The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts (8 page)

His lips become a
hard line. 

I clear my throat, put the polish back on my words.  “So to do this, to give you what you want…it wouldn’t be fair to you.  You know that.”

Q gives a firm bob of his head.  “Then can we see each other again, like before?”

It won’t go back to being like before, we both know.  But with a man like Q, I can’t simply walk away.  Twice.  That
might be stretching my acting skills to the limit.

“Like I said, I’ll have to think about it.  But I can give you tonight.” I smile, looking into his eyes.  “Anything I can do for you tonight?”

A playful smirk tips his lips.  “Anything?”

It’s a whispered caress. My body trembles from the shivers running through it. 
For you?  Yes.  Anything.

Sliding closer, Q cups my face in his warm hands, presses his lips to my forehead.  Then he kisses my cheeks, my jaw, my br
ow.  He takes his time, brushes my face with his lips and soft strokes of his thumbs and I close my eyes, enjoy the sensation. 

A moment passes and I feel him watching me; lids flutter open to see my reflection in the dark pools of his irises.  Our faces are so close his warm breath feathers over my lips a heartbeat before he touches them with his.  This breaks the rules again and Q doesn’t care.  My mouth opens and his tongue traces the inside of my bottom lip. 

Q pulls me to him, rocks back on the sofa and extends his legs, sweeping me along so I’m lying fully on his body.  Arms wrap tightly around me, and I ride the wave of his cresting and falling chest.  Head tilted, Q explores my mouth with his tongue, slides along mine sensually, and I can’t help but reciprocate, feeling his flesh harden in the cradle of my hips.  I writhe against him, and he lightly massages my scalp with his fingertips. 

He tastes wild, strong, like fresh spring water and clean air and damp earth. 

Real. 

I haven’t kissed a man since long before I became a doxy; too intimate, and stage kissing is something that is taught. 

This is not a stage kiss; not lips pressed to chins with heads turned strategically away from the audience’s watchful eye; not imitation or intimation; not a trick of light or illusion, but it’s magical. 

Absolutely magical. 

Any audience can see this is a kiss of lovers.  I’d be lying to call it anything else.

We part, and I gasp for air…for him.  I want to taste him again in my mouth, want to savor his hunger for me.  My mind is deliciously foggy with thoughts of maybe—maybe I
can
spin that fast—and I shake my head to clear it. 

Too close to his kind of naked, need to get back to my version of human. 

I work at the buttons of his shirt, but he stops me, gripping my hands.

“I don’t care about your rules, Rosie.”  Lips meet mine again, just a soft peck.  “And I know you don’t either.”

Without another word he helps me up, guides me toward the door.  On autopilot, I shrug into the coat he holds, dip when he slides my purse onto my shoulder, unable to keep the confusion from my face. Q has a voracious sexual appetite, one that I’m very happy to feed, so this is…unusual.  Off script.  None of this is what I expected; not the kiss, not this dismissal, not this unnerving feeling that he’s right.

His arms wrap around me, and he hugs me tightly to his hard body.  I can hear the steady pulsing of his heart in my ear, the rhythmic beat like Q’s own musical score.

I love this song.

But the contact isn’t enough.

The tempo increases, bass drum a little louder.

I press a bit closer, trying to get more of him.

Q must agree; releases me long enough to push off the jacket and purse he just helped me into.  They land at my feet as he lifts me, holding me against the wooden door with his body, hands coming up to grip my ass. My legs snake around his waist, arms around his neck.  Our lips crush together, and I eagerly suck his tongue into the hot cavern of my mouth.  A groan escapes his throat, and his pelvis grinds hard against mine. 

Spinning.

I hate these jeans.  I need to feel his skin; crave the heat of him sinking into me while he kisses my mouth; want his dark scent seeping into every pore of my body while his wicked tongue continues its erotic seduction.

Spinning faster.

Another surge forward and I moan in response.

I want this costume off. Now.

The next moment his mouth is gone, and I tip my head back to gulp air.

“Q…”

His head is buried in the hollow of my neck; teeth nip my skin.

“Q…please.” It’s breathy.  My brain is dizzy. I can think of nothing but having him inside me.  “Baby. Fuck me…please.”

He licks up my neck, bites my earlobe.  “No.”

As quickly as it began it ends.  Gently, he
lowers me to my feet, steadying me against the wood.  He’s breathing hard when he bends to retrieve my coat and bag, helps me back into them.

I’m confused.  Again.

The door is open and he ushers me out into the cool evening air.

Standing on the threshold, Q engulfs me in another bear hug, inhales deeply.  “That’s everything I wanted from you…tonight.”  He dips to kiss the corner of my mouth. “Get home safely, Rosie. I’ll see you next week.” 

The door closes with him on one side and me on the other.  The absence of footsteps or the creak of hardwood tell me he hasn’t moved.  Somehow I know he’s got his weight against the door, leaning toward me.  I’m on his porch, one hand on the ornately carved wood.

