Best Black Women's Erotica (22 page)

Without saying anything else, not realizing she was capable of making the decision to do anything, Martine turned around and began to walk toward the foyer, toward the waiting front door. She wasn't shuffling as Maya had been earlier. Her steps were steady and quick.

“Even if you call a doctor, it's too late!” Maya shrieked after her. “You hear me? It works real quick. I've done this lots of times before. Five times, not four! This makes six!”

The chain-lock on the front door always stuck because it had been splattered with thick paint some time ago, and Reid usually had to show Martine how to jostle the pin just right to free it, so she could get out of his house. But Reid wasn't here standing over her as he usually did; Reid was lying somewhere on the kitchen floor while a crazy woman cried over him.

And Martine was determined, more than she'd ever been about anything, that she was going to unlock the door and open it, even if her fingers got bloodied and it took all night.

 

 

 

 

 

Three condoms sit in the bottom of my bag, ripening. One black, one white, one mint-flavored. Lifestyles.

“Hey, we're getting old in here,” they whine. “Our biological clocks are ticking.”

The black condom has a little red bow tie on the wrapper that says “Tuxedo,” and has a superiority complex.

“Excuse me, Miss Thing. How did I end up down here in some nasty purse?”

“It's not a purse, it's a book bag.”

“Whatever. Girl, you need to clean this mess out. Old scraps of tissue. Dust. Some kind of crumbs, and just general filthiness. Chile, don't you ever vacuum in here?”

“I'm really busy. It's not high on my priority list, okay?”

“Well, pencil in into your date book, girlfriend. This state of affairs is not acceptable. I am the high-end condom. A cut above. You need to keep me in a red silk box on the bedside table with some soft jazz in the background. Yeah.”

“Sorry. I don't have those kind of accommodations.”

“Well then, take me back to the basket at your job.
I must've gotten picked up by the wrong person, and some other second-rate condom is living out my destiny. This is a downright switched-at-birth tragedy.”

“You know,” I tell him, “the Yoruba say that we pick our destinies before birth.”

“Don't give me none of that voodoo-hoodoo mumbo jumbo. Just take me back, okay?”

The white one says, “I don't think she's gonna go for that.”

“Well, then could you at least clean up the bag?” the black one asks.

“I'll put it on my to-do list,” I say.

“Like that's gonna help,” the black one gripes.

The mint one pipes up: “Our best chance out of here is for her to use us.”

“Oh, right,” the white one says. “Getting laid is probably on her to-do list right
below
‘clean out the bag.' ”

“The problem,” the black one says, “is that Miss Honey is way too picky.”

“Too picky?” I say. “These are dangerous times.”

“Don't worry,” the white one says, his voice thick with nonoxynol-9, “we'll protect you.”

The mint one says, “What about that firefighter you dated back in December?”

“He never called back.”

“Well, why don't you call
him?”

“I did. He was a blocked artist.”

“If you like artists so much, why don't you call that painter you dated a few months ago?” the black one says. “He was fine.”

“Yeah,” I agree, “but he left after a few dates to sleep with someone else.”

“That's 'cause you wouldn't give it up.”

“Oh, well,” I say. “That shows he was only after one thing.”

The mint one says, “He wasn't only after one thang. He was after a lot of thangs, sugar. But the sex thang was a really
important
thang.”

I suspect she is right. But I don't want to give an inch on this. “Whatever,” I say.

“She's impossible,” the white one complains.

The black one says, “What about the brother who took you to dinner the other night?”

“Hold up,” I say. “Get it right. We each paid for our own meal.”

“Okay, have it your way,” the black one says. “What about him?”

“He wasn't interested in my work or my writing. That's the main thing, here. I have a destiny to fulfill, and…”

“Our point exactly! We have destinies, too.” The black one, the white one, and Ms. Mint were in agreement.

“Look,” I said, “I can't just shackle myself to some guy who isn't about anything.”

“Speaking of shackles,” the mint one says, “I heard a story today about a ribbed condom at a sex club. You want to talk about action…”

“Hey!” I say. “Will you please keep it down in there. I'm trying to write.”

“Just tryin' to inspire you,” the mint one says in mock innocence.

“Save it,” I tell them.

“That's the problem,” the black one says.

“Okay, that's it!” I exclaim. “I can't concentrate at all.” I take them to the bathroom and seal them in a Ziploc safer-sex kit. Then I close the bathroom door. Finally. Peace and quiet.

Meanwhile, back in the kit…

“Oh, my stars!” the mint one exclaims upon meeting my dental dam. “Will you look at who we have here?”

The black one says, “Well, maybe that explains why we've all been stuck in the bottom of a book bag. Miss Thing has her real gear here. And look at her trying to front. Wining and dining with alla those boys. Didn't mess wid none of 'em'cause they're not even on the menu.”

“Ha!” said the dental dam. “I wish. I got less chance than you all of seeing any action. I got a shorter shelf life. Christ! I'm not even packaged. Besides, it's not about sexual preference. She's just too damn picky.”

“I was just telling Miss Thing that, wasn't I?” the black condom said.

Glancing at my watch, I see it's time to go to work. I shut off the computer and jump into the shower. While washing my hair I hear a familiar voice, smell mint on its breath. “You know, sugar, a good lookin' woman like yourself has no call to be showering alone…”

“Give it up, will you!” I say.

“Just our point,” the mint one says.

Latex is on a mission.

