Read Online Naughty or Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey - Free Book Online

women the way they saw their mommas being mistreated.”
    â€œIt goes back to the foundation. Our foundation has been destroyed.”
    We slip into conversations we’ve had before about the history of our people. From slavery to oppression to life beyond the Industrial Revolution, Blue knows all about the evolution of the black man, understands how hard it is to raise up an oppressed culture, and has helped me to not be so hard on our people, but to understand how and why many of us ended up feeling hopeless and on alcohol and drugs, and as a result, homeless or in jail or the cemetery. Depression makes people cling to what makes them feel good. So much depression amongst our people, and rightfully so, I’ve pointed that out to him. He’s a good conversationalist, not just on topics aboutblack people, but about people in general. We talk about everything from child prostitution in Thailand to the president’s war on reproductive rights.
    He turns the radio off, asks me to read him some poetry, wants to know what he missed. The erotic piece inspired by my dreams, I don’t have the courage to read it now, when he is close, so I read a socio-political piece that ends in “When the majority gets treated like they are minorities, they call it injustice. We call it Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday . . .”
    He likes that one.
    Then I share with him a short political anti-war piece of work, something I wrote the day the troops invaded Baghdad. Old news, but I like it because it shows my anger in how they said it wasn’t about oil, but protected the oil, and allowed the museums to be looted and culture destroyed, the same way parts of our culture and art were stolen and destroyed.
    He loves the writing, but disagrees with it conceptually.
    I tell Blue, “Nothing you say can convince me that Iraq needed us over—”
    â€œYou don’t understand fully what was going on.”
    â€œI understand right and wrong. Violence is never the answer.”
    Whenever we talk, even like this, his smooth voice is pleasure to my ears. Our exchanges create an ebb and flow that I feel in my body. He’s moving in and out of me.
    â€œI bet our ancestors,” Blue sips his tea, “wished someone had come to liberate them.”
    â€œThat was different.”
    He shakes his head. “Oppression is oppression. Just like the slaves, Iraqis didn’t ask to be liberated because anyone caught doing such a thing would be tortured and executed.”
    I sip my tea, feeling naïve again, wishing we were talking about something else, about infinite possibilities between us. “Why do you think no one came to liberate the slaves?”
    â€œThey didn’t have CNN.”
    We laugh.
    He says, “They didn’t have oil.”
    â€œTo get saved, you have to be viewed as worth saving.”
    He nods and motions at my notebook. “Read me something else.”
    The next page is “Erotic Dreams in Shades of Blue.” Our conservation makes it hard to segue to that sensuality. I stare at the page and my emotions stare at me in black ink.
Eyes closed . . . I want to touch myself . . . want to imagine what it’s like to feel you . . . my eyes glowing every time I see you . . . my heartbeat between my thighs . . . becoming a celibate cat in heat
    That last part, celibate cat in heat, not sure if that’s the right image I’m going—
    â€œTommie, you’re over here.” I jump and close my notebook when I hear Monica’s voice.
    She runs a sleepy run, almost falls, comes to me and grabs my legs, catches me off guard. She’s small for her size, but strong. She is barefoot, in too-big white pajamas with yellow ducks.
    I push my notebook aside and pick her up. “Hey, Boobie.”
    Her hair is long and thick; skin a bronzy yellow, eyes the hue of a new penny.
    I say, “The ponytails are holding