Man Curse (11 page)

“I don't expect you to clean my office. You're not my maid,” she said, taking a seat. Throwing her purse on an anonymous pile of papers, she glanced at the computer and moved the cursor back and forth. “I don't want an assistant who wants to be a secretary forever.” She picked up a proof and peered at it in distaste. “I want someone who wants to grow with the company and do bigger and better things. Not saying being my assistant is not a good thing. But it's just a start for you. You're talented. That's why I hired you. I remember your hustle at the
Buzz
music seminar and it was fabulous. That's the kind of energy I want you to bring with this job.”

I nodded affirmatively.

“Just two words of advice for you. One: Don't tell my business. Everything in my life and what I tell you is confidential. Never tell anyone where I am. And two: Don't tell your business. Everything in your life is confidential. This is a small industry. Word travels fast. You don't want people all up in your shit.”

She looked at me straight-faced with her arms crossed.

“You got all that?”

“Yeah. I got it. I don't like people in my business anyway. If I tell you something, it's because I don't care if you know. I'm careful with what I share.”

“Good,” she said. “Now, Griffin is out there setting up your desk. He'll bring you a computer and show you how to log in, set up Outlook, and how to use the phones. If my door is closed, it means I'm busy. Only you can knock or buzz
me to check if I want to be seen or take a call. If it's an emergency, definitely knock.

“Right now, I need you to put your bag down and lock it in the file cabinet. Not saying people here are thieves, they're not, just always be safe. Then go upstairs, get Sean, and bring him down. Afterward, go to the business department, get your paperwork done, your key card programmed, and then I need you to make copies of a few articles, hand out some memos, and check my voice mail. At eleven, we'll have an editorial meeting, I'll need you to take minutes. After that, we'll go to lunch and . . .” She paused. “Do you need to write all this down?”

“Oh, yeah, I should.” I rummaged through my pocketbook. “Lemme just find a pen.” I looked inside, pushing aside the random papers and makeup and receipts, dollar bills, wallet, tissues, everything I needed for my bag. But I could feel Denise's impatience. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her face, twisted and staring, as a tiny smirk opened her mouth.

“Take this,” she said, holding up a purple pen. “And use this notepad. When we're done, go get your supplies from the mail room.”

I grabbed it and wrote everything down, speaking out loud as I scribbled. “Sean, supplies, copies, minutes, key card, paperwork, messages, meeting at eleven, minutes, lunch.” Then I looked up. “But not in that particular order. I just wanna make sure I jot it all down before I forget.”

She smiled. “Yeah, you're gonna work out. I gotta check my e-mails. So you go handle that, get Sean, buzz me thirty minutes after he's been here, and when it's ten forty-five, give me a heads-up so I can get ready for the meeting. And close the door behind you.”

I left the office, placed my bag in the file cabinet next to my desk, and, before heading to the lobby, I scoped out my cubicle. A dirty, bland white, with dust outlining where the computer was to be placed. Still I smiled, because it was mine. My area. A spot at
Buzz
magazine. A warm, tingly thing did a rhythmic happy dance in my stomach, making my cheekbones stretch with wide contentment, making me exhale with sighing relief. Maybe I could be happy.

Chapter 13

S
ean Baxter. Writer.

His card, with a Brooklyn address and 718 area code, had a brown recycled look and feel to it with a cute pen-and-pad logo. I unfolded the edges, wrinkled after a tumble in my purse, and stared at the words that scrolled across the bottom:
Thinking. Dreaming. Creating.

I'd heard that writers were intellectual types—smart, well read, full of worldly knowledge. At the time, I'd never dated one. I didn't know if the stereotype was true for any writer other than myself. But after meeting Denise, the staff of scribes at
Buzz
, and Sean, the wordsmith description seemed to be true. I was happy to be among like-minded people.

Sitting on the train back to Jersey, watching the outline of trees blow in the dark, a momentary doze led my mind to drift. A dreamy vision of me sitting at a laptop, pregnant, feet propped up on a wicker stool, computer nestled on a small stand. And there I was, tap-tapping keys, two hundred pages along, pounding letters into my next bestselling manuscript. The nanny would call, letting me know my son had been picked up from school. At six, I'd make dinner. At seven, my soul mate would arrive home from work. And at seven thirty, we'd have family dinnertime. By ten, my husband and I would be laughing, talking, foreplaying into passionate lovemaking. That was true north. A dream I knew would come true. But who would play the role of soul mate? Sean, perhaps? He was a cutie, knew the entertainment business, and wanted to take me out. I wondered,
Maybe I should call him
. The thought lingered as my phone buzzed with a new text message:
In the morning, stop at Guy & Gallard and order a fruit platter for the meeting tomorrow. Pay for it with the credit card when they arrive. Denise, EIC.

