Naughtier than Nice (15 page)

“I loved it. We are too mature for games. I like Scrabble, and if you were my woman, we'd do shots and play strip Jenga while talking about the top philosophers of ancient Greece.”

“Strip Jenga? You're a pervert.”

“Don't steal my ideas. I bet you will drive to Toys ‘R' Us as soon as you leave here.”

“Whatever. You need to run to Big 5 and get to the men's department.”

“Yeah, I'll buy a better jockstrap because I didn't intend to display that much information.”

“That's why I wanted you to run in front of me most of the run. It's a bit distracting.”

“I was trying to run behind you. Much better view.”

“Well, when I was behind you, it was definitely motivating.”

“Now who's the pervert?”

We laughed. He was humorous and had made me laugh on a dark day. Laughter does things to people. He was articulate, professional. Had something that Franklin lacked. He was an upgrade.

But then again, everyone was an upgrade compared to Franklin and his lies. Too bad I was out of the dating game. For good. I was done. Franklin had burned me and left me burned out.

Celibacy and me had become a team. But that didn't mean I couldn't flirt every now and then. Flirting was positive, made me feel good about myself, and therefore it was good for my mental well-being.

Toes tender, butt aching, I limped away, moved through the exhausted finishers before I glanced back. Daniel watched me like I
was an empress dressed to the nines, smelling of the sweetest perfume.

While I gave Monica a piggyback ride, Livvy tickled her and Tommie yelled for us to all stop before we dropped her daughter. I checked out Daniel again, imagined sensual things. I had been alone since two days before last Christmas, and I think I was at my celibacy limit. He had given me attention this morning and that slumbering part of me had been shaken ever so gently. I needed affection that wasn't self-imposed. Masturbation sucked unless I was being sucked while I masturbated. I did what I had to do, praised myself often, but self-love was getting old. I needed a new lover. Someone like Daniel.

I imagined him on top of me. I imagined being occupied.

I imagined taking a few minutes and forgetting everything that was troubling me.

Then I had flashbacks of Franklin. Of that last night. Of that phone call from his wife.

I needed to move on. It was as if Franklin was still controlling my sex life.

Each day I didn't date, each night I didn't have a new lover, each time I ignored a call from someone I used to know or love, it felt like I was trying to remain in the same state I'd been left in by Franklin, as if part of me wanted us to reconcile as lovers. I did look at the engagement ring from time to time, and my emotions remained heavy. My heart didn't want him, and my mind was in agreement.

I eyed Daniel until he felt my energy and looked in my direction.

He nodded at me.

I nodded at him.

I asked Daniel, “Did you have any problem finding my home?”

“Used my GPS.”

“Yeah. I'll bet you did.”

Daniel drove to my new residence, picked me up, brought me flowers, opened the car door for me, the whole nine. Seeing me in makeup, a red dress, and six-inch fuck-me pumps did a number on him. After dinner, we went to the club Savoy in Inglewood, mixed with the locals and threw down some dancehall on reggae night. We had a private booth, and after we had danced like maniacs and finished a bottle of wine, we left the club and went in search of a late-night meal. We grubbed at an all-night diner-style restaurant in Marina del Rey, then we walked in the chilly air. He held my hand. Soon Daniel pulled me close, came into my personal space. I didn't push him away. We started kissing while standing between parked cars.

I wanted to be kissed, wanted to allow my sensual self to come out to play, but had to cut it short for fear of revealing too much about that part of me too soon. Ten years ago, things would've been different. This would've been instant love, just add the magic stick and stir, stir, stir until we were at the altar.

He drove me home and walked me to my front door.

The lights around my house came on. That meant neighbors could see us. We stood on my porch, chatting, until the lights went off again. In the darkness, he pulled me to him again. We kissed until the good girl inside of me almost lost a battle with the bad
girl. I almost invited him inside for a warm shower and a late-night McSnack, then I'd toss him a granola bar, and walk him to his car, blow him kisses as he drove away.

All I wanted were the kisses.

I tried to convince myself that kisses were all I needed.

Even the strongest of the strong felt lonely at times.

