Rhythm And Blues

Rhythm and blues was how he flew. Nightclub swinger, saxophone blower, woman lover, pussy abuser. His entire Style was music. Rhythm and blues. Thus the reason, everyone called him R&B.
He was brown skin and his waves were on spin. He had a thing for the ladies. Sunk in his seat low. His Mercedes was blow pop cherry red.
She sat in the passenger seat. her tone was red, hazel eyes and juicy lips. This was his lawyer friend. Typical sophistication. She wasn’t able to elevate his emotional education. Her name was Ann. Ann was the Monday type. On Monday night, he would scoop her. she loved listening to Luther. So, he would have ‘Never Too Much’ playing light.
See his delivery with Ann was, “I’m on my way.”
Her response was, “why do you only FaceTime me on Monday. You know on Mondays I’m so busy, and I’m so overwhelmed. But… seeing you is… important.” By his complexion, she was flushed. “Oh well. Okay, come and get me.”
RnB always picked her up at a quarter to twelve. He kissed her passionately. It’s been a week, she missed him drastically. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, Ann turned down Luther’s sound, “I want you to marry me.”
Same expressions as her last week’s confessions. With Ann, R&B was as honest as he could be, “We are married baby.”
On his words she hung, “Oh baby,” she sung to the tune of his saxophone.
The aroma in his home was a vanilla-cinnamon. Welcoming. Interesting was the ancient artifacts displayed around his home. Bachelor pad styled. So sexy! There were books stacked on shelves that he designed himself. If it wasn’t for the saxophone, he would have been an architect.
He harmonized as he stared into her eyes, holding her soul with his note.
Ace Of Spades was her drink. After a glass or two, she would begin removing articles of her fashion. R&B conveyed the message through the note. Her body was perfect, tight waist, pretty ass, firm breast and little abs. The candles were burning. The silhouette was her breast rising and falling. Her breathing was deep. In a lilting motion she loosened his belt buckle. Her lawyer approach was encroached by his note. Her poetry was deep. She sucked his dick, while he played the note. It was a recent melody that he wrote.
It was a quarter after one, when Anne began sucking on him. She would suck him until two. Then she would sing out, “R&B put down that saxophone and make love to me.” Her hook was “umm!”
Her legs were spread, as R&B massaged her button with his tongue. He was a mutual lover for an entire hour he sucked her. Then she sang, “fuck me R&B.” This was at three. He began by stroking her softly. His R&B was the 10-inch version. Long dick. “Like that baby,” his hands were on her breast, her nipples he caressed. He stroked her to the left. He was rocking her boat side to side. Their bodies collided.
Sex was his drug of choice. It provided the ultimate high. He was stroking her rhythmically, still staring into her eyes. Feel good visualization, the aesthetics of her naked. Her moan was like serenading mockingbirds, “umm, make love to me… R&B.”

He flipped her over, back shots, long dick. Her ass wiggled, a little jiggle when she threw it back, “Umm you like that?” They were making rhythm and blues, tempo slow. She dug her nails into the pillows. He fucked her harder. As his climax approached, she hit her highest note, “say you love me, say you love me, say you love me R&B.” He loved nobody—his R&B was for all of the ladies.
….
For the last month her life was just ordinary. Huge break up with “such and such”. She hated to even mention his name. she wasn’t involved at all in the relationship. She been fell out of love with “such and such”. Her love was gone when she finally realized that he had no direction, same goals as last year’s goals, and he was so indecisive, he could see nothing through. He lacked ambition.
He sat on the couch daily, fiddling with the controller to some game. So her love left with the realization that “such and such” would always be an indolent fool. She allowed him to stay so long. Only because of her fear of being alone. She was twenty-eight with no kids her biological clock was ticking. And the man that she trusted with her heart, since she was a teen, turned out to be a dud!
She was working assiduously towards her goal of being a singer. School, lessons, work, auditions and more practice. Her nurse work was feeding her, him and his gaming habit.
It was a month ago, when she stepped into their apartment to find him and his friend Tyrone smoking weed on her couch playing that game. She held a hand full of groceries. He didn’t notice. She went ballistic, “Get your shit and get the fuck out,” She screamed, dropping the bags of groceries on the welcome mat. Orange juice and milk spilled on the floor. She furiously pointed at the door. “You too Tyrone.”
“Such and such” was shocked, “Whoa baby what’s the matter,” he tried grabbing her hand but she snatched away. No more assuming that she would be okay with this. “Get your shit!” Was all that Tanisha could say.
“Such and such” was on the spot in the worst way. In front of Tyrone, he was being tossed out of his home. Rather then ask why and risk the chance of more embarrassment, he grabbed his jacket and slid. He figured he would be back when she collected herself. In fact, Tanisha was collected and aware. No more being the breadwinner who brought home the dinner, cooked and served it. She rather be lonely.
And that she was… a lonely mess. Aretha Franklin was blowing, “I apologize” through the speakers. She was sipping dark liquor. This was the vacuity before the light. And what will bring her into the light? The man of her dreams, an angel. Until he fell from the sky and illuminated her world, she would be sitting on the couch, sipping Hennessy, and listening to R&B.