Seconds later it buzzed again.

Oh, and good work today. Your first day at work and you represented. So happy to have you on the Buzz team. Gnite.

And then a third buzz.

Hey beautiful, so when are we goin out? Italian? Chinese? French?

It was Sean.

I texted back:
How about tomorrow after work?

Sean:
Ok. Let's do La Petite Maison. Lincoln Square. 730p.

Me:
Ok. :+)

The next day. 6:45 p.m.
Buzz
offices . . .

I was sitting at my computer, waiting for Denise to finish her meeting so I could leave. Trying to stop myself from watching the clock, I watered and adjusted the fern next to the computer. Looked back at the clock: 6:47.
Shit
. I needed to leave by seven to get to the restaurant on time. On tarot.com, I began reading the plethora of Aquarius horoscopes offered: daily scope, love scope, monthly scope, weekly scope, feng shui tip of the day. I got up, went to the bathroom, and stared in the full-length mirror. My white skirt flared at the bottom. Short and sweet, it crept above my knees in a schoolgirl fashion. My matching top had spaghetti straps embroidered with small gold flowers crisscrossing the shoulder blades. I touched up my brown shimmery lipstick, pranced back to my desk, and prayed the meeting would be done. I could hear the editors loudly debating.

“That is not
Buzz
magazine,” said Denise. “I'm not going to have a feature on some chick famous for sleeping with lots of rappers.”

“But she's hot right now.”

“She does look good,” somebody else chirped.

“She's a whore,” Denise snapped back. “What talent does she have other than being able to fuck rich MCs?”

“Well, I heard she was starting a new fashion line,” Francois, the style editor, sang.

“Oh, that's original,” Denise shot back. “If y'all want this chick on the cover, tell me something I haven't heard before. You better wow me.”

“And I heard she's got a new perfume coming out,” someone else added.

“Called what?” Denise asked, giggling. “Eau de ho?”

Everyone laughed, including me; I let out a small snicker that I tried to catch by muffling and clearing my throat.

“Meena! Meena Butler!”

I jumped with each syllable of my name that Denise enunciated. Hopping up out of the chair, heart beating quickly, I shivered into her office.

“Meena,” she said, “have you heard of Abby Tulip?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of her? Would you read a story about her?”

“Well . . .” I paused, searching for the politically correct thing to say. “I, um . . .”

“Meena,” Denise said with an impatient exhale. “First rule of journalism: Be honest. Speak your mind. Be an opinion maker. Speak the fuck up.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Everything I need to know about Abby is in the tabloids. She used to be a porn star. She sleeps with all the rappers, actors, ball players. And now she's got a new album, lingerie line, and perfume coming out. She cut her hair off bald, and copycat girls are cutting theirs off, too. I think she's a horrible example to women who want to make it in this world without sleeping around. I think she's a floozy and I have no interest in her at all. I don't care about her. But I did hear
Playboy
was putting her on the cover.
Buzz
is always the first to the hotness. So I'd be surprised to see you come behind a magazine known for showing naked women.”

“Tell us how you really feel,” Francois said, smiling. He looked at Denise and added, “I like this one.”

“That's why I hired her. She's honest, knows the magazine, and she gave us the lowdown. Sam, why didn't we know she's on the next
Playboy
cover? That's your job. Are you not the music editor?”

“Well,” he said, sweat beading above his eyebrow. “That's not confirmed.”

“It's a rumor we need to investigate. I hired you to stay on top of that kind of shit. We were about to put this little naked girl on our cover
after
a tramp magazine like
Playboy
? That would have killed us! And then I would've fired you.”

Denise looked at me. I held my breath.

“Thank you for that, Meena. That's all. You can leave now. I'll see you tomorrow.” She got up and closed the door as I walked out.

Smiling, I unlocked the file cabinet, grabbed my bag, logged off, and speed-walked to the elevator before Denise changed her mind. Time check: 7:05. My date awaited.