Being stimulated, aroused, and alone was not fun. Most nights I woke up restless and in need. But I wanted emotional as well as physical intimacy. I wanted depth as well as something moving deep. I wanted a man to tell me he loved me. I wanted to tell him the same. I wanted what I thought I had had with Franklin. Maybe that life wasn't meant for me.

But a girl could dream. A girl could kiss and dream.

We ended a series of lip sucking, sensual kisses. It was hard to let go, but I eased away from him far enough to see what I had felt rub against me, saw that his pants were protruding, showing me he wore boxers, not briefs. I saw the outline of what wanted to be inside of this fire, then Daniel and I made eye contact, held it, stared at each other. Oxytocin was flooding our systems and increasing desire and sexual arousal. Oxytocin made lust feel like love.

Oxytocin made you want to have an orgasm.

Too bad we had just met.

Too bad this was a first date.

I needed to come. He had exacerbated that need. This extreme need to orgasm was his fault. I should make him responsible, make him fix what he had done, and fix it good.

But it was time for us to part ways, not my legs.

I thanked him for the evening, eased into our farewell.

In the soft voice of a gentleman he asked, “Think we can go out again at some point?”

Tingling, my tone sugary, I said, “Maybe. Tonight was wonderful. I needed a night like tonight. After my last relationship, guess I've locked myself inside. We'll have to see. I broke my rule. I'm
not comfortable mixing a relationship with the group I hang out with. This is nice, but I don't need my business in the streets, not like everyone else's is.”

“Then I won't hang out with the group. I've only been there once.”

“That's not the issue. I'm just not ready for anything right now.”

We kissed until it became a little too hot for comfort, until I pulled away, barely able to breathe. I stared at his lips, at his pretty mouth, felt his longing as he tried to control his breathing. Instead of going inside, I succumbed. I gave him another sensual kiss on his mouth, a slow kiss, then kissed him again and dragged my nails across his skin. I wanted him in two orifices, three if I had another glass of wine. My senses were over-aroused and I wanted to feed the fetish before I lost my mind. The world felt so dreamy. He could be a brand-new day, a new partner, a new man, a new experience, a new era.

Or just the next mistake dressed up like a gentleman. Shards of glass from broken dreams piled at my feet. I felt the burns from the fires before him. Once bitten, twice shy, as Momma used to say. The trance broke, sanity returned.

I whispered, “Good night, Daniel Madison.”

We kissed a couple more times, then he eased away. He thanked me for spending the evening with him, thanked me for allowing him to take me on a date, told me I was twice as amazing as he had imagined me to be, kissed my lips a final time, and gave me a gentle hug, then left, happiness in his pants still protruding, all but skipping like a schoolboy.

I had talked a lot of smack, but I was scared. I hadn't had sex since that horrible night with Franklin, since the breakup. My mind said it never wanted to have sex again, but I was so damn wet now. Nipples were still hard. Being with a man, at this point, would be more symbolic than a quest for new love. I was a grown woman. If I wanted some, I should get some and be done with it. It didn't
have to be serious, about marriage, about love, about a new relationship, just about achieving orgasm. I was tempted to call him, tell him to come back.

I held my phone, pulled up his name, but didn't make that call. He was overly infatuated. That was a red flag.

I undressed, showered, walked nude down the hallway, took the two orange keys and went to my locked bedroom, to the new and improved houghmagandy room. There was no knob on this side of the door, only two dead bolts.

I opened a drawer on a nightstand, teased my fingers over a variety of dildos, Rabbits, chocolate-hued penises with veins. I even had two pink ones. One I called Fitz; the other was named Jake. Fitz and Jake combined were only half the size of the chocolate dildo. That one had been named Idris.

I opened the closet and pulled out a vinyl record, Coltrane
, A Love Supreme,
put that on the portable record player. I dimmed the lights. As music played, I rode Sybian. I let it Idris my Elba while the projector lit up the wall with sensual videos of men orally pleasing women, the volume muted. While I engaged my carnal senses, I fantasized about doing a Morris on a sexy man's Chestnuts. It was a sweet torture. It was intimacy without heartbreak. When that side of the album ended, I put on Carlos Santana, let the vibes from his guitar stimulate me, let them ride my every fiber. Then I picked a clit stimulator and relaxed on the king bed, remembered the Bajan twins in Cancún, let wicked fantasies take me where I needed to go that night, and while Santana and India Arie sang their duet, while the guitar proved it could gently weep, I wept gently. I hummed. I needed to calm the fire. I need to ride and sing away my blues.

