Second Time Around (9 page)

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Authors: Darrin Lowery

BOOK: Second Time Around
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She purchased a Web site. She took before-and-after photos of the homes that she decorated. She even got business cards, T-shirts, pens, and a million marketing tools to help spread her name around Chicago.
Before she knew it, she was on her way to being one of the hottest names in interior design in some circles of the city. She understood what he meant by pursuing his dream. She still thought there was no reason that they couldn't have done so together.
It dawned on her that had she had a baby, chances were she would not be the professional businesswoman she was now. It also dawned on her that having a baby at that time would have compromised his dreams considerably or at the very least slowed him down.
She wanted to call him and tell him that she now understood what he meant, but her pride wouldn't let her. Her pride still called him a coward because of the way that he left. She felt he wasn't man enough to see things through. As far as Korie was concerned, he still had a special place in her heart, but he jumped ship. For that, she thought to herself, he can burn in hell.
 
 
Korie got home, undressed and jumped in the tub. She had a good day, but it was a Calgon day, nonetheless. She made herself a bubble bath, poured a glass of wine, and relaxed in the tub while reading a new novel by Brenda Hampton. She just started the second chapter when her cell phone began ringing.
“Hello?”
“He's not married.”
“Oh . . . kay?” Korie looked at the phone. It was Jayna. She must have thought Korie was suddenly interested in her love life.
“And get this, girl, he's Mr. Harris's chief advisor.”
“Who are we talking about again?” Jayna was always going on about some man in her life and this evening seemed no different.
“Brandon.”
“Who?”
“Brandon Lloyd, from this morning.”
Oh yeah, the brother who snubbed me to get to you, Korie thought.
“Oh yeah, the brother from this morning. Okay.” Korie feigned ignorance.
“Well he and I are going out next weekend and guess what?”
“What?” Korie asked dryly.
“Mr. Harris wants to go out with you.”
“Uh . . . what?” Korie almost spit out her wine.
“You heard me. DeVaughn Harris wants to go out with you.”
Silence fell over the phone. Jayna seemed excited but Korie was hardly impressed.
“Korie? Korie, are you there?”
“I'm here.” Korie had to put her drink down on the side of the tub.
“So what do you think?”
“I think that one, he's old enough to be my father. Two, uh . . . ewww. And three, he didn't hardly see me, and I couldn't pick him out of a lineup if he was in front of me now. I got a brief glance at him and he had a brief glance at me.”
“What did you think when you saw him?” Jayna asked.
“That he was old,” Korie said sarcastically.
“Well, he noticed you. According to Brandon, he noticed you right away. He says that he would love for the four of us to go out next weekend and I already kind of said that you would go.”
“You did what?”
“Korie, come on. You haven't been out in a long time.”
“I've been out plenty of times. I just haven't gotten laid in a long time.”
“All the more reason to go out with Mr. Harris.”
“Again . . . ewww.” Korie looked at the phone as if to say, Are you crazy?
“Korie, come on, it will be fun. Do it for me. Didn't I just help you out earlier today?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“With the Underwoods?”
“Again, no. You didn't help me out, you helped them out. I'm sure that chances are you found a buyer for their home, and a commission from both the potential buyer and the commission that you will get from Mrs. Underwood as her investment broker. So don't go acting like you didn't get anything out of the deal. In fact, if anything, you owe me.” Korie tooted her lips then let out a small laugh.
“Okay, true and true, but still, you're my best friend. Just have dinner with him, nothing else. What's the worst that can happen?”
“Girl, I never ask that question. You will be surprised at the worst that can happen.”
“Okay, then, what is the best thing that can happen?”
“The best thing that can happen is that dinner will be really, really good.”
“So you'll go?”
There was a long silence on the phone.
“Korie, please. Will you go?”
Korie let out a sigh.
“Okay. I guess, I'll go,” Korie agreed reluctantly. “I'll babysit this old man.”
“He's not old. He's forty-six.”
“Yeah, Jayna, that's helping. I'll have dinner with him and that's all. Now girl, I have to go. I was enjoying along, hot bath.”
“Alone?”
“Uh, yeah, alone. What's wrong with that?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“I'll talk to you later Jayna.”
 
