Untraditional, p.1
Untraditional, page 1
UNTRADITIONAL
Vol. II:
The Evolution of Passion-Fy
By
DNC
UNTRADITIONAL VOLUME II
The Evolution of Passion-Fy
Copyright © 2022 by D. Coleman
Manufactured in the United States
ISBN: 979-8-218-05531-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by: Elizabeth Drake-Boyt (Erete’s Bloom)
Jessica Williams (Williams Consultants)
Cover Design & Publisher: H.E.R. Legacy
Photo: Kita Bryant (Kitaography)
This book is dedicated to all Black women on a journey to find, explore and elevate their purest selves. We are not exotic. We are not a fetish. What we are cannot be described or measured by any current standards.
We are the Earth’s promise to God.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I must thank God for continuing to bless each step I take, no matter how hard it has been for me. When I wrote this book, I was going through my own spiritual, mental and sexual transformation: breaking down the origin of what I thought I knew only to open up a new evolution into love and lust. The process has been scary yet refreshing and if it wasn’t for my consistent prayers for direction and confirmation on my steps, I’m not sure I would have continued to make them.
Mom, your heavenly voice rings clear in my ears. Looking through your high school yearbook showed me that writing is genetic for us. Your poems are perfection. Each day I write, I continue your legacy. One day we shall meet again and read our words to each other.
Next, I have to thank my sisters for pushing me to the finish line: Anginique, April, Crystal, Dana, Darrieal, Erin, Jen, Jessica, Shanna, and Shelley. Each one of you have come into my life at different phases to contribute to the woman I am today. You have saved me over and over again from myself and I can’t thank you enough. Love y’all past the next galaxy.
I also have to thank my readers, my Wine Down with Words and Passionate Patreon family. Each of you has helped reinforce the certainty that my voice and words matter even when I feel like they aren’t heard. My passion-fy stories have brought some of your kids into this world, helped you open a new world with your significant other, and even challenged you to learn more about yourself and what you like. I promise that this next set of stories will push you further to find an ecstasy fitting your daily life. The act of writing them did so for me.
UNTRADITIONAL:
When you allow your desires to live beyond the constraints of a conventional world.
PASSION-FY:
1) A genre of fiction depicting intensely emotional characters based on untraditional sexual scenarios.
2) The marriage between contemporary romance and erotica.
Table of Contents
STANDING OVATION
LOOK AT ME
BEAUTY BEHIND THE BEAST: Part I
THE CHOSEN STAR
BEAUTY BEHIND THE BEAST: Part II
STROKING
MASTERPIECE
BEAUTY BEHIND THE BEAST: Part III
NEWISH
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STANDING OVATION
When the curtains close and the applause grow louder,
I stand and prepare.
I remember the work and progress.
I evolve while others remain stagnate.
Before the curtains open and I proceed with the encore,
I regain energy and focus.
I rise into my newfound glory.
I stand in a place others wouldn’t dare.
When the spotlight hits me again,
I accept my full self.
I find power in my sensual being.
I curate sexuality because it lives in my roots.
I move to my mark on the stage.
The curtains open.
The spotlight hits.
Hands clap.
I live.
Voyeurism /vwä-ˈyər-ˌi-zəm/
noun: the practice of obtaining sexual gratification from observing others.1
LOOK AT ME
“Fuck this job!” I yell to Romi through the phone.
“Girl, stop! That job pays for that dope and expensive-ass condo you live in.”
She’s right. I close the door and place my keys on the entry table. I kick off my strappy tan heels and head down the hall toward my kitchen.
“You’re right, Sis. You know I don’t mean it.” We laugh as I sit my purse on the bar.
“I just wish they didn’t make us work so long in the day. I mean, over four hours is just too much.”
“Who are you telling? Girl, they had the nerve to have a contract negotiation at 8 a.m. today.”
“On a Friday?”
“On a Friday!”
“Girl, that’s not allowed on any damn day.”
I nod, knowing damn well I would have shut that down as soon as I saw it come across my calendar.
The faint scent of lavender and vanilla sweep across my nose.
“Yay, Clint got a bath today.” I turn and walk into my room. I follow the smell into my bathroom where my Yorkie eagerly waits for me. “Hiring Melanie was such a great idea!”
“You’re welcome. I’ll send the bill at the end of the month for my consulting services,” Romi confirms. “She’s the best dog sitter I’ve ever had. If Dyanna hadn’t shared her with me, we both would have been out of luck.”
I can’t agree more. She’s worth the entire one-hundred and fifty dollars I’m paying her weekly. I originally thought it was a horrible idea. How could I dare ask someone to take a break from their day to walk my dog since I was too damn busy? But apparently there are people in this world who love to do such a thing. Thank God for Melanie the Yorkie whisperer. She came to my rescue right on time. If I hadn’t found her, I would have paid a ton more to send my baby to daycare.
