Encounter
Copyright © [2021] [Michael Harper]
All rights reserved. No portion of this book, story, or concept may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions, contact the author directly.
The characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Once upon a time, Tarrant had a steady job. He went to church. Led a normal life. The degree he had invested in for damn near seven years was used to get him in a career field that had nothing to do with his academic studies. An average life. Typical days and same old routines. Until... on a day as all others in a land far, far away, in the downtown district of his city... he saw her.
Fuck me, he thought to himself, even with a black COVID mask on, she was stunning. Yeah, her tits and ass were thick on all the right proportion, and her swag hip was the greatest of all time... but shit, it was her motherfucking eyes. Nothing could beat those damn eyes of hers. They drew him in like a black hole. He couldn't escape those piercing orbs. He saw her with dark blonde highlights in her brown curly hair that went down to her ass cheeks.
The city, even at this hour, a little before midnight, strummed with vibrancy, the air was electric, with nights out just beginning for some and ending for others. He saw crowds of people out of the corner of his eye, some glanced at him with mild interest, but most were oblivious, heading to their destination. Bars and clubs vomited dizzying amounts of music and lights. All that faded away with a snap when she walked into his field of vision.
He didn't stare at people lustfully, and tried not to pervertly ogle anyone. He was one of thousands of men who secretly had trepidation about the #MeToo and #TimesUp tidal wave that caught a shit ton of males in their toxic masculinity and sexism. He was not saying he was any of those bastards hoarding power and position or mansplain shit to any female. He was a man. With natural God-given sexual urges, needs, and desires, with the hard-earned, decades-long practice of restraining the temptation to touch a woman's ass without permission or gush over her curves as if she's an object. He didn't even watch porn much by himself. He preferred the feel of a real, warm-bodied, passionate woman. Which in his case had been a few years. Alright, maybe a fuck ton while longer. However, in this lady's case... He was that Wolf. You know the Wolf.
He was the 1943 Tex Avery's "Red Hot Riding Hood" animated cartoon, where Little Red Riding Hood is a performer in a Hollywood nightclub, and the Big Bad Wolf. During the short, Red performs onstage, and the Wolf's cousin goes mad with desire. If you don't know what I'm talking about, let me remind you.
The Wolf was a southern fella who went with his city cousin to a dance joint, back in the jazz swinging era. The wolves sat at a table, and when Red comes out in her sultry outfit and sang, the infamous cat-call whistle was born. The southern wolf cousin's eyes popped out of his skull.
Hummina hummina bazooooooooing! His eyes popped out as he made a foghorn AROOOOOOOOGA sound. His jaw dropped, his tongue, and it rolled out with booming barks, WOOF WOOF WOOF... his mouth burst out of his uncontrollably slobbering face and everything in reach.
WURBLWUBRLBWURblrwurblwurlbr went down his body as a tiny cupid Gatling gun shot arrows through his heart. As his heart beat hard, you could see it through his shirt. That was him. Tarrant the Wolf.
Shit, that was him. How did he behave so badly in the year of our Lord 2021? What kind of consent was this? His lusting didn't grant her any proprietary over his ill behavior. Fuck me with a dry-broomstick. This wasn't who he was. Right?
He was damn sure she knew it was him who was being such an ass when she turned around to see if anybody noticed her slip into the alleyway behind the club. He was there with some co-workers to celebrate the pay raise they wanted. It was his cover story for his real job. The whole identity was a ruse, but he was in deep.
He excused himself from them to trail after her. She was hard to miss. Her hair was the most striking feature: a voluminous, incredibly full Afro. The hair texture was densely packed with tightly curled ringlets. The curls were very well-defined, creating a texture that seemed both soft and bouncy. There was a significant amount of volume and body, giving it a powerful and expressive appearance. It was a large, full Afro that framed her face beautifully, extending out past her shoulders. The shape was rounded, not rigidly structured, with curls that naturally bounced outward in various directions. The overall shape was more like a cloud—full and rounded. The hair appeared to be a rich, dark brown or black, showing a deep, natural sheen. It looked healthy and well-maintained. There was consistency of color, with no obvious highlights or streaks.
She was wearing a taupe-colored oversized hoodie, which appeared to be made of a soft, comfortable material. The hoodie was slightly cropped, revealing a portion of her high-waisted light blue jeans. Her jeans had a slightly relaxed, casual fit.
As he came around the corner, he watched as she used sidewalk chalk on the wall. Her body language suggested a blend of focus and creativity. She was leaning slightly toward the wall, intently engaged in drawing on it. Her posture wasn’t rigidly stiff; rather, it was relaxed yet purposeful. The way she held the chalk and the slight bend of her arm showed concentration. This posture reinforced the casual yet focused activity she was engaged in. In summary, her overall style was relaxed, street-style casual, with her beautifully styled hair being the main focus of her look. The image strongly suggested youth, creativity, and self-expression in her appearance and what she was doing.
To his surprise, she made a portal her size and slid right through. The mystical wormhole vanished the moment after her back heel slipped in. Tarrant walked to the sigil spot: he was confused. It was a blank exterior wall. There wasn’t a trace of chalk or a threshold into the club. He smiled to himself, impressed and slightly flabbergasted.