 
She said that she would go and then got off the phone with Jayna so she could finish her bath.
The things we do for friends, Korie thought.
Chapter Eight
Darren sat across from a beautiful black woman who had a light brown complexion. She had long, free-flowing legs, smooth skin, and a nice smile. She was obviously biracial and had the best of both worlds from what he could see. He sat across from her listening attentively as she spoke to him about her problem, high risk behavior with men that she has met over the years and her desire to stop.
She confessed that she had no fantasies about men. No fantasies about anything. She was a beautiful woman in her early thirties. Since she was a teenager, she had never had any fantasies or dreams about men or women. Her fear was that she was asexual. However, her behavior spoke the opposite extreme.
This beautiful, educated woman was meeting men in bars, public places, and clubs and having multiple one-night stands with them. She said that she couldn't help herself, that she had tried all her life to fight these urges. She confessed that in grade school, high school, and even in college, she was looked at as a whore.
She talked about all the hearts that she broke, all the marriages that she ruined, and the friendships that she lost. For whatever reason, if she could find an opportunity to sleep with a man, she would. Not just any men either, but bad boys; men that could potentially hurt her.
She confessed that she tried masturbation, as Darren suggested in a previous session. Her body wouldn't respond. She confessed to using visual aids, toys, and even role-playing with her husband, a high-profile minister in the Chicago area with a fast-growing church. Nothing worked. She admitted that she was in constant need of attention sexually and that she couldn't seem to get enough sex. Part of the reason she confessed is because the only time that she felt anything is when she was actually in the middle of the physical act.
She expressed that she hated sex with her husband but loved sex with everyone else. When asked why she stayed with her husband, she admitted that she loved her husband-the man. She also liked the lifestyle that he provided for her. Physically, she confessed that she was simply not attracted to him and never had been.
This has got to be one of the most beautiful women in the city, Darren thought to himself.
He knew immediately that her diagnosis was some type of hyperactive sexual disorder. He thought that the woman's husband was both a lucky and an unlucky man. He was lucky because his wife was stunning and unlucky because she was repulsed by him.
Darren listened empathetically to the woman go into great detail about her exploits with men and her desire to please them and be pleased. He tried his best to be objective, but found himself imagining what it would be like to be with this woman. He listened to her and had to stop himself on more than one occasion from looking at her long, shapely legs, her hips, her pronounced cleavage, and her smile. He imagined in his mind the details that she was giving of her exploits, and found himself quite . . . intrigued.
Because he struggled with keeping his focus, he referred her to another counselor.
At the end of the session Darren felt anxious. He had a lot of pent-up energy that needed to be released. To quell his desires, he hit the gym hard. While in the gym, he watched the bodies of the various women doing Pilates, aerobics, and those working out with personal trainers.
Some women were dressed rather provocatively for the gym. Some wore cat suits, some wore biker shorts, and others wore tight spandex running pants. Curves were exposed, breasts were exposed, and some women, no matter how they tried, could not conceal their perfectly round bottoms.
Next there were the grunts and moans that came from the women on the machines. Many women made facial expressions that were similar to the faces made in the throes of passion. Darren came to the gym to let off some steam and it seemed that all working out did was make him more aware that he was overworked and undersexed.
Darren did curls, hit the bench press, did lateral pulls, and ran an estimated two miles. Still, with the sweat pouring from his body and his endorphins firing, all he succeeded in doing was getting more anxious and horny. Again he thought about her.
He thought about the many bouts of bedroom warfare they would sometimes have. Sometimes he would win, sometimes she would win. In either case, warring with her in bed was fun. He had to leave the gym. Being in the gym was almost like being in a club. He jumped in his car, drove home, jumped in the shower, and took a nap.
 
