Man Swappers (19 page)

“Hey, cuz. Long time, no hear.”

“Gaaaaaaaaaarrett,” I scream into the phone, excited to hear his voice. “How’s my favorite cousin doing? Where the hell have you been, man? I haven’t talked to you in ages?”

“I know, cuz. I’m real sorry for not staying in touch. Things were real hectic for a minute. But, I’m good. How’ve you been? You’ve been in my thoughts, babe.”

“And you’ve been in mine,” I say, applying lotion to my legs. “I’m fabulous, boo; still fly and sexy as ever. You know how I do it.”

He laughs. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. How are Persia and Paris?” I tell him they’re good. He wants to know how my
parents are doing. My father and his father are brothers. Although Garrett’s a few years older than us, growing up we spent a lot of time together; especially during the summers. He was like the son our father never had, and the big brother we dreamed of. “Dad’s doing wonderful. Mom, well...you know her. She’s still mom. Still fussing about something every chance she gets.”

He chuckles, knowingly. “That’s good. Tell them I asked about them.”

“I sure will.” I ask him how his parents are doing. He tells me well. Tells me they’re thinking about moving to Florida to get away from the brutal Jersey winters we’ve been having and all of these high-ass taxes. I tell him I definitely understand.

“How’s business treating you, Miss Big Time Boutique owner?”

“Believe it or not, it’s been good this year. It was a little scary the first two years, with the economy being all crazy. But, surprisingly, things have picked up and I can keep the bills paid.”

“That’s definitely a blessing,” he says. “I always knew you’d be successful.”

“Awww, thanks,” I say, sliding into a purple thong. “It’s definitely a blessing.” I toss the matching bra back into the drawer, deciding to let my titties bounce freely. “Listen, enough about me. I wanna hear all about you and
your
blessings. What in the world have you been up to? Daddy told me you had a baby.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I have a son. His name’s Garrison. He’s almost a year old, and into everything. But that’s my little man.”

“And why don’t I have any pictures of him?” I ask, feigning hurt. “I thought I was your favorite cousin.”

He laughs. “You are, babe. Charge it to my head; not my heart. Bianca handles all that kinda stuff.”

“Oooooh, Biiiiiiiaaaaaanca...Do tell, now. So she’s your baby momma.”

He laughs. “She’s actually more than my baby momma; she’s my fiancée.”

“
Fiancée?
Oh nooooo. You didn’t clear this with me,” I tease, walking into the bathroom to comb out my wrap. “I need to meet homegirl, ASAP.”

“Most definitely,” he says, sounding really happy. “You might have seen her before.”

“Oh really? Is she from our old neighborhood?” He tells me no. Tells me her family is from Plainfield, but she’s lived in Maplewood for over ten years. He mentions that she gets her hair done down at Nappy No More—Pasha’s hair salon. “Really? I haven’t been there in a while. But you’re probably right. I might’ve seen her there before. Speaking of which, did you hear Pasha’s getting married?”

“Yeah, I know. Bianca got an invitation. So, it looks like we’ll be seeing you there.”

“They’re friends like that? Oh, wow. That’s great, then. I can’t wait to see you and to meet her as well.” I glance at the time.
Porsha should be almost here
, I think, slipping into a pair of Jimmy Choos. “So when are the two of you tying the knot? I want details. And don’t hold anything back. How’d y’all meet? What’s she’s like? How long y’all been together? I want it all, boo. I wanna know from start to finish what you’ve been up to and who this woman is that’s kept my favorite cousin from staying in touch with me.”

He laughs. Tells me they’ve been dating for almost two years; that they’re getting married in October. That that was one of the reasons he was calling. He needed our address. Tells me he expects to see us there, celebrating his big day. “Oh, trust me. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now tell me all about
you.
”

