Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3 (30 page)

Tiffany L. Smith

I’m sleeping with the devil. I know he’s a lying, manipulative bastard. But it’s like an addiction. I’m under some kind of mind control. One minute, I’m disgusted and swearing to cut him loose, the next thing I know, my clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor and he’s talked me into some bullshit I swore I’d never do.

This shit is wearing me thin. I’m up at two in the morning checking his cell phone. At work, I’m hacking into his email. I spend a lot of my free time and lose a lot of sleep—
searching.
Playing amateur detective so I can stay two steps ahead.

Like today. It’s 2:13 in the freaking morning and I’m tiptoeing around my own damn condo trying to figure out where the hell he left his cell phone. First, I run my hand across the nightstand beside the bed. No luck. Then, carefully, I search the darkness for his pants and reach into his pocket.

Bingo!

I slink quietly to the bathroom and ease the door almost shut, allowing the darkness to fold in around me. Ignoring sanity yet again, I scroll through his messages.

My breath catches in my chest when I come to a picture of my Hamilton, hugged up with some cocoa brown–skinned sister. Putting a face to my nemesis. They’re looking into each
other’s eyes the way we do. Connecting. The picture is framed in a heart and there is a voice tag attached.

I push the door completely closed and lower the volume on the phone. What I hear next makes my stomach sick.

“Hi, Tish.”
Hamilton’s mellow baritone seems to fill the tiny bathroom. The tightening in my chest is causing me to strain for air.
“Don’t we make the perfect couple? I miss you and I love you.”

I’m in a full wheeze now, blinking back tears as they begin to sting my eyes.

Five
…
four
…
three
… I slowly count. I’ve got to regain control before the panic sets in.

How did I become my mother—the woman I despised? I vowed to never be that dumb, loving a cheater … But look at me now.

I open the cabinet and pull out the small paper I hid when I came home today. When I’m away from Hamilton, I get small snatches of clarity and write things down—affirmations. I hide them around the house, to be able to pull them out and save myself during moments like this.

Characteristics of a sociopath: manipulative and cunning, incapacity for love, infidelity, incapable of real human attachment to another.

He’s sick and doesn’t even know it.

I hear the bed move. Quickly, I shut the phone and wait the sixty seconds for the backlight to go off. (
I told you this shit is ridiculous!
) I slide the bathroom door open slowly and let silent feet lead me back into the bedroom. I slip his phone back into his pants and pause just a moment before I pull the covers back to get into bed.

I’m having a very familiar battle inside my head.
This has got to end.
My head falls gently against the pillow. The fighter in me doesn’t want to give up. This is war.

I study his face for a long time. He sleeps so peacefully. His silhouette has an auburn glow in the moonlight. Those beautiful eyes rest undisturbed. He is beautiful. The devil himself. The nearness of his caramel skin calls to me. I nestle my head against his chest and slowly pull the sheets all the way back so I can clearly see the outline of his penis in contrast to the room’s darkness. Each time he exhales, it rises almost a full two inches before settling back into its original position. The whole scene is excruciatingly erotic to me.

I squeeze my eyes tightly, trying to shut out the image of him and this “Tish.” The vision of his penis penetrating her with the same piercing pleasure he gives to me causes me to ache all over.

• • •

“Aftinn, what is wrong with you, girl?”
I can hear Chante’s neck swinging through the phone. “You find out he’s got
another
chick in the wings, and you acting like it don’t even matter!”

“I
knowwww
…” I whine. “I don’t understand. As stupid as it sounds, I just can’t get him out of my system.” I needed Chante to help strengthen my resolve.

“You know what it is …” She pauses for emphasis. I imagine she’s got her arms folded and is nodding her head like she always does.

“What?”

“It’s that
PP
… Umm hmm … Yep!”

“
What?
Girl ain’t no R. Kelly going on over here!”

“Not that kind. I’m talking about the PP. Possessed Penis! Girl, get out now, before you hurt yourself!” We both fall into laughter.