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” I admit. “Plus, she lives in the building, so it doesn’t feel like it’s as much of a hassle.”
“Yep. But enough about that dog. Let me tell you about that hoe- ass Tony and who he’s dating now.” Her voice shoots up three octaves.
“I thought you were over him, Romi.” This was a gross understatement to what she swore to me; something like, “This is the last time I would ever speak of such an irresponsible, punk-ass, fuck-boy,” or however she phrased it.
We both knew the truth as soon as those words flew out of her lips. Tony was her too-busy-to-date-but-always-ready-to-fuck guy. Ex? Lover? Boo? Shit, I don’t know what to call him.
“Girl I’m always over him, but he was just over here last night and then I see a pic with him and Jerreka.”
I let her vent as I finally get comfortable in my own home. It’s been a long week and all I want to do is pour a velvety glass of Merlot as I catch up on my favorite horror mystery on Netflix.
“Get down, Clint,” I whisper to my baby, hoping not to interrupt her but it doesn’t work.
“Girl, every time you call that dog’s name I hear ‘Clit. Get down, Clit!’”
“Stop hating on my dog, Bitch.” I roll my eyes, hoping she can feel my annoyance through the phone, then I flop down on my bed and unsnap my bra releasing my exhausted breasts. Sometimes I wonder why I keep letting bras hinder me. Why can’t I be more like Rihanna and just let them hang. Oh yeah, I would scare a child or two with my triple Ds: or at least I would get all the men fired at my jobs for not being able to be productive.
That’s a thought. It would definitely make my plight of being the CEO easier. I want to pass the idea to Romi, but she’s back on her old-ass topic, rumbling on about how that “tramp ain’t shit” and how he “should be getting his life right” with her.
I stand up and pull my skirt down over my thighs, trying to catch it before it hits the floor so I can kick it toward my laundry basket.
“Shit.” I blurt out.
“What?” She pauses for a moment, then rapid fires several more “What’s going on?” through the phone.
“Nothing, I just forgot to close my blinds.”
I can feel her shaking her head at me through the phone. She keeps the conversation going, elaborating more on Tony’s horrible hoeing charades.
I walk over to the window and pick up the remote from the sill. No matter how convenient remote-controlled blinds are, I always find a way to walk over to them.
I pick up the remote and point it, but freeze immediately when I notice a man sitting on his balcony right across from me. At first, I think my eyes are playing a trick on me. Then I realize a man—the Man—is watching me.
I quickly close the blinds and then lean on the wall next to the window. My heart speeds in my chest and I watch my breast jump from the excitement. But shouldn’t it be anger?
“Are you okay?” Romi asks.
“Yeah, I mean I guess so. Why?”
“Ah, I can hear you huffin’ and puffin’ like the big bad wolf.”
I didn’t notice. I take a deep inhale and let it go.
“What happened, Bitch?”
Part of m
“A man is watching me.”
She coughs and then chuckles. “A man or the Man?”
Again, I want to play the idiotic role but I’m way too much of a genius for that shit.
“It might have been ‘the Man’.”
The Man is not just some meager soul. We mean the gorgeous, vanilla-dipped Nigerian gentleman who smokes cigars on his balcony every Wednesday and Friday. The man whose silky green eyes pause my thoughts every time I gaze into them.
Sometimes his stare makes me angry enough to want to walk up in his face and ask if we have a problem. Other days, his stare electrifies my senses, making me want to demand his touch immediately.
Whether it’s ego or arousal, who is he to pull any reaction out of me? I’ve been in this condo for almost three years now and still can’t handle his stare. It’s been a long time since someone has pulled anything out of me, metaphorically or physically. What is it about him?
I can’t help but peek through my blinds to see if he’s still there and of course, he is.
The stogie dimly lights up his balcony and I can see his short and bulge-friendly dark purple boxers glow from the lowering sun. His shirtless chest isn’t as easily visible so I move from my bedroom to the living room window, hoping to confirm or deny my suspicion of a perfectly-chiseled torso that could have been carved by the incredible Richmond Barthé.
I’ve spoken to him before. We even bumped into each other at the grocery store. He said, “Hello.” I turned once I realized who he was and pretty much moonwalked all the way back of the store’s seafood aisle.
Sure, I felt like a punk for doing it but how do I address a peeping Tom? Maybe something like, “I see you watching me and I ain’t liking it.” Or do I go for the truth, like “You live by me and I see you looking through my blinds. Do you like what you see?” Either approach feels stupid, so for weeks, months and now years, I’ve run from him. He can’t judge what he can’t catch up to, right?
That night I dreamt about him. I imagined seeing his lips only inches from mine. I visualized what glory lives under those pants and how strong it could feel inside me. It almost feels like eagerness—hell I’m too scared to hold a conversation, but I can dream about him knocking down my walls. That’s crazy as hell.
Morning awakens me with its soft glare over the South Pier. Late summers were the best in Chi-town but they could be better with someone by my side.
