Seeking work is more work than actual work. Just sayin’…
* * *
-=[ Blame The Collazo Sisters ]=-
A woman’s behind -- an altar to be worshiped on one’s knees.
Actually, the title is incorrect: we shouldn’t blame all the Collazo sisters, only Nellie Collazo’s big sister, Delilah. But there are all manner of connection in all this...
Nellie Collazo was in my eighth-grade class. She was a Taina princess -- long, straight dark brown hair that brushed the tops of the cheeks of her cute little ass. Her translucent skin was like cinnamon and when she smiled, it was like the sun coming out after days of cloudiness.
I am convinced to this day that Nellie descended from Taino royalty.
All year I entertained fantasies about Nellie, but I was too shy to ever say anything to her. My two friends would tease me about it all the time. Finally, about a month before the junior high school “prom,” I managed to muster up the courage to ask her.
Me: “Would you be my prom date?” Or something to that effect.
I was heartbroken. I was very shy, a nerd, and girls always made me nervous. I had other options. There was the impossibly and prematurely developed Susana Susana (that was her name!). Susana looked like what I imagined a young (and dark brown) Mae West would like look and her sexuality -- even at 13 -- smoldered. To look at Susanna was to see the smoke-filled rooms and smell the rum I’m sure she ventured later in life. She had the habit of cornering me between classes and trying to cop a feel and kiss me. I hated it.
That summer, I was sent to a special program for gifted students and I would fall in love for the first time, but that’s another story. What happened that summer was that I made a conscious decision to transform myself. I did a fashion and personality make-over. I was too dammed shy and wearing a suit and tie everyday to school (thanks mom!) wasn’t cool. I discovered that I could be funny in an insightful way and that humor was a great way to approach women, so I honed my craft that summer and polished my image.
That September, I entered high school with my new cool make-over: I was known for my long, black cashmere coat, and my favorite ensemble (wardrobe makeover made possible with the financial help and fashion sense of my mother), was a black Italian knit (it had three barely noticeable electric blue stripes on each side of the buttons), and black sharkskin pants. And, of course, a pair black suede and leather “Playboys” (shoes).
You may laugh at this today, but back then, that was the shit. I cut my hair in a modified “Caesar” look all the bad boys wore, and -- voila! -- a new Eddie emerged. I was still intellectually inclined and at fourteen, I was in the process of reading “every great book ever written,” but I was also “cool.” I was also part of “College Bound” a program implemented by the City of New York. It was an effort to identify gifted students, what I would later jokingly call the “talented tenth,” and segregate us from the rest of the unwashed and stupid black, Latin@, and poor white masses. I attended a school that housed close to 3,000 students in a building that was meant to house half that number and the average class size was probably 35-40 students. Students in the College Bound program would attend classes that had, at most, 10-15 students. More often I took classes that had less than ten students. The idea being that smaller classes would allow teachers to give more specialized instruction to the students.
I was on the Dean’s List -- a straight- A student -- but I was also cool, and I became very popular. My school was also a dangerous place. the hallways, bathrooms, locker rooms were all places where the “bad students” the one’s abandoned by the state and the city, would congregate and sell drugs, smoke cigarettes, engage in sex, and extort the more meek. I happened to be friends with some of the riff raff, many of them having grown up with me. So, I began then to travel the different worlds I would travel all of my life. I was as likely to appear on the Dean’s List as well as with the guy who would take your lunch money at the point of a knife.
One of my friends was Michael. Michael was an abandoned child who was raised by numerous different adults, related and not. He was also the one child no mother wanted you to hang out with. Michael was famous for sniffing glue, something popular in those days. He was also the only Puerto Rican I knew that wore his hair in the style of the Partridge Family’s David Cassidy. That was a huge fashion fuax pas in the black and Latin@ ‘hood we grew up in but though he looked nothing like the wildly popular pop star, he managed to carry it off and the girls loved it! LOL
One day we all decided to go to the movies and who was with Michael the Glue-Sniffer? None other than my Taina princess, Nellie Collazo! Not only that, he treated her like crap and she even paid for his entrance and bought him candy!
