Celadon Part I

cleavageI think I sexually harassed my voluptuous coworker today. Accidentally. Quite honestly, her cleavage is obscene. I can’t help but look directly into that sharply defined fold that sinks down, down down until it discreetly disappears beneath her celadon-colored satin blouse. Casual Fridays puts her coveted tits in a compromising position as they’re bound by a cotton tee and its tightened beige lace, which creates a cat’s cradle that challenges the viewer. I want to look, I catch a brief glance, and then I have to turn away. There must be enough dogs who drool over her curvy body every day. Surely, it would be impolite for me to stare… but, they’re beautiful. Her skin is the color of scented tea (milk and sugar added).

Today, she hoists herself up the ladder in order to retrieve a tieback. One of the girls (her appointed bff) giggles softly. “Now, don’t make me spank you in front of all these clients.” I blurted out (or, more like cooed), “Oh, please do…”

I meant it.. I wont lie.

Normally, I’m as well-reserved as I can be at work. I’m pretty loud and I swear more than I should; but, for the most part, sexual innuendos are remain stifled… which is probably why this funny little statement came out of nowhere.

She gasped. Christina, she replied in her cute little Betty Boop voice, I didn’t know you were… She trailed off. Huh, I think I got her panties in a twist. Hopefully, in an intriguing way.

There was another incident where I told her (platonically) that if she didn’t move I would poke her.

How to wrap my head around this. You know, if I didn’t know her well enough that I can make such comments, then I probably wouldn’t have said it. And, it’s not like I know her well now. But, there’s a censored form of communication that occurs in any work environment. When it’s broken (or euphemistically bent) then its as if someone farted in the room. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just in bad taste. And who can refuse a slice of bad taste now and then at work? Must all areas of civilization be so sanitized? So… prude?

On another note, I’ve been dating someone whose very active, which is great because it forces me out into the world. Fishing for adventures is what we seem to be doing so far, as seen in its most obvious splendor on Saturday, when we decided to take a trip to Jersey in order to park his car.

Spinning red and blue dimmed by the gray, seemingly quiet afternoon in Harlem, was what caught our attention. When we parked, they parked. Weather calls for a fifty percent chance of asking mom for bail, as he’s knee deep in parking tickets, and I have a bag of the illegal green resting peacefully in my pocket. Undercover cops, goddammit. They were stern, but straightforward. You cut us off. You give us registration. You watch yourself next time. Then, we were on our way. We speculated as to why they let us off so easily. I’d like to think it was my erotic black sexual mystique; but, I don’t know if that works anymore (white men are jaded :P). Doesn’t matter, we were just moments away from giving Jersey’s State Park (one of them) a gentle foot massage through its illustrious hiking trails. I was psyched, to say the least. While he packed our bag, I copied down the directions through the trail. Only problem was that I only came with thick leggings and lady boots. I need some ass kickin son-of-a-guns to jump start this nature thing right.

I would like to say that the marketing of men’s shoes to women’s shoes in terms of choosing the perfect pair for pure function is fucked up. While women have plenty of options when it comes to style, we hardly have any for substance. Will your Minolos get you through the mud? Can Jimmy Choo handle icy surfaces? ‘Fraid not. Now, I went to Payless for my hiking boots, which explains why the selection was rather bad. However, they had an entire section for extreme footwear…for cock only. I swear, the sign said “Xtreme Footwear.. Pussy Need Not Apply!!!” Best I could do was pick the slip-resistant boots from the womanly pile. Pfft. Whatev. I’d just like to say, Payless, that you need to expand your rugged woman boot selection, as well as your mind. It would have made my search easier.

Driving down to Jersey, we formed situations in our head as to how a black man can get stopped by cops. What if we were two black Rastafarians with grills on our teeth? What if we were retired mechanics stained with oil? While cataloging these victims of potential police brutality, we somehow got lost. But, it ain’t so hard to get lost in the armpit of the East. Now, “armpit” may be an insult to you, but it’s completely subjective. Consider the movie, Flirting with Disaster. There is a brief scene when comedic loser Ben Stiller walks in on his pretend wife, Patricia Arquette, getting her armpit licked by some brauny dunce. Now, an exquisite, flawless flap such as Arquette’s would hardly be seen as gross! And, that smell, mind you, is the smell of musk. Of woman.

So, Jersey, you’re not just any old armpit of the East. You’re Patricia Arquette’s armpit of the East. Perhaps even Chloe Sevigny’s armpit.


After making donuts on the highway, we made a transition from the easy stream of cars floating down the suburban landscape to the serenity that is the sleepy town of Sloatsburg. We sighed. We were not far from the State Park; but, my, what a scene to drive through. I tried to explain to my fellow traveler my type of home, something cozy with two floors in the middle of the woods-far enough for seclusion, yet close enough for convenience. Sloatsburg painted the rest of the picture. While I wasn’t prepared to plant my flag in the heart of this new place, it was nice to see that such a place existed.

When tramping through the grounds, getting closer to its core, I welcomed that touch of chill, so unique and palpable, as if it was freshly seasoned from the sky. I shivered with thrill as the views from the cliffs seemed endless. We munched on our bagel sandwiches and searched for the sun. We couldn’t tell where the sky began and the clouds ended, it was a murky painter’s cup of slate blue hues with creamy blotches. The water was celadon. The ice was sharp, melting from the inside out. We crept up for a closer inspection. It garbled, and small streams of water squeezed its way through whatever opening it could find. Upon sliding down a frozen slope, we spotted a clearing. And, drawing my finger to the fallen trees only a few yards away, I exclaimed this a perfect place to fuck. Bent over the broken stump, like a true lady of the wild, I meditated on pools of celadon and shattered ice falling from lifeless leaves. I howled.

Darkness was falling over our perfect place, so we took a leisurely stroll back to the car. Soon, we were speeding down the congested I-87, with only 30 minutes to spare before the Essex Street train leaves for Penn Station. Damn! Damn! Damn!

…Will Continue Later…

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