The Caribbean idyll is a myth promoted by tourism departments and lazy journalists, and eagerly accepted by those shivering in the cold of their North American or European homes. Yes, these islands have lots of sandy beaches and the sun shines most of the time, but if you’re living there, it’s real life with good weather.
I marched into the office of the telecoms company that had promised six weeks ago to install my phone/internet/tv package within a month. Telecoms firms are the same all over the world. In fact, they will tell you upfront that they’re not going to be doing it for at least twelve days, but this “within a month” assurance had sounded promising.
I should have known better. This is the land of “island time”, which means they’ll do it when they feel like it, not when you’re expecting it just because they said they would. It’s a form of disrespect which many foreigners laugh about, but I find it neither funny nor charming.
Another thing many are bad at in the region is customer service. They will let you down but they don’t react well if you dare to pursue them about it. “I know the food is late and you’ve been waiting half an hour: I told you there’s a problem in the kitchen. Don’t mention it again. Just shut up and wait.” They don’t use those words, but they make it clear that you, the customer, are not always right (even though that’s what you’re taught in many countries) and that there is no point in complaining.
I’m not going to change things on my own, I know, but I will let them know I’m not happy. That’s why I was “marching” into this office.
The guy at the desk said it wasn’t him and must have been his colleague who was off today: I could go and talk to Customer Service. So that’s what I did.
In a side office sat a formidable looking black woman with a pretty face and dark eyes that labored under the strain of industrial-grade false lashes. A loose white top caressed her voluminous chest and when I had explained why I was there, she got up and strode out of the office and barked in Caribbean English at the guy on the desk. I saw her loins and thighs were wrapped in a tight, stretchy turquoise skirt.
She sashayed back in and said the guy wasn’t there but she would look it up. Tapping with her false-nailed fingers at the keyboard, she muttered under her breath.
“I’m not seeing it. What was the name again?”
I spelled out my name and she tried again.
“No, I’m not seeing it,” she said. “He’ll be in tomorrow. I’ll call you.”
After the weekend I was in the area and she hadn’t called me so I marched in again and went straight to her office. She offered no sign of recognition. I explained again and she said,
“Yeah, I know. I spoke to my colleague and he don’t have nothing. I’ll look again.” More nail-handicapped tapping.
“Nah, I’m not seeing it.”
I studied her expressionless face and gradually the woman behind the mask floated out to me. Quite nice, good looking, possibly very sexy in the right circumstances. I could imagine sucking her nipples and stroking the ebony contours of her stomach before descending to her epicenter.
“So what did you do for Mothers Day?” I asked. In that region, every female over the age of seventeen is a mother.
“Nothing,” she said, leaning back so her breasts looked out at me from the confines of another white top. “Just relaxed. Made lunch for the family.”
“They let you cook them lunch?” I spluttered for comic effect. “How many kids have you got?
“Two sons, four grandkids,” she said.
“You’re not a grandma,” I said, half surprised and half acting.
“I am,” she said proudly.
“Well grandmas didn’t look like you when I was a kid,” I said admiringly. She didn’t respond but I could see it was well received.
“You can fill in another form,” she said, sliding it across the desk and rummaging for a pen. “I’ll try to push it through quicker for you.”
As I filled in the form I muttered, “I still can’t believe you’re a grandma,” but didn’t look up. I just thought I’d leave that extra little verbal caress with her.
Miracle of miracles, three days later the workmen turned up and installed the service.
The next weekend I was in CostPro (all the supermarkets had “clever” names) when I saw the telecoms woman feeling avocados. Off duty, she was wearing a tight Bob Marley t-shirt and body-hugging jeans. I went over and joined her.
“Any good?” I asked.
“Like rocks,” she said, shaking her head. “Mr Logan, right?”
I was absurdly flattered that she remembered my name.
“Will,” I said. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Delia,” she said.
I took her hand and shook it in my creepy, lingering way (or so it sometimes seems to me).
“Delia. Nice,” I said. I really would have to stop the smarmy stuff. She smiled anyway and moved closer to me as she leaned over past the big green avocados to try the dark, crinkly Hass ones.