*   *   *

The next morning my phone buzzed before the sun had come up. I pushed Jake and Fitz to the side, let Idris fall to the floor, and grabbed my phone. It was another text message from Franklin.

Last night you looked good in red. You've cut your locks and moved on like we didn't matter. I'm not giving up on us, Frankie. And another thing. I didn't like the way that punk was looking at your ass.

After that message came a photo of Daniel and me laughing and dancing at the Savoy.

Beale called me. He had just made it back to LAX, was in his chauffeured car, was being driven home, and wanted me to meet him. Beale asked me to meet him for ten minutes, and I did, was with him long enough to have coitus in his foyer. I had an orgasm; he pulled out of me, had his, and spewed on the carpeted floor. I pulled my dress down, kissed him, jumped back in my ride, sped away like I'd robbed a bank and gotten away clean. Exhilarated. I picked up Mo and we went by Livvy's half-million-dollar spa for manicures and pedicures. Days later Beale made love to me in his shower. Two days after that, he smacked it up, flipped it, and rubbed it down in his giant bathtub, water splashing everywhere. I moaned and told him what to do to me. He visited me at the Apple Store. He took me to lunch, then we did it in the back of his SUV at the mall, people walking by unaware that we were getting down like getting down had an expiration date. The next day, after I dropped Mo off at school, I stopped by his house and we did it again. As soon as I walked in, we got busy on the carpeted stairs at his place, didn't quite make it to the bedroom before we had gone buck wild while we were half-dressed, his pants down at his knees, me with only one leg out of my skinny jeans. Sunday I sat in the living room with Mo and Blue and we watched
Black-ish
. By Wednesday I was restless. I told Blue I was going to watch
Empire
with Livvy. I made a detour by Beale's first. The next evening I told Blue I was going to go by Frankie's, again for
Scandal
and
How to Get Away with Murder
night with the McBrooms. Again I stopped by Beale's home. We
were naked on his pool table. We left a sex stain the size of a quarter on the woven wool. Two days later we were in his spacious laundry room, him stroking me as I sat on top of the washer as it hit spin cycle. I had never behaved this way. Beale was turning me out, changing me from quiet and calm Tommie McBroom to Freaky by Noon McBroom. The sex was bombastic, but the emotional connection had solidified.

Emotions redefined right and wrong. We adjusted our morals toward that with which we agreed. We revised our values the way conquerors have down through history.

After a while, even the truth was nothing more than a lie told over and over.

I needed to get away from the lies. With Blue, it had become a house of lies.

I needed to be free, needed to feather my nest with the truth as I knew it.

Cuddled next to Beale, I said, “I might move in with you.”

“When?”

“I'm writing Blue a good-bye letter.”

“Really? Why?”

“So he will know how I feel, why I left, why I couldn't stay any longer. Plus I need to see the words, the emotions in black and white. I need to see what I feel on paper. I might leave him and come to you, but I am not leaving him for you. I need him to understand that I am leaving for me.”

“How soon will you give him the letter?”

“I might need some space before I officially move in with you.”

“I can get you an apartment, for the sake of having one, but you can move in, unofficially.”

“Okay. That might work.”

“How soon, Tommie?”

“Soon. We're breaking up in slow motion, but we are easing in
that direction. We are closer to the end than we are to where we started now. Closer to the end, but not close enough to end it all.”

“I feel like I'm a hummingbird, watching you move lethargically.”

“We're in the same home, but I can feel the distance between us, like we're two icebergs moving in opposite directions; the love that is . . . or was between us . . . is gradually melting with each passing day.”

“Can't say I am sorry to hear that. My only regret is that it's not ending faster.”

