All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator. Henry Scott Harris
to be attracted to men in good physical condition, wearing shorts, sweating and breathing hard. Mon dieu, the women were pretty and friendly. One group came almost every day, and this one time there was a new girl. Wow! She was slim, her skin almost teak, her deep dark eyes reminded me of my mother. From the minute she arrived, she stared at me. I was in the ring, and turned to take a good look and our eyes met.
She nodded her head. I was entranced and didn’t notice my sparring partner’s left cross to my head. Bam! Down I went. Went down, but got up with a smile.
“Damn Sparrow, you weren’t concentrating!” yelled Mr. Baldwin. At the end of the evening session, she winked, waved, walked over and said, “S’il vous plait (please) meet me when you are done.” I showered quickly, my hair was still wet, rushed to dress and headed out wondering, “Will she be there?” Miracle!! She was waiting. We reached out and took each other’s hand, walked, chatted. “I hear you are called Sparrow and you are an American. Why are you here?” “Because this is the way to Paris,” I told her. She listened as I explained my dream of France.
She took me to a small pub, where we had dinner. I looked into those eyes and this Sparrow listened to a nightingale’s voice. The sweet smell of her perfume was captivating. When her palm caressed my face, fires burned inside of me. “You are so young, so strong and untouched. Why do they call you Sparrow? Were you a slave?” “No, never a slave and never will be. My name was given to me a long time ago by a wonderful woman who was sure I would fly,” I answered. Didn’t know what she meant about being young and strong, but untouched. Being with her was breathtaking. I knew I was in love.
Cherie was a little older than I. She told me she did special hair dressing and cosmetics for wealthy customers. She knew so much about everything. Dinner ended. It was after midnight. Don’t remember what I ate. At her boarding house I started to say goodnight. She put her fingers to my lips, whispered, “Hush. Hush. The night is not over little bird.” With her leading the way, we walked quietly up the stairs and Cherie unlocked the door to her room. “S’il vous plait, come in”. I was never in a woman’s room before and was shy. She started to hum and slowly undressed. Her naked body was like a goddess, soft, maple-teak color, smooth and gleaming clean. Ah, not a hair anywhere. Her breasts, perfect mounds, firm and tan nipples pointing. She danced, moving every part of her body. It was a ballet all her own, controlled by her rhythm reacting to magic music. She paused, sat on my lap and gently and tenderly removed my clothes. We stood and our naked bodies touched, her flesh was cool, mine torrid. I was transfixed.
“My Sparrow, now let me show you love.” Her mouth, arms, hands and supple legs taught me diabolique delights. It was my first time. I became a man and it was beyond wonderful! Henri, a woman’s touch can be enthralling, her kiss was an electric charge sending raptures that took me to pinnacles of pleasures.
It was morning when I awoke and dressed. Looked in the mirror and announced to myself, “Good morning, MISTER Bullard’. I was proud and exhausted. Cherie was still lounging in bed when I kissed her goodbye. I said, “Must get to the gym. Will I see you tonight?” “Of course,” she agreed. We saw each other every night for a week and on Sunday, walked the Flea Market at Petticoat Lane. “Silly,” she said, “that you must return to your room. Come, be with me.” Later that day, carrying my duffle bag, I moved into her flat. Her flat? No, our flat. It had a small kitchen and a draped area which hid our bed of delights. She laughed and smiled, with an almost lyric, childish voice, but with a body that became a demon when aroused. After one intensive session, she looked at me and laughingly said, “Merci, you are now my Eagle.”
I don’t remember how, but we were madly in love, and each night was a glorious evening of experimentations. She oiled our bodies with exotic, warming, mystic, Moroccan lotions, increasing sensual delights! Each morning we had breakfast and I dressed to go to the gym. Must admit, I was tired, worn, exhausted with the physical love. She relaxed under her “Special from the Casbah,” Arab sheet that became our dream desert tent. Usually, at the end of my work, she would be waiting at the entrance to the gym. We kissed, couldn’t wait to hold each other.