“Entertaining tonight?” I asked.
“No, just me,” she said. “Everybody’s going out. And they don’t even need a babysitter.”
“Husband?” I probed.
“Long gone,” she said with a smile. “How about you?”
“Husband, no. Wife, no.”
“There is currently a vacancy,” I said, trying not to make it sound like a job offer.
She gave a sort of giggle.
“Hey, why don’t you come to my place?” I said as if it were a brilliant idea I had just had. “I know a great thing to do with an avocado and some Worcestershire sauce.”
“Oooh,” she said. “That sounds interesting.”
“And I can do some, I don’t know, chops with potatoes and a salad.”
“Sounds good,” she said.
Seven o’clock came and I downed a glass of Orvieto, which suddenly every shop on the island seemed to be selling. I had all the reggae stuff from my iTunes programmed and it was currently something by Steel Pulse.
At 7:15 she pulled up in a little Hyundai i10, which is a popular car on the island but seemed less substantial than she deserved. She was wearing a dress, a smart and quite discreet but clingy number such as you saw local women wearing to church. With her stilettoes, she was the same height as me.
“You look fantastic,” I said, and I meant it, and she knew I meant it. She kissed me on the cheek.
We spent a pleasant couple of hours eating and drinking and Delia encouraged me to put my iTunes on shuffle, rather than pandering to her tastes. And so it was that as we sat on the couch and I put my hand on her leg it was to the accompaniment of The Velvelettes’ Needle in a Haystack.
By the time it changed to You Know That I’m No Good by Amy Winehouse, Delia was in my arms and we were kissing. She was warm and womanly and passionate – not at all like the gruff figure in the office.
But it was the woman from the office whose breasts I fondled, whose leg my hand slid up and whose pussy I found and slipped my middle finger into.
“Have you ever had sex with a black woman before?” she asked.
“Why do so many black women ask me that?” I replied.
“Can we listen to something on YouTube?” she said.
“Sure,” I said and called it up on the TV.
“Working okay?” she asked.
“Perfect,” I said. “What do you want to watch?”
“Look up Khia,” she said. “K H I A.” In a thrilling moment, I knew what she was doing.
“My neck, my back,” I sang the title in my best impression of an R’n’B woman.
“You know it?” she gasped.
“Love it,” I said. “Much better than the Miley Cyrus version.”
Without further ado, I played the track and watched as fit, bikini-clad girls strutted around an urban landscape while the camera focused on their behinds.
“My neck, my back.” We sang it together but Delia only mouthed the last two words after that and looked out of the corner of her eye for my reaction.
I led her into the bedroom and gestured for her to remove her dress. She was wearing a black bra and matching thong. She took care of the bra while I knelt and removed the thong.
“On the bed,” I said quietly and she knelt there, exposing her ass to me.
I licked her crack as the song instructed me to and Delia began to talk.
“Isn’t it funny?” she began. “People all over the world just the same when you get down to it. This arrogant English guy walks into my office and just weeks later he is committing the basest, crudest…”
“And most beautiful,” I interjected.
“Of acts,” she said in conclusion.
“Yes,” I said. “I walk into the office of this resentful, uncooperative woman and just weeks later I find myself licking her ass. By the way, have you ever sucked a white cock before?”
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “My last one was thirty years ago. Is that what you want me to do?”
We spent a heavenly two hours satisfying each other’s deepest desires. I licked her all over and kept returning to her ass.
“Welcome back,” she would say. And then she would take me in her mouth again and love my cock and we were like Adam and Eve, lost in the heaven of our mutual lust and – yes – affection. And finally she knelt and I mounted her and fucked her to her third orgasm.
“You ever made a black woman pregnant?” she asked afterwards with a wicked glint in her eye.
“I don’t think so,” I replied.
“Well you’re kind of free with your semen,” she scolded. “It’s okay,” she said after a pause. “I’m covered. But next time you might want to think about that. With the next girl, I mean. Don’t look at me like that. You love having sex with me. And although I think you do like me, you find my ethnicity a turn on. Right?”
“I think you are gorgeous,” I replied.
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