Clint jumps up on the bed as he hears me moving around.
“Hey, Handsome.” I fluff his fur and kiss his nose.
He nestles next to my leg and lays his head on my lap, looking me in the eyes. I twist my fingers in his hair. His eyes never leave mine. Some days I wonder if he’s trying to tell me more than “I need to go out.”
Last night’s dream feels as vivid as it did when I dreamt it. I decide to start off my day with a mantra.
“Clint,” I pull my fur baby’s face up toward mine, “what is for me, must be for me. I will take in all the signs around me and act on them rather than wait for them to act on me. I power my destiny. Right, Clint?”
He jumps up and licks my face. Maybe I finally read his mind.
I get up, throw on my robe since the air conditioner is working double time this summer. I flick on the coffee maker and enjoy the fresh smell of Columbian beans heat under the steam.
Once my cup is ready, I step outside. Clint begins to yelp.
“I know, Baby. I’ll take you out in just a moment. Let Mommy have a couple of sips.”
I open the balcony door and take in some vitamin D. It’s still pretty cool but starting to heat up.
The air is clear and perfect. I close my eyes only to be interrupted by a cough. I open them quickly and see the Man on his balcony just staring at me.
I don’t run or moonwalk; instead, I stare back.
He smiles and it knocks my protest back a few notches. What the hell is he smiling at? A breeze blows my robe and I feel it open more at the bottom than it already was. I catch it and glance at the lick of his beautiful lips.
“Clint, let’s go.” I shake my head his way and go back inside.
About an hour later, I push the down button on the elevator with Clint in my arms. Even though this skyrise is newer, it still takes some time for the elevator to reach the twelfth floor. The door finally opens and there he stands—the Man. Confused and almost dazed, I compose myself and step inside.
I’m tired of giving him this power over me. Fuck this shy shit. The doors close and I refuse to hold my tongue.
“Who are you?”
That smile grows on his face again. He opens his mouth only to be paused by the doors opening and my loud-ass neighbors from the next floor getting on.
I stand only a couple feet from him and he doesn’t look at me.
Oh, so when I’m naked in my home, you’re all eyes but now, nothing. I’m not sure why I’m frustrated but I can’t get rid of it.
The elevator stops at three more floors before we make it down to the lobby. They exit, then me and Clint exit before he does. As much as I want to turn and watch where he goes, I stop myself.
“Let’s go potty, Clint.”
I walk him to his special place near the condo and around the block. On the way back, I notice that the old Williams and Co. brick bakery has transformed into a modern event space with lofts above and coffee shops next door. The sign outside displays Road to Redemptions as the featured exhibition. I peer through the glass and notice that this isn’t a classy or dressy occasion. Yoga enthusiasts, businessmen and women, tourists and others all seem to patronize the spot.
“Clint, do you think they’ll let us in?” I rub my baby’s head and we make our way inside.
“Welcome to Masterpiece at the Pier,” the young brunette girl states.
“Is it okay if I bring my dog inside?”
“Sure, as long as he’s fine around people.”
“He’s perfect, see.”
I show her his face and she even reaches over to pet him. I don’t normally allow that, but she seems cool.
“You two are fine. Come on in. We have works from Black artists from the Midwest. Let me know if you’re interested in purchasing anything.”
I thank her and begin to move through the room.
The paintings are vibrant and abstract. I’m not familiar with any of the artists and I like that. I’ve recently gotten into buying from emerging artists because there is just something about a new eye in art. The passion on the canvas seems so pure and electric.
We walk past a portrait of an African woman with traditional headwear and jewelry. Her exposed breasts are lifted toward the heavens, and I wish mine could be the same.
Suddenly a hypnotic voice crawls over my shoulder.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
I turn and for once, I’m not shocked that it’s him. When I entered the gallery, I felt something familiar, but it wasn’t until then that I realized it was his stare.
“Are you stalking me?” I purse my lips and pull back my desire in case he was a handsome killer disguised in honey-glazed skin.
He chuckles and replies, “Stalking? Don’t you mean, am I a pervert?”
Well, shit, I hadn’t thought that far, as if a pervert was more dangerous than a beautiful murderer.
“Well, are you either?”
He walks behind me and whispers over my ear, his citrus breath tickling the fine hairs along my neck.
“Couldn’t be a stalker since you followed me here.”
I flip around and dart my eyes at his. A smile creeps across his face.
“And I wouldn’t call myself a pervert—that is, unless it turns you on?”
“Why would perversion turn me on?”
He shrugs and continues to circle me.
“Well let’s not call it that, then. I think the popular term that would describe my obsession with watching certain events would be voyeurism. I enjoy watching people, particularly people who are beautiful,” he pauses and stands right next to me to look at the painting. “People who don’t mind me watching them, especially when they are enjoying themselves. Just like the woman in this painting.”