Chapter 14

S
ex with Sean was amazing. As his pelvis jutted out, back and forth, he thrust his package inside me. He rolled his back in a way, with slopes and peaks and valleys arching me into a shape that rolled with him, like a rowboat, over and over through rapids and shores far away, sailing my insides to a place where I could soar with the wind, feel the warmth of the sun, shout and scream. I could moan without the fear of someone hearing. I could moan in a way that felt like a fabulous, sweaty workout that tensed, stretched, and worked the muscles. It was so beautiful and wonderful. So wet and sticky; I oozed with sensual satisfaction between my legs that seeped down, dripped on the thigh, and lathered tiny hairs on my vagina into white, wet follicles filled with excitement, lust, love, and passion. I felt his fingers below. Inside my pussy. One. Two. Three. Pushing. Shoving. Digging. Twisting. Gushing. I whimpered a tiny yelp of delight and nudged forward so he could dig deeper, far enough for fingers to touch my uterus, to puncture deep and push it to the side so he could reach my heart. Touching it slowly and poking it with a reminder that the connection between mind, body, and soul can come with the best orgasmic release that blows up inside you and bursts like the hot ash and flames of a volcano. It's not just a sexual connection or the release of endorphins that connects you heart to heart. It's the synergy of a mind-to-mind connection. A yearning of mental stimulation that morphs into emotional love. That can turn the simplest chance meeting into an eternity of togetherness, of unity of enlightenment, and growth, and happiness. A lifetime of one. Being one because of the unity of two. So wonderful. So beautiful. Sex.

“Next stop, Seventy-second Street.”

The train operator's muffled announcement woke me up from my momentary nap. Wet in two spots, I wiped slobber from the side of my mouth, realizing I'd dozed off in the short ride from
Buzz
to Lincoln Square. Standing up, wobbling, I felt the weakness of wet dream legs. As the train slowed, I checked the window's grimy reflection. Moist down below, horny as an inmate who hadn't had sex in months, I casually turned to make sure there wasn't a tiny circular wet spot on the back of my skirt. That's all I needed: to walk into my date looking like I'd sat in a puddle of vaginal secretion. Gross.

I adjusted myself, twisting and turning. Taking out a compact, I dabbed oil from my T-zone, then pulled out a comb to adjust stray stands. When the train doors opened, confidence spewed with each wide step I took in my fly black stiletto heels. I felt like Naomi Campbell, supermodel with an attitude, beating down any who dared stare at my high steps of self-love. Men broke eyeballs. Ladies sucked teeth. I giggled at the fellas. Smirked at female envy. Meena Fey Butler was feeling herself. Headed toward the exit and grabbing the railing, I walked up the stairs. When suddenly, time slowed. Stubbing my toe on the first step, I fell like a deflated balloon descending from the sky. The trip forward left my butt hanging in the air, left leg dangling. No one stopped to offer anything other than a snicker as they grazed by, nearly stepping on my black Gucci bag. My right knee was slightly skinned, a burning sensation oozing from an ashy-white skid mark. My white skirt was bruised black, spots of subway residue speckled with dirt. I took a deep breath, sighing a loud, groaning yoga-release of stress, when I heard a voice.

“Are you all right?”

Turning around, or rather, flipping over with my palms, I held myself up the best I could. Struggling for my clothes to no longer touch the nasty steps, I was helpless, like a baby learning to walk, plopping down unsteadily back onto the floor. When I looked up, there was Sean, staring down at me, smiling.

“You tripping again?” Holding out his left hand, he seemed to do his best to restrain a burst of laughter. But his silence only lasted five seconds, broken by my sad face turned upside down as I cracked up, howling. Echoes of our unified laughter bounced off tagged-up, underground walls. Minutes later, we sat in that moment, no words, just staring at each other, cheesing. I took out my sanitizer, squeezed it slowly onto my hands, offered him a few squirts, and we were silent again, rubbing our hands with Purell.

“So . . .” I said, “you've seen it all. You know the truth. I'm a klutz.”

We both cracked up again.

“Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Although . . .” He pulled out a small notepad from his back pocket and slid out a tiny pencil stuck between its spirals. “I may have to write about this one day. I mean, it won't be you, per se. But it will be your actions. This whole scene is inspiration for a great movie.”

“Oh, so if I read something about a girl who busts her ass in front of the guy she's supposed to meet for dinner, then I should assume that's a version of me and this episode today?”

“Exactly,” he answered, nodding his head.

We both cracked up again as he pulled me up off the steps.

“Well, the good news,” he said, helping me to steady myself, “is that your legs still look great even when they're slightly ashy.”

I looked down to see white lines grazing my front shins and knees.

“Oh my God! I am so embarrassed,” I said, covering my face. “This is a nightmare.”

“It's okay. You're still beautiful. I mean, your beauty is amplified by the way you're handling the situation.”