 

 

 

 

 

Three months. Three long cruel months of migraine-inducing meetings and sleepless nights spent doing research. I don't know what compelled me to even agree to the madness in the first place. I take that back. I know exactly why I agreed. I did it for the recognition. I did it for the promotion. I did it for the money.

When I first started at Jones, Baker, and Kibblehouse five years ago in the Mergers and Acquisitions Department, I was the only black face anywhere in sight. Since then, a few others have started but none of them have attained my level of success.

When Charles Baker came to me and implored me to negotiate the merger with Hammonton Enterprises, my first reaction was to ask him if he had lost his damn mind. Once he assured me that a positive result would undoubtedly get me considered for the vice-president position in the department, my entire attitude changed. Michael Young had recently left to start his own e-commerce company, trying to get in on the Internet craze, so the position was wide open. Frankly, I felt I deserved it without having to prove myself
any further but you can't knock the hustle so I accepted the challenge.

I knew the merger wouldn't be easy. Roy Hammonton was infamous for his shrewd business practices. The mere thought of losing the controlling reins of his corporation probably made him age ten years overnight. I spent five days reading articles and other readily available information about the man, determined to step into the initial meeting and tantalize him so much that he would hand over the keys to the kingdom without any drama. I should have known better.

As it turned out, Roy Hammonton wasn't the problem. His son Martin was the real thorn in my side. I despised him from the moment I laid eyes on him. He looked so sure of himself, so determined, so much like me. I don't like it when the playing field is even. If I can't win, then I don't want to play. That's the Lourdes Mitchell way.

The first meeting was horrid. I left the office that night and headed straight to the closest bar I could find. After four Cosmopolitan martinis and far too many sick and totally unfunny jokes from the bartender, I dragged myself outside, took a cab, went home, and passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I woke up the next morning rejuvenated, focused, and more determined than ever. I set my sights on Martin and learned everything from the name of his tailor to his favorite cologne. Not because I had a personal interest in him. I'm just an avid believer that one should always know the habits of one's enemies.

The second meeting a week later was just as bad, but I refused to turn to the bottle again. Instead, I went to the gym and took three cardio-karate classes in a row. I had to limp up out of that bitch, go home, and soak in a tub of ice water. After I got out of the tub, I called on the services of my former lover Dawson. He wasn't the best lover but he gave
the most hellified massages. He came over and rubbed my ass to sleep.

Three months later the agony was still in full swing. Martin had taken over the negotiations completely. Charles and the rest of the people on my side had given up as well. It was down to the two of us. The stubborn ones.

 

 

“You do realize I'll never agree to these terms?” he asked me, pacing around the conference room table for the fifty-eleventh time.

I decided to get up and stretch my legs as well. “I'll never agree to your terms either. They're ludicrous.”

“I'm so sick of this.”

I leered at him and issued a comeback. “I'm sick of you.”

“This can't go on forever,” he stated, as if I didn't already know that shit.

“Well then, agree to our terms so I can go home and get some sleep for a change.”

He laughed at me, the bastard. “You really think I'm a fool, don't you?”

“If the shoe fits.” I sat back down, took a manila folder off of the increasingly larger stack, and opened it. “If you come down by 5 percent, I'll convince the partners to go for it.”

“You need to stop taking those ginseng tablets, Lourdes,” he responded. “They're clouding your common sense. Maybe if you come up 10 percent, we can do some business.”

I don't like it when people, men in particular, try to step to me like that. “I don't need the ginseng tablets to realize that I'm more of a man than you'll ever be.”

“But you're a woman.”

“Exactly,” I replied snidely. “I'm a woman and still more of a man than you'll ever be.”

He sat down across from me at the table. “Let's cut the bullshit, why don't we?”

“I was never bullshitting, Martin. I sincerely hope you haven't been wasting my time with bullshit for the past three months.”

He glanced down at his watch. “It's after eight. Want to grab some dinner?”

It was my time to laugh at him. “You're not seriously asking me to have dinner with you?”

“Why not? We both have to eat.”

As much as I hated to admit it, my stomach had been belting out the Battle Hymn of the Republic for about an hour. “Okay, but on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“I don't like—no, scratch that—I
refuse
to discuss business while I'm eating.”

He stood up and started putting on his suit jacket. “Fine. We'll discuss something else then.”

I put on my blazer and headed toward the door. “Fine by me.”

 

Martin took me to the most elegant restaurant in town, Fratelli and Sons. I was shocked when they gave us a table without a reservation. I guess the Hammonton name still held a little clout. Once the waiter took our orders, Martin wasted no time getting into my business.

“So what's your real name?”

I almost choked on my cognac. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know good and damn well your name isn't Lourdes. Sounds like something you made up, probably in law school.”

He grinned at me and I wanted to puke. Not because he wasn't attractive, because he was. Six-foot-two with caramel, smooth-as-a-baby's-ass skin, long curly eyelashes, and a cinematic
smile. I wanted to puke because he read my ass like a book. Until I started Harvard Law, my name was Shanika Brown. I didn't think the name sounded professional so I legally changed it.

I tried to change the subject. “You're so damn arrogant.”

“And you're so damn pretty.”

I almost choked again. He was up to something and I didn't like it. The next sentence out of his mouth proved me right.

“Let's play a game, Lourdes.”

I chuckled. “What type of game?”

“I intimidate you, don't I?” he asked confidently.

“Intimidate?” I adjusted the napkin in my lap and took another sip of my cognac. “Nothing and nobody ever intimidates me. I know I'm the shit, I've always been the shit, and I'm always going to be the shit.”

He threw his head back in laughter. “Your conceit is somewhat attractive.”