Spinning too fast.

This isn’t my play anymore.  I don’t know the lines, don’t know the stage cues, and I think…no, I
know
Q is still writing it. 

Minutes pass with the both of us just standing there, unsure of what we’re waiting for.

CURTAIN CALL

The drive home gives me plenty of time to evaluate my situation with Q.  It does not, however, produce any solutions.  I spend the time absently staring at taillights and rehashing the soft feel of his mouth on mine, the very thought constantly startling the grove of long dormant butterflies in my stomach.  Somewhere during my encore I came out of character, and my audience loved me for it.  As Wilde said, “I love acting.  It is so much more than real life.” 

But with Q, real life is all I want.

Exhausted in both mind and body, I pull into my driveway just
after midnight.  My limbs ache as I lift my bag and bin from the trunk; get them inside.  I’m happy to shut my door and once again be nestled in the quiet of my home. 

I check the voice messages on my landline and go through the mail.  My parents have called and want me to visit.  One of my sister’s has just had her fourth baby, and Mom’s being Mom and wondering when I’ll settle down, get married, and start a family of my own; Dad’s asking if I’ve gone to church.  They have no idea what I do. And although I long ago diverted from their path for me, they’re proud their little girl has made it on her own in the big bad city. 

Truth is, Rosalyn Patrice Hayes almost didn’t make it here, almost did get chewed up and spit out, almost returned to Georgia with her tail tucked.  Despite it’s name, Broadway is very narrow.  The roles in theatre are limited, especially for a southern-sounding black girl without the Juilliard credentials, and after six months of searching I hadn’t gotten my big break.  So I
made
my break, chose to write my own play,
Roz the Doxy
; act out the dramas I create on the biggest stage—life. 

My choice.  Best I’ve ever made.

My mind replays all of my appointments today—from the Royal members of the Tower, to the intermission with Aiden, the wild ride with the Cowboys and the…I’m still working out what that was with Q—everyone was satisfied, especially the doxy.  Even my interactions with Paul and Maria were stellar, I think.

The
ding of my cell phone has me searching my purse for it, a text message on the display screen.  It’s Q:
Home yet?

Knowing he waited up to check on me brings a smile to my face.  I reply
:
Yes.

Q:
Good… Can’t wait for next week. Tonight. 8pm.

A delicious shiver runs
through me.  The butterflies stir. 

This could be a horrible idea.  My nails tap nervously against the
phone’s plastic cover while I try to decide whether or not to accept the role I’m being offered.  Can I be Rosie in a play of Q’s making?  Should I even try?

Have you ever made a top spin? Set it up on its tip and given it a whirl? Humans are a lot like tops; we all have a point we revolve around—jobs, family, sex, love…. 
Funny thing about spinning: too slow or too fast and the top wobbles and falls over. There’s no satisfaction in watching it.  But, spin us just so—
fast enough
—we become stable...

The return message is off before I convince myself otherwise:
No…6.

Another ding:
Staying?

I could.  D
on’t usually have a show on Sundays. But
should
I stay? Is there magic in staying?

Those butterflies are flapping like crazy and I wipe a hand over my face:
Yes.

I can feel the
smile in his reply:
Good night, Rosie.

Night, Q.

Peeking in the freezer, I grab the container of chunky monkey and pluck a spoon from the utensil drawer, and then I make my way to the living room, plop down on the couch.  A click of the remote turns on the tube, and I stare at the images on the screen.  There’s nothing on, nothing worth watching intently, and the only reason I’m doing this is to give myself a chance to be Rosalyn again.

It’s not long before the ice cream is gone and I’m ready for sleep.  I perform the nightly ablutions and slide naked between the cool sheets of my bed.

In a few hours that giant spotlight in the sky will bring another day, another script.  There will be more appointments to keep.  New players.  New settings.  New dialogue.  I know my entrances and exits. 

And there’s a dizzying new play to learn...

I flip the page of my daybook on the nightstand.

KILL HOUSE LIGHTS

Alan Rickman said “
Acting is about giving something away, handing yourself over to whatever role you are asked to play.”

I give freely. 

I feel no shame when I forget myself like Gielgud, and like Wilde, every day I find pleasure in sharing with other people exactly what it is to be human. I turn slowly like Russell.

I’ll spin fast
enough for Q.

Call me Roz. 

I’m an actress. 

I’m a doxy.

Curled in the warmth of my comforter, I close my eyes.

THE CURTAIN
GOES DOWN

-END-

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Quick and dirty, I’m a writer of multicultural erotica and seductive romances, and whatever else comes to mind. Tattooed vixen. Wicked humorist. Incurable humanist. Proud geek! Closet badass. (Shhh…) Lover of pit bulls, fast cars, all music, and candy. That’s the nut in a nutshell.

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