I looked at him. “You think?”

“Oh, absolutely. Like, the typical girl would get all weird and have an attitude 'cause she got a little scuff on her heels or black mark on her white skirt. But you . . .”

As he paused, I looked down to see a scuff on the back of my right heel. My white skirt had tiny spots of dirt throughout. I sucked my teeth and exhaled silently.

“But you, you're taking this whole thing in stride. You're still walking your model walk. You're smiling. You're sparkling. The fact that you can laugh at yourself is absolutely beautiful to me. It says you're humble. It says you don't take life too seriously. I mean, shit, sometimes you gotta laugh at yourself. Right?”

“I guess,” was all I could say, nearly at a loss for words as my eyes sparkled like a fanatic spectator's. The air around him rippled in a haze, like a mirage in desert heat. I mean, was this man actually speaking all of this chocolate fudge sundae sweetness? Yum. I'd never heard a guy speak with such warm, rhythmic beauty. My ears melted slowly, dripping with sexual tension. And I stood there in awe. Deaf to the A train pulling into the station. Blind to the tiny piece of tissue sticking to my heel.

“Let me get that for you,” he said, bending down as I lifted up my foot. He pulled the tissue off, throwing it to the side. Slowly standing back up, eyeing my calves, knees, thighs, body—and finally whispering into my ear, “Beautiful.”

As the A train doors opened, Sean glanced at a tall blonde with supermodel features stepping off. I could've sworn he smiled as their eyes met when she pranced onto the platform. Moments later he refocused on me, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the exit. “Let's get you some food.”

Sitting at La Petite Maison, a sexy French café quietly tucked away on a side street, I twitched and turned. Nervously arranging and rearranging the napkin on my lap, I suddenly felt weird in my own skin, fidgety, itchy. Bladder felt full. I kept taking regular bathroom breaks, only to return and fumble with my silverware. It was Sean. The way he didn't stare at me but through me, like a journalist studying an interview subject, looking for quirky tics to color his story. I reached for a sip of Zinfandel, dying to relax, focusing on holding my wineglass stem without shaking, without sipping it and having drops drizzle down my chin onto my dress.

“You've got something here,” he said, pointing at his nose and doing a wiping motion.

Oh my God! I have a booger.
The words ran across my brain as I wiped. He motioned again. I wiped again. He shook his head in the negative. I wiped a third time.

“To the left,” he instructed.

I wiped to the left.

“Okay, now you moved it to the right.”

I wiped to the right.

“It's not cooperating,” he said. “It likes you or something.”

I pulled out my compact to see a tiny white piece of tissue, lingering on the side of my nose.

“I bet you thought it was a booger, huh?”

I looked at him, rolling my eyes with a giggle.

He laughed. “I promise I'd have told you if it was. You can always tell your friends, because the fake ones will let you walk around with a booger in your nose. You'll be smiling hard, taking pictures, working the room, then hit the bathroom and see a giant snot ball in your nose, wondering, ‘Now, how long did I have this here? And how come no one told me!' ”

We both laughed. Hearty and loud. Relieving my tension. He grabbed the check before it hit the table, and minutes later we were on the sidewalk amid billboards aglow, people jaywalking, and horns blowing, large drops of rain splattering on the pavement in the background. He pulled me under a tiny convenient store awning. Caressing my arms, protecting me from the coldness of nature's wet spasm, he kissed me. Slowly. Delicately. Carefully.

“I love rain,” he said, lifting his face high, letting drops splash off his forehead. “It's renewing. Refreshingly romantic.”

He stared into my eyes. “Something about the backdrop of water to a first kiss, undisturbed, immune to the lights of a busy sidewalk corner attracting millions of people. It's amazing. Beautiful. Like our own world.”

He kissed me again. And my legs began to buckle.

“Well, this is the first time I like rain,” I said, looking around at the splashing, nose turned up, toes shivering and crunched up. “It's always been depressing to me.”

He pulled me closer, turning my head toward him, asking, “You depressed now?”

I smiled, shaking my head until he kissed me again.

“I didn't think so,” he said, stepping to the curb and waving down a cab. After three empty cabs whizzed by, I slowly joined him at the curb, and finally a driver stopped. Opening the door while using his jacket as an umbrella, he guided me to a warm seat. Once I was inside, he took his hat off, held it like a flag, and waved good-bye as the driver departed for Penn Station. The moment was monumental. And minus the falling and tissue stuck to my nose, it was the best date I'd ever had.