“I will have to tell Monica. I will have to tell our friends, will have to tell my sisters. Will have to work out how we will handle the house. I have put all of my savings into our investment, and so has Blue. I don't want to have either one of us ending up with bad credit. I don't want him to end up without a home. We have a charge card we use for house emergencies. And there is the matter of Monica and school.”

“You make it sound like you're getting a divorce.”

“That's the hardest part. Breaking up gives more pain to the mind than breaking a leg gives to the body, and that pain won't end nearly as fast. It can damage you in ways unseen and in ways that never heal.”

“You're not the child's mother.”

“Telling her I'll be going away will be hard. It will be like divorce. It will be like death.”

“She'll forget about you, as my mother forgot about me.”

“I don't want her to forget about me. A mother never forgets about her child, Beale.”

“When you have your own, your focus will change, and you'll forget about her.”

“I'll never forget about her.”

“She will become less important.”

“I might not be her birth mother, but I will always be her earth mother.”

“Will he let you see her after you leave?”

“I know he won't. Like you said, she's not my daughter. She's a branch of his family tree, not mine. I need to look for my own legacy. I feel like that's my duty, being my father's only child. Some women don't want to have a child, and I support them. But I am not one of those women.”

“You want me to know that.”

“Yes. I don't want to make the same mistake twice.”

“We could have a child nine months from today, if you want to go for it.”

“Slow your roll.”

We played video games in his basement, got into an argument, and he decided I needed to be disciplined. Beale bared his teeth and pulled me to him, forced me to bend across his lap. He held me down, smacked my ass with his open palm. He gave me lashes like he was the director at a school.

He raised his hand high and smacked my ass again, again, and again.

The pain spread across my bottom, the heat tremendous.

Nostrils flared, teeth bared, I said, “Harder.”

He hit my bottom a dozen times. Each time I grabbed at the air, refused to scream.

I crawled from his lap and lay on the carpeted floor. I lay there in pain.

I massaged my throat, coughed, and said, “So it's like that, Beale Streets.”

“Are you angry?”

I grinned. “I kinda liked that. That was different. I am so turned on right now.”

Beale touched me between my legs, massaged my wetness, then bent one leg and sucked my toes. Eyes closed, I squirmed. When I
jerked and opened my eyes again, he smiled at me, kissed, licked from my foot up my leg. Across my calf muscle. Nibbled my inner thigh. His nose grazed my sex over and over. Then I felt his tongue. I let out a long winding sound of absolute surrender.

He went down, licked me down low, and I felt like I was floating so high.

He said, “Let's go upstairs and get in the bed.”

“If you want me upstairs on your bed, you'll have to pick me up and carry me to the bed.”

“You think I can't do that? You think I'm not strong enough to carry you upstairs?”

“And you can't use the elevator.”

“What do I win if I manage to do that?”

“You can do anything you want to do to me for ten minutes.”

“Anything?”

“Anything. Including that.”

He picked me up, adjusted my weight, and carried me. I pretended I was dead. I closed my eyes and became dead weight in his arms. He transported me from the basement to his master bedroom.

He eased me down on the bed and I didn't move. Pretended not to be alive, except for the shallow breathing. After he put me on the bed, he positioned me, had me how he wanted me.

*   *   *

The next day, I was back at his home, and I was there the day after the next day, for an hour before I went to work. He made me breakfast. I was back the day after that day, for only twenty minutes. I was going to see him almost every afternoon. I lived to be naked with him. On my back. Legs open. Blindfolded. He had me for lunch. He made his tongue move north, south, east, and west, then deeper and deeper. I couldn't handle it and pulled him up to me, made him stop eating the cake like Anna Mae, and pulled him on top of me. He kissed me and I wrapped my legs around him, put
my hands at the small of his back to urge him toward me. We came together. After we showered, he led me into his master bedroom and took me into an empty closet that was the size of a living room in a regular home.

He said, “This is a large closet, Tommie.”

“This is the size of my first apartment on Fairfax right below Slauson.”

“I bought this home hoping that I would meet the woman of my dreams.”

“Tanya? You bought this mansion for you and Tanya?”

“She wasn't the woman of my dreams. She was the bronze, when I want the gold.”