I was conflicted and Michael, who was in actuality an extremely intelligent young man, just laughed, said, “They’re all ho’s Eddie.”
I was stunned, but I learned an important lesson about the allure of a bad boy that day. More importantly, it was the first time I laid eyes on Nellie’s older sister. They didn’t look like sisters at all. Nellie’s older sister was light-skinned with curly light-brown hair and her eyes -- impossibly large --were a wicked shade of yellow.
It was winter and she had a coat on and Michael, noting my gaze, whispered, “She’s a stuck up bitch, you’ll never get that.”
At that point in time, I considered Michael a sexual genius (which speaks volumes as to how little I knew). After all, he had Nellie, she of the Taino royalty ancestry, smoking his cock in the balcony of the movie we went to that day.
A couple of years passed and I was walking up those notoriously dangerous Bushwick High School stairways in-between classes when I looked up.
And that’s when it happened.
I looked up and what I saw changed my life forever.
Right there, just a few steps above me was the most rounded, most deliciously curved ass I had ever seen in my life. Up until then, I never paid much attention to the female derriere. It was just something you fondled on your way to the flower of a woman’s vagina or the buds of her breasts. But this was no ordinary ass. It was perfection personified. It was rounded, just the right size, and the owner of that ass had the smallest waist I had ever seen on a woman. It seemed that if I tried, I could wrap my hands around her waist and my fingertips would touch. She was curvy, but lean and she moved like a sleek cat -- all stealth, sex, and grace.
I walked up those stairs in rapture.
I guess she sensed something, quickly turned around, demanded, “What are you doing?! Are you staring at my ass?”
Me, “I’m praying.”
She, “Praying? What are you praying about?”
I was debated if this was a good tact to take, decided it would be foolish, but blurted it out anyway, “Your glorious derrière.”
And she laughed -- a strange sound that sounded like a song. She was beautiful in every sense of the word. Her small, pert contemptuous breasts defied gravity. And those eyes! Those wickedly yellowish/ amber, impossibly large eyes framed by exquisitely formed cheekbones that came out to here. But most important, Nellie’s older sister had the Most Beautiful Ass in the World.
“Very funny,” she said, the hint of a smile on like a playful sprite above her coral lips destroying her attempt to affect an indignation she obviously didn’t feel.
Seeing an opportunity, I jumped on my chance, decided I needed to say something, but not knowing what else, I managed, “I’m also a genius.”
At that she laughed. "Really," she asked playfully.
Me, “Can I walk you to class?”
Me, “You would rather I continue to stare?”
She ignored that last bit and turned around and continued with that divine ass of hers. I watched, and she knew I was watching, but didn’t complain or protest.
As she left to go on to her class, I asked, “Do you come by this way often?”
She, “Everyday! Wow, you are a genius,” and she laughed again. Her eyes were an open invitation I wasn't sure of.
Every day, I would wait for her and follow her up the stairs and everyday she would appear. She wouldn’t engage me in conversation except to inquire if I still prayed.
My answer was always, “Everyday at this time.”
And she would let out that musical laughter that so enraptured me.
One day I didn’t show, I was making out with Cinderella -- well, not that Cinderella, but Cynthia, who I called Cinderella for reasons I can’t get into at this juncture. And little by little, I would stop waiting for Nellie Collazo’s Big Sister's Ascencion. Besides, she had a parade of worshipers, I realized, that walked up the stairs with her. It was like a holy procession. Besides, Cinderella adored me and she would let me taste the fruit of her lips and her wondrously pale, puffy nipples.
One day, totally by accident, I looked up and again saw that wondrous ass and I swear the fuckin' the angels sang.
She turned around and asked, “Where have you been?”
I answered, “I haven’t been praying lately, my goddess refuses to answer my prayers.”
She laughed, the amber in her eyes sparkling, and teased, “And what would your prayer be asking?”
Me, “That I could walk you to your class, then take you out on a date, and someday taste the dew on your bottom lip.”
With that, she turned around without saying anything and looking over her shoulder (to make sure I was praying to her ass, I guess) said, “You can walk me to my class, and I would like to go out with you, but I want to know... ”
to be continued...