 
While he slept, he thought of her. In his sleep, his hand found its mark and once again he found himself thinking about her, desiring her, and in his dreams making love to her. In actuality, he was touching himself as he slept.
He awoke at 9:00
P.M.
It was dark in his condo and the only light in the whole place was the moonlight from the living room window. His breathing was pronounced and his body was glistening with sweat. He was aroused and he wanted the company of a woman. Deep down he wanted her, but his pride wouldn't allow him to call. He was beginning to think that leaving her was a mistake. This woman haunted his dreams, his thoughts, and his most carnal visions.
The silence in his condo was deafening. He could hear the sounds of his own heartbeat and the thunderous sound of him swallowing. His breath was hot, desirous. The scent of his skin was that of pheromones. It was a thick scent, a primal scent. Accompanying that scent was the desire of flesh on his tongue.
The silence was too much for him. He turned on the stereo and every song was about love or making love. He jumped in the shower and lathered up his body. The fragrance of his body wash reminded him of her. The music on the radio reminded him of her. He thought to himself, All these years later, why is it that I can't seem to shake her? She must be talking about me somewhere. She's probably talking about me like a dog. Forget this. I'm out!
He got dressed in black from head to toe and sprayed on his most expensive cologne. Darren planned on going out. He planned on getting laid. He needed the company of a woman and he needed to work out this pent-up energy he had. He tried to leave, but stopped just short of the door.
That's where he saw it.
On the bookcase by the front door was a business card that he took from one of his clients. It was the business card for the escort service. He picked it up and looked at it. He ran his finger across the lettering, holding the card firmly in his hands. He began twirling it with his fingers. He stood there in silence . . . intrigued.
Do I really feel like going to a club? Do I really feel like trying to get to know a woman or possibly bringing one home tonight into my bed? I should have kept in touch with Maria or Trina or one of my ex-girlfriends. Tonight is the perfect night for a booty call. I don't feel like formally getting to know anyone. All I really want right now is someone to hit it and quit it; someone who mutually needs their needs met. Right now I have no one. Right now I don't want anyone. I just want to fuck.
He stared at the black business card with the gold writing. Elite Escorts were the only words on the card. There was the company name and there was a number. He picked the card up and twirled it more in his hand, walked around his condo, then looked at the number and sat by the door in his favorite recliner chair after letting out a heavy sigh. This card was a problem. This card was trouble. This card . . . had him, at the very least, curious. That's when he began talking to himself.
“D, man what are you doing? This isn't you. Brothers don't pay for companionship. Black men . . . real men . . . don't pay for sex. Put that shit down, go to a club, dance, grind on some honey, mention what you do for a living, and bring someone home. Put in the work. Dance, talk, have a few drinks and then fuck . . . it's that simple.”
It's that simple.
However, there was also another simple solution in front of him, a solution that could be solved by Visa, a solution with delivery.
Darren was in a losing argument . . . with himself.
He thought about the words spoken by his client in their session earlier in the week.
No arguments, no drama, just the company of a beautiful woman; a woman that provides a service.
Darren tried to talk himself out of the situation. He tried to convince himself that there were other alternatives. This was solicitation, an act of desperation. It just wasn't something that black men did. This was something that wealthy white men did. No matter how you colored it, it still amounted to a form of prostitution; degradation; exploitation of women.
He tried to justify the very notion of making the call.
It's a service that is provided.
What makes me any different from a man picking up a streetwalker on a corner?
One way or the other, you end up paying for it anyway.
What man pays for sex?
Every man pays for sex.
I'm a professional. What do you say about a man who can't get a woman and resorts to something like this? What kind of man pays for the company of a woman like a food delivery from a grocery store? Men with way more money than you do this all the time.
Desperate men . . .
. . . Powerful men, men of all races . . . professional men.
The cost, what about the cost?
What about the cost?
What about the cost? How much money were we talking here? Darren thought to himself. His client spent close to a million dollars a year. He could not afford anything near that. His client told him on average he paid 1,500 dollars a night.
“Fifteen hundred dollars?” he said aloud in the solace of his condo. “I must be trippin'.”
Try it at least once. See what all the hype is about. You can afford fifteen hundred. Who are you kidding?
Fifteen hundred dollars is a lot of damned money.
You make a lot of damned money.
I worked hard for that money.
You work for money, to spend money.
I can't pay for sex.
Every man pays for sex. One way or another, every man pays for sex.
Darren picked up the phone. Unconsciously, he found himself dialing the numbers on the card. He tried to stop himself, but he was curious, damned curious.
“Hello?” a soft, sultry voice said on the other end.
“Um . . . hi. Is this, Elite Escorts?”
“It is.”
“I . . . um, would like to make an appointment.”
“And how were you referred to us?”
“I saw you on the Internet.”
“No sir, you did not.”
That gave him a moment of pause.
“I'm sorry?”
“We don't advertise on the Internet. We only advertise by personal reference. Can you give me the name of the person that referred you? If not, I'm afraid I will have to disconnect this call.”
Damn! Darren thought. What do I do now? I can't exactly leave the name of my client.
“Hello? Sir? The name of your reference, please.”
Silence hung on the phone. Fifteen seconds later, the unidentified woman hung up. It was that simple. In just thirty seconds, it was over. Darren stared at his phone. He looked stupid, rejected.
He placed his cell phone on the table, hung up and let out a heavy sigh as he contemplated what just happened. Now he was more curious than ever before. He sat in silence in his condo.
What just happened? he wondered. He began whispering to himself quietly.
“Maybe it's not meant to be. Maybe not getting through is a sign from God. I don't have any business trying to make a phone call to pay for sex.”
Every man pays for sex. Whether through marriage, dating, or even a booty call, every man ends up paying for sex in some way.
He let out a heavy sigh as he dialed the number again.
“Hello?” the same voice answered.
Darren held the phone in his hand and took a deep breath. He was nervous, anxious.
“I don't want the person that gave me the card to know that I am requesting the use of the service.”
“That's fine, sir. We will respect your privacy. But we will need the name of the reference. I assure you, we will keep the name in strict confidence.”
Again Darren was silent on the phone.
“Sir?” the voice asked.
“Okay, Okay. I'll give you the name.”
Darren gave the woman the name of his client. His heart pounded in his chest as he did so. He was fearful. Making a mistake here, breaching confidentiality, chancing that his client might find out, put his license in jeopardy.
“Okay, that's fine. That wasn't so hard now, was it? And your name, sir?”
“Darren. Darren Howard.”
“Okay, Mr. Howard, now what is it that you are looking for?”
“Uh . . . looking for?”

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