“Chante, I’m
trying.
But every time that negro gets back into this house, it’s like my mind goes blank and I let him lead me straight to Hell. Now he’s hinting that he wants me to move in
with him.” I clutch the phone against my left ear and start to rub my temples.

“What!”

I didn’t want to tell her, but I had to get it off my chest. “Yesterday, when we were having dinner, he commented on how stupid it is for us to pay for two places when we’re always together.”

“You better not even be thinking about it …”

The “or I’ll kick your ass” lingered unspoken between us.

“I
know
… It’s stupid! I had to actually shovel food into my mouth to keep from agreeing. It’s like I’m in a trance or something!”

“Humph. It’s the PP, I’m telling you! You better be careful.”

“I will,” I tell her. “Listen, I gotta run, but I’ll hit you up later.”

“Yeah. Sure you will.” She knows once I get within ten feet of Hamilton, it’s a wrap. I don’t make calls or take calls from anyone.

After returning the phone to its cradle, I sit a few moments to think about what she’d said. Maybe she is right. Maybe his penis has some kind of voodoo power. How else can I explain this shit?

I’ve had plenty of men. Cute, rich, and famous.

Hell, I’ve had good dick before—sex so good, I was curled up in the fetal position, sucking my damn thumb afterward! But this is different. I don’t know how, exactly, but Hamilton has a way of using his eyes to look through me. I’m back to being Daddy’s little girl. Back to a time when a smile from Daddy’s eyes could make everything better.

I’ve convinced myself that if only Hamilton could rid himself of all those other women, we would be happy. Somewhere deep inside him, I believe he loves me. And frighteningly enough, I
sound just as dumb as my mother, praying that the lying, cheating man will one day change his ways. But wasn’t it Daddy who said a leopard never changes his spots?
Ever
?

• • •

This morning after he left, I opened all the windows and threw the sheets off my bed. It’s a feeble attempt to rid myself of him. Stupid, I know, but this is my ritual when he leaves. Somehow, I feel doing this will erase him from my life.

I vacuum the carpet and scrub down every inch of my bathroom. I am hurt, and try hard as I may, I can’t get the vision of “Tish” with her arm wrapped around my man out of my mind. I’m not sure if it hurts more to see him with her, or that despite all of my efforts, nothing I do can stop this man from sharing what I love so much with someone else. She looked into his eyes just like I once did. The thought makes me vomit.

After I change the sheets and dust every corner of my bedroom, I still feel his presence. I jump into the shower and try in vain to remove the memory of his touch from my body.

I soap up the breasts he’s caressed a million times. My nipples stand alert, seeking the warmth from his lips and tongue again. I let the bubbles run down my abdomen between my legs. I close my eyes and visions of him moving slowly in and out of me invade my thoughts. I allow the water to wash over me as my hands travel to the places he’s discovered.

My obsession with Hamilton is like a disease that has infected my entire life. I’m consumed with images of his smile that reflect in his eyes. Memories of his butterfly kisses that set my soul ablaze. Thoughts of him fluidly filling me, stroke by stroke, until I burst into a million tiny unrecognizable pieces of myself.

• • •

It’s Sunday morning and the sun is peeking through his blinds, tapping me on my shoulder. I hear the sounds of pots rattling in the kitchen and the familiar smell of bacon and eggs waft into his bedroom. This is what I love so much about him. It is also what makes this so difficult for me. For every time he’s come home late, smelling of someone else’s Rapture perfume, for every time he’s silenced his cell phone in the middle of the night, I can recall a time when he’s offered me a crisp, white calla lily as a thoughtful gesture, or has just been the solid kind of man I need.

Lying in his king-sized bed, lost within the sheets and goose-down blanket, I feel him surrounding me on all sides. I have to steel myself against him. I reach into my purse and pull out that folded piece of paper. Today’s affirmation reads:
You determine your own destiny
…
with or without him. Love is just a casualty of war.

I close my eyes and feel myself sinking into his domain. When we make love, he likes when I call him “King.” I can’t help but wonder how many others have fallen under his reign.