There were times she wasn’t waiting and I would rush to the flat to find a note that she had a client. I never suspected or realized why her “special assignments” were at odd hours, afternoons and some nights. Alas, it is true that love is blind, especially for a first time love. I would lie on our bed, awake, waiting, and knew when she was approaching by the fragrance of her perfume. My heart would squeeze in anticipation. Henri, she was in better condition than I was. She was insatiable. There were nights she returned with Champagne and covered our bed with flowers. Ah, she introduced me to Champagne. It was easy to swallow. The first time I enjoyed four or five or more glasses. The bubbly made me feel light. Oh, what a morning headache. I struggled at the gym, couldn’t keep pace. Yes, the nights were full of sensations, feelings wrought from my very soul.
H: A beauty so devoted, sounds like Romeo and Juliet. Did it continue?
E: Henri, It was a time of great happiness. Of course, those at the gym and Mr. Baldwin knew what was going on. “Sparrow, listen to me. You’re not as sharp as you were or could be. You tire too easily, getting sloppy. Here it is kiddo, cut down on playing around or give up being a fighter. Dames and fighters don’t mix while training. Don’t disappoint yourself or me. We’ve come too far. I have plans for you and have lined up your first fight. Your choice, Sparrow.”
H: You actually became a professional fighter. Your new career was in England, certainly not in France.
E: Ah, you are wrong. A real fighter could earn enough money to get to France.
CHAPTER 8: MY FIRST FIGHT IN LIVERPOOL
E: I was excited. A real fight! No more fun and games, had to take my training very seriously. When I told Cherie about the fight, she was not overjoyed. “I am worried, you’ll get hurt. They’ll break my Sparrow’s wings. He won’t be able to fly with me. Or, you’ll be so successful you will forget Cherie, just like the others.”
“Cherie, I must be in bed, alone and asleep by ten. When I am a big hero, you’ll be at my side. But for now, I must get ready.” She pouted and replied, “I will miss you and will take the tent down.”
Everyday did exactly as Mr. Baldwin directed. Started early matin (morning) by running five miles. Came in and wrapped my hands and put on gloves. Ah, real fighter’s gloves. I felt like Jack Johnson, the black Champion. Shadow boxed until I felt could do no more and stopped. Mr. Baldwin bellowed, “Five minutes more!” and I did five more. Dodged and punched the big bag and heard him yell, ”Jab, jab and hit. Back away, then come in, dance your way clear. Now, move on to the small bag and get your timing down.” It came easy. I hummed a rhythm as I punched.
H: But Gene, you hadn’t fought anyone. Could you take a punch?
E: Mr. Baldwin was going to test me and ordered, “Okay Sparrow, you know how to move, let’s really find out what you got. Up into the practice ring with Davey and go a couple of rounds.” Finally, I was to get my shot in the ring. Didn’t hesitate. “Hey guys, here comes the Sparrow,” I announced. Rushed up the steps, and trying to show-off by easily jumping over the ring ropes, caught my foot and fell flat on my face on the canvas. A roar went up from the boys and they started to count “one, two, three.” I got up, embarrassed, hated the feeling of being down, and promised myself I would never be on the canvas again.
H: Well, how did it go?
E; Henri, punching bags don’t punch back. Davey was a pro. He overwhelmed and confused me, snapping my head back with a jab, or holding me in a clinch while he pounded my ribs. Lucky, I was wearing headgear or he would have taken my head off.
Heard Mr.B., “Sparrow, had enough? Ready to quit or will you wake up and fight? Damn, either do what I taught you or get out! Dance around him, jab, jab, use your speed. Don’t let him get close. Hands up, set-up, use your right. Be a fighter.” Okay, I imagined myself as a matador, moving in and out, turning gracefully and avoiding the punches. It worked. Gave as good as I got and when Chris rang the bell, the other pros applauded.
Along with the hurt was a great feeling