He tells me that he’s finally obtained his master’s degree in
Criminal Justice from John Jay College in New York, and is up for a promotion at his job with the New Jersey State Police. I smile. As a kid, he was always helping someone, saving someone (or something), or trying to protect them. Garrett was like a Superhero—always looking for the good in people, somewhere trying to save the day. So it was no surprise to me when he went into law enforcement. He tells me that he and his fiancée, Bianca, met through her brother who he’s close friends with and who’s also a State Trooper. That their relationship started out as a causal thing, but evolved into more. Tells me she avoided him like the plague. That she wanted no parts of him outside of sex. That she had ended things between them when he pressed her for more. But he wouldn’t give up. Tells me he had to have her. And, then when he learned she was pregnant with his child, he knew there was no turning back. States getting her pregnant wasn’t planned; that she initially planned to keep it from him and have an abortion. But something changed her mind. And he’s glad. He states he asked her to marry him right after her trip to Egypt. But she refused. Then he asked her again after their son was born, and she said yes. He tells me they hadn’t set a date until recently. The way he’s talking, the pride and joy beaming from of his tone, he sounds like a man who is truly in love.

“Wow, congratulations,” I say, smiling. “You sound really happy. She must be a really special woman.”

“Thanks, cuz. She is. And I am happy, very. She’s a good woman, Paris, and a great mother to our son. I can’t wait for you to meet her.” I tell him I’m looking forward to it. I hear Porsha coming through the door. I reach for the bottle of Joy by Jean Patou from my perfume shelf, dabbing a little—because at five hundred dollars a bottle, that’s all you need—behind my ears, then on my wrists. I rub it in. Inhale in its peachy and leafy green scent.
Delicious!

“What about you? Seeing anyone special?” I tell him no. Tell him that work keeps me too busy; that I don’t have time for anyone special. “You’re too beautiful not to. You have to make time for love, babe. Life is too short not to allow someone special into your life.”

“Well, before that happens,” I tell him as a glide a coat of Berry Bling lipstick across my lips, “He’s going to have to find
me,
first.” I pop my lips together, pleased with my succulence.
Way to go, CoverGirl!
The Queen Collection never lets me down
. “And right at this moment, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon.” He tells me he wants to introduce me to one of his boys, a state trooper. That he thinks I’d like him. I laugh. “Uhh, no thank you. The last time I let you fix me up with someone he was cross-eyed and had a serious overbite. He looked like something from out of
Star Wars
.”

He laughs. “But he was a nice guy.”

“And he was ugly.”

He keeps laughing. “And he really dug you.”

“Mmmph, I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s because you didn’t give him a chance,” he says, still laughing.

“I’m so glad you find that funny.”

“I’m sorry, babe. You crack me up; still witty as ever. I wish you woulda gave him a chance. He looks nothing like that now.” “I couldn’t. It hurt my eyes looking at him....”

“Hooker, why aren’t you ready?” Porsha snaps, walking into my bedroom. “You know I’m tryna get my shop on and you up in here bullshitting. Let’s go.” I tell her I am ready. Let her know who I’m on the phone with. She grabs the phone from me, practically snatching my ear along with it. “Ohmygod, Garrett, how the hell have you been?...No, it’s Porsha...”

While the two of them are talking, I open my Valentino handbag, dumping everything out onto my bed. I decide to change bags, placing everything into a denim, crinkled leather Prada bag.

Porsha cuts her eye over at my bag, squinting. Fact is it’s hers. I’ve simply claimed it as mine. I ignore her stare... “Ohmygod, you’re getting married? When? Congratulations...Boy, now you know we’ll be there with bells on. Wouldn’t miss it for the world... okay...well, when are we gonna meet her?...Oh really? Oh, then we’ll see her there...cool. I look forward to meeting her...I will... Promise...Okay...Love you, too.” She presses the
END
button, then hands me back my phone. “Bitch,” she snaps, pointing at her handbag. “I was looking for
that
.”

I laugh, grabbing my shades and walking out the bedroom. “Oh, girl, get over it. You couldn’t have been looking
too
hard. I’ve had it for the last six months.”

“Whatever,” she snaps, following behind me. “I’m gonna start locking my shit up. That’ll keep your thieving ass outta my closets.”

I slip my sunglasses on the minute I step outside. “Yeah, right; picture that. How you gonna lock me out of anything when, nine times outta ten, I’ll end up being the one with the spare key?”

She laughs, disarming her car. “Hooker, get in.”

I slip into the passenger seat of her convertible Jag, fastening my seatbelt, laughing at her as she speeds around the circular driveway, like a nut, toward our destination.