Quickly, I wash those doubts out of my mind and pull his oversized T-shirt over my body. He walks in with a tray full of breakfast and plants a cheerful kiss on my forehead. He plops down on the bed, grinning like a kid. I think for a moment that he doesn’t even realize we’re at war. But then I blink and, for a second, I see the devil rise again in his eyes.

He hands me the newspaper and switches on the TV to ESPN. This is how we spend Sunday mornings; me reading about tragedy around the world and him watching sports.

Life is simple that way for him. Sports—you win or lose. Work—it pays the bills. Love—here today, gone tomorrow. Life—you live and then you die.

For me, life is filled with layers and various nuances that must be taken into account. Maybe under all that deceit lies the heart of a good man … maybe.

“So, baby, did you think any more about this living arrangement?” He takes a long sip of OJ.

“Are you planning to move your things into my condo?”

“Baby, I already told you that you live much farther from my job, and it would make more sense for you to rent out your place since my rent is much cheaper here.”

“Hamilton, do you hear how crazy that sounds? Renting out my condo that I own to pay rent somewhere else?”

Carefully, he places his hand on my thigh. I feel my resolve weaken at his simple touch. He leans over and places a light kiss on my forehead. Then he slides those damn soft lips back and shows me the whites of his teeth. His smile is his secret weapon.

“Baby, don’t worry about it. We’ll make it work.” He turns back to ESPN. I’m not even sure what just happened here. I’m hot at first because I’m mad about what he asked me but, then again, I feel the familiar heat rise between my legs and realize I’m really hot. I have to wait for
Sports Center
to end before he’ll put out this damn fire.

As I turn my attention back to the newspaper, I start to pick apart what could have gone awry during his childhood to make him this way. He says he grew up like everyone else. Says Georgia in the sixties was like most any other place in the U.S. But that’s odd to me. Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi were the cradle of the Civil Rights Movement. History was in the making. How could he have missed it? For him, back then, life was about cartoons, football, and endless summers. Simple.

Just like when he says he loves me. It’s simple. There was no
process, no rationale behind his feelings for me. It is what it is. Nothing more. Nothing less.

As much I love Hamilton, every inch of me hates him. I sit and watch him some nights, asleep without a care in the world. I study him, looking for any flaw to break this ridiculous spell.

I hate the fact that when he touches me, every cell in my being is awakened. When he’s inside me, I hear the melody of our hearts beating together. Our souls connecting. I love him, but not for the reasons you think I do. I love him simply because I hate him.

My father once told me that hate and love are one and the same emotion. An odd notion at first, but when you think about it, to hate someone you have to spend time and energy wondering if they are suffering. You’re connected. Still invested in the relationship. So the more intensely I hate him, the more intense my love for him grows.
Love is a casualty of war
…

Daddy said the opposite of love is indifference. You’re able to walk away and not look back. You go on through life unaffected by their trials or triumphs. When you’re indifferent, it’s like they never existed. Hamilton has become my existence. I hate him. I love him.

• • •

Back at home, I’m comforted being surrounded by my own belongings. My classic black art. My favorite wicker rocker. My office that proudly displays all my certificates, diplomas, and awards. My condo that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean. The home with my name on the deed.

For a brief moment when I walk in the room, I feel his presence. He wants me to give this up so he can be in control.

Today’s affirmation reads:
Destroy or be destroyed. Today is the day.
He’ll arrive here around midnight. Says he has to work late.

• • •

The clock displays 12:22 a.m. when I finally hear him turn his key in the lock. We exchanged keys about a month ago; he said he hated having to wake me. I’ve never shared a key with anyone else … but I guess by now you’re not surprised at how easily he talked me into it.

Tonight, I’m wearing a white lace teddy with matching boy-cut panties—his favorite. He’ll be too distracted watching my ass jiggle under the pressure of the lace undies to think about talking me into giving up my condo.
Destroy or be destroyed
…

When he enters my bedroom, he quickly lies across me, wrapping me in his arms. He knows I’m lying in wait for him.

As he begins to remove his shirt and slacks, I squeeze out thoughts of “Tish.” His hands travel down my abdomen and I erase images of his hands touching her with the same warmth that now drives me crazy.