. That was the year his father died, and suddenly, he was the chairman of the board. As you could imagine, I didn’t see Tyrone much after that, but when we did, the sex was great. We still talked almost daily. He would tell me how much he hated running the company, and about how cut- throat it was in corporate America.
The day that I graduated, Tyrone was there, and I introduced him as a good friend to my parents. I didn’t think my father needed to know that I’d been dating a white boy for the last three years. My father shook hands with Tyrone.
"Congratulations," he said to him, thinking that he, too, had just graduated.
"Thank you, sir," Tyrone said.
"What is your degree in?"
Tyrone smiled. "I have a master’s in economics, and another in finance, but I graduated last year. I’m in the shipping business now, sir."