Porsha
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“
T
here are three types of niggas, okay,” Angel says, eyeing me over the rim of her chocolate martini. She’s in town from California for the weekend and we’re playing catchup. Friends since freshman year of high school, Angel’s the one person outside of my sisters I trust, and share almost everything with. Being that she now lives in L.A., we only see each other four times a year. She flies out every April for her mother’s birthday, and, again, during the Thanksgiving holiday. Then the other two times I fly out there. Tonight we’re at Jacksonville Restaurant & Lounge—a cozy spot for the grown and sexy—in Paterson. The atmosphere, scrumptious food, and live band make this a great spot to mix and mingle. Tonight is their Friday night Open Mic series, and of course she convinced me to meet her here so she can tear the spot up. Why she doesn’t get serious about her vocals and get into the studio is beyond me—the girl can blow, but she enjoys performing at open mics instead, and will serve them every time.

I sway a bit to the band’s rendition of Sade’s “I’m A Soldier of Love.” “Oooh, this is my shit,” I say, snapping my fingers. “I can’t wait to see her ass in June.”

“Bitch, are you listening to me?” she snaps, feigning annoyance that I’ve slipped from the conversation; no matter how brief the moment.

I laugh. “Girl, I heard you. Now go ’head and finish what you were saying.”

She shoots me a look, tucking a curl of hair behind her right ear. The one-carat diamond stud in her lobe twinkles. “Are you sure? ’Cause I can wait until the song is over if you’d like.”

I roll my eyes, waving her on. “Girl, go on and break down the types of men for me. I’m all ears.”

“Like I was saying, there are three types of niggas. The first type is the nigga who fucks real good. He typically likes to fuck fast, hard, and deep. He’ll dick you down rough and dirty and beat the pussy up all night long.
And
have you stealing your momma’s social security check to pay his bills....” I laugh. “Girl, I’m serious. Them the type of niggas you gotta fuck in small doses to keep ya ass from becoming strung out. ’Cause if not, he’ll have you kicking off your heels and getting real ghetto wanting to throw bricks through windows and shit when he doesn’t return your calls....”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Girl, I can’t...I just can’t. You are killing me right now.”

“I’m telling you. He’ll have ya ass hiding behind bushes with a can of mace waiting to bring it to a chick’s face.”

“Where in the world did you come up with this mess?”

She sips her drink, then pops her lips. “While I was on my flight here, I started thinking about all the men I’ve dated and dumped. Then the idea sorta evolved from that.”

I smile.

Angel has always had a very overactive imagination, along with an extremely high sex drive, which is probably why she has a hard time keeping men. Her mind is always going a mile-a-minute, and she tries to fuck every man she’s with to death. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s been with more men than I can keep up with. She’s been married once—a marriage that only lasted
for six months before she left him, engaged three more times after that, and has never stayed in a relationship longer than two years. And she’s only thirty-one. Her explanation is, “I’m easily bored with men.”

“Oh Lawd,” I tease. “You and your imagination. I’m scared to hear the rest.”

“Whatever. Are you gonna let me finish or not?”

I raise my glass. “Carry on.” I take a sip of my drink, giving her my undivided attention. “I’m dying to hear what that mind of yours has conjured up.”

“Mmmph...Annnnnyway. The second type is the nigga who makes love real good. This is the nigga who seduces you into a trancelike state. He likes to grind up in the pussy. He knows how to wind his hips slow and deep. He gives you the dick real sexy-like. He listens to your body, explores every inch of it with his lips, mouth, tongue and hands, then dicks you down with intense, passionate strokes. He makes love to your mind, body, and soul. Making sure he gets up in every nook and cranny of your inner being. He’s gonna make sure you get yours before he gets his. This nigga aims to please you. And he makes sure you feel loved—even if he really doesn’t. And he makes you feel like you’re the only woman in his life, even when you’re not. Then when he’s done serving you, he avoids your calls, and ignores your pleas for more of that good dick. He’ll have you blowing up his phone like a mad woman. Or have you somewhere crouched down low in a corner wringing your damn hands, or curled up in a corner crying.”

I shake my head. “Hilarious.”

She takes another sip of her drink. “I’m telling you some good shit, girl.”

“And the third type?” I ask, picking up my Lemondrop martini. I lick the sugary rim, then take a slow sip.