“Okay. She didn't pass probation. She was a temp but never went full-time.”

“You are the gold. When you move in with me, this will be your closet.”

I stood in the closet, speechless, imagining that space filled with clothing and shoes.

He said, “This can be your home. Our home. You can change my house into a home.”

“Don't say things like that. Don't gas me up, Beale.”

“You think I'm joking?”

“I think you're full of shit.”

He took my palm, opened it, and dropped in a golden key, the key to his front door.

“Whenever you're ready to leave the nightmare, Tommie, all of your dreams can come true.”

“You're serious.”

“I have to speak at Princeton and Yale. I'll be gone ten days. Use this like it's your home.”

“For real?”

“I want you to come here, eat, relax, get in bed, masturbate, think of me while you come.”

“You are for real.”

“If you moved all you own in here while I'm gone, I would love that.”

I paused. Felt emotional. Words escaped from my lips: “I love you, Beale.”

“I know you do, Tommie. It was love at first sight for you as it was love at first sight for me.”

Tears in my eyes, I went down on my knees, took him in my hands, told him I loved him over and over. I suckled him. My tempo was without pause, increasing, his length and girth above average.

“You are wicked, Tommie McBroom.”

I took out a Fruit Roll-Up, did that thing, took him close to nirvana, but didn't make him lose control. I climbed on top of him, mounted him, leaned forward, let it hurt so good, and when I couldn't hold out, rocked him slowly, slowly, slowly.

I whispered, “That's my closet.”

“That's your closet.”

“And I have my own key to the castle.”

“You have your own key.”

“You want me here.”

“I want you here.”

“You want me to be your queen.”

“You are my queen.”

“Just give me some time to get things sorted.”

“Ride me like that, baby. Just like that. Just. Like. That.”

*   *   *

I left Beale, went and picked Mo up from her private school, walked in a daze, hardly spoke to any of the other parents, that golden key inside of my jeans pocket as I drove us to our quaint home.

Mo asked, “Why are you so quiet, Mommy?”

“Just thinking, Mo. Mommy's thinking about things.”

“About what things?”

“‘Which things,' not ‘what things.'”

“About which things?”

“Just thinking about things that adults think about.”

“What kind of things?”

“About the things I want for me.”

“What things do you want?”

“You know I love you with all of my heart, Mo? You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“I need to stop worrying about making other people happy and focus on my own happiness.”

Blue came home from the gym. We kissed. I helped Mo with her homework.

Blue asked me about dinner. I hadn't cooked. I didn't care.

Blue said, “Want me to run out and get Chinese food from Yee's?”

Monica said, “I want chicken.”

“I'll run and grab something from El Pollo Loco.”

He left and came back in twenty minutes.

We sat as a family, ate grilled chicken dinners.

Blue asked, “Everything okay?”

As I picked at my food, I nodded that I was fine.

Mo said, “Mommy is sad. She's been sad since she came to get me from school.”

“What's wrong, Tommie?”

“Nothing, Blue. Nothing.”

Mo showered. Blue showered. I showered. Blue went to bed.

Everything was by the numbers. There was no excitement. Only predictability.

I sat on the sofa, in the dark, holding a novel by Beale Streets, thinking about a better world.

In the middle of the night Blue woke me up. The book was on the floor.

He moved it to the side and asked, “Coming to bed?”

“I'll sleep out here.”

“Something happen?”

“No. Nothing happened. Nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen.”

He asked, “Want to talk?”

“No.”

“We have things that need to be resolved.”

“No means no, Blue. Not tonight. Not now. Nothing will have changed tomorrow.”

“Did the vasectomy . . . did my exercising my rights as a man . . . is that when everything changed?”

“Good night, Blue. I'm trying to be polite, so just say good night and let that be a wrap.”

“Why does a woman get pissed when a man does the equivalent of what she has the right to do? Have you consulted me on your every decision? Do you ask me if I mind whether or not you take birth control? When you get pregnant, however you choose to handle it will be your right. Where is my say-so in the matter?”

“Angela really messed you up in the head. You should talk to someone about that.”

“This doesn't have a damn thing to do with Angela, and don't patronize me, Tommie.”