“Relax,” I whisper to myself as I finger a lacy black teddy. “You’re a grown woman. You’re allowed to have good sex.”
Hell, I’d take mediocre sex right now. That sad reality has me forgetting about my reservations and I forge ahead to find the raunchiest piece of lingerie here. I find panties with no crotch, bras with feathers at the nipple. I hang on to both like they’re the answers to all my problems.
When I see a maid’s outfit on a mannequin, I can’t help but laugh. But once I stop chuckling, I take a closer look. This maid’s outfit is barely there. Talk about stepping out of your comfort zone to do something different. In this uniform, I can role-play. I can be a lousy cook, or suck at dusting.
And Charles can spank me, then punish me with his piercing shaft….
I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing out loud. I’ve been reading way too many historical romances.
I continue to browse. There’s also a mannequin in leather, wearing a dog collar and holding a whip. That’s an idea. I could always whip Charles for being a bad boy. But I can’t quite imagine him on all fours with his butt in the air. I pick up a package with the maid’s uniform and stuff it under my arm. I even choose a black wig. If I’m going to role-play, I may as well go all out.
Fifteen minutes in this place and I’m feeling like a different woman. So much so that when I stroll toward the cash register—passing through an aisle full of vibrators—I stop and take a gander. I more than take a gander, actually, but hey, I’m curious. The shaft that gets my attention is long, thick and blue (an odd color given its lifelike dimensions but I’m not about to ask why). I pick it up and examine it through the packaging.
“Oooh, I
love
that one.”
I jump with fright, dropping the blue penis and my crotchless underwear to the floor. Cute little Suzie doesn’t miss a beat. She quickly scoops my items up.
Knowing that my face is flaming, I accept the items but don’t meet her eyes.
“There’s also this,” Suzie says. She picks up a display penis that’s extremely huge. “This one feels so real. Touch it.”
God forgive me,
I say to myself. Then I touch the proffered penis and am surprised at just how soft it is. “Nice,” I mumble, for lack of something more appropriate to say.
“The balls even move on this one, giving added stimulation. And it has three speed levels, depending on what you prefer.”
I know I’m as red as a beet. “Um…I think I’ll stick with this stuff.” I lift the lingerie items. There’s no way I can bring another penis into my house, even if I could use it. What would my husband say?
Suzie leads the way to the register and I follow her. I know this is the new millennium, but this place is so…sinful. I can hardly believe I’m really here. I feel a rush of guilt and consider going to confession.
“You might want to try some of these.” Suzie points to a bin with small tubes. “Flavored lubricant,” she announces proudly. “Personally, I like the raspberry best.”
Good Lord, she looks way too young to have tried all this stuff. I’m about to tell her I’m not interested, but I suddenly change my mind. How much have I missed out on? Too much, clearly. I want to catch up, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
I pick up a handful of the tubes. “Can’t get too much of these.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
I’m actually chuckling, enjoying this moment, when I sense someone to my right. Turning, I nearly die of horror when I see a total hottie standing a few feet away from me. How long has he been here, and how did I not see him before?
Worse, how much of my conversation has he heard?
He grins as he meets my gaze.
God help me, he thinks I’m a freak. I quickly pay for my items and rush out of the store.
Nine o’clock and still no Charles.
What seemed like a good idea three hours ago seems utterly foolish right now. I’m lying on the sofa wearing that ridiculous maid’s uniform and the even more ridiculous wig, only half paying attention to some pathetic reality dating show. The meat loaf I prepared is lukewarm in the oven.
Not even so much as a phone call to tell me he’d be late.
I could have changed—in fact I almost did—but I want Charles to see what I’ve done to try to seduce him. And if I’m entirely honest, I guess a part of me still hopes that he’ll walk through the door, see me half-naked and perk right up—then ravish me until I can’t even blink.
Like that’s gonna happen.
Why the hell do I bother? Maybe my sister’s right. Maybe Charles
is
having some torrid affair.
The cordless phone is at the foot of the sofa, nice and close to me, because I’d hoped Charles would call. Now I lift it and punch in the digits to one of my girlfriend’s. I desperately need to hear a friendly voice right now.
“Hello?”
Thank God, Lishelle is home. She’s a newscaster and sometimes works through the evening. I met her at Spelman, the same place I met my other best friend, Claudia Fisher. I think they took pity on me—one of the few white girls who had the guts to go to a predominantly black school. I didn’t care about any of that, of course. I wanted to experience life at an all-girl college, probably to please my mother who was worried about all the temptation I’d face on a regular college campus.
“Hey, Lishelle,” I say, pulling the wig off. “It’s Annelise.”
“What’s up, girl?”
I sigh softly. “Nothing much. Just sitting here watching some TV and I thought I’d call.” I don’t want to talk about Charles. I’m depressed enough as it is. “Did you get a message from Claudia today?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“So there
is
another fitting on Saturday?”
“You know that girl’s tripping. The way she’s going through dresses and designers, I’m not sure anything will be good enough for her.”
“She’s got to make up her mind soon. The wedding’s on May twenty-seventh.” I lift my head when I hear the doorknob turning. Charles. My heart slams against my chest. “Lishelle, I have to go.”
“What?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell her, then disconnect the call.
My whole seduction scene has been ruined, and I’m now confused about what to do. Simply stand up and greet my husband, or lie provocatively on the sofa?
The decision is made for me. I don’t have time to get up. I toss the wig across the room, then fluff my blond hair. Drawing in a deep breath, I bend one leg at the knee and ease up onto my elbows. As Charles comes into view, I whisper, “Hi.”
Charles stops dead in his tracks, as though he is surprised to see me. I guess he is, because he’s got the stack of mail from the hall table in his hands and he must have been looking at that.
“Hi,” I say again, this time adding a smile.
“Hey.”
Charles glances to the left, at the row of candles burning on the table. I wait for his reaction…
He goes back to sifting through the mail.
The mail! I’m dressed like a French slut and he’s concerned with the mail!
I sit up, not sure if I should scream or cry. Really, I want to pummel him.
“Charles,” I say, noting the hint of exasperation in my voice.
He makes his way around the sofa and sits beside me. My heart lifts. Maybe there’s hope after all.
I lean into him and kiss his cheek. “I missed you, sweetheart.”
“It’s been a long day.” His eyes roam over me. “What are you wearing?”
Yes!
I think. He’s noticing me. He’s getting turned on. We’re going to have wild, passionate sex right here on the sofa.
“Just a little something I picked up today.” Now I press my mouth to his. I open my lips and move them over his lips. Instantly I’m getting hot…until I realize I may as well be kissing a dead fish.
My shoulders slump in defeat. “Charles…”
“God, I’m sorry. But honestly, Ann, I’ve had a long day. My head is pounding.”
I tune out the rest of his spiel. I can probably recite it by heart if I have to.
I don’t want to give up, but how can I fight this? Before Charles even walks through the door he’s thinking of ways to reject me. What happened to the man who used to write me poetry, sing to me off-key? I miss that man.
“There’s meat loaf in the oven.”
Charles makes a sound of derision. “Meat loaf? You know I’m not big on red meat.”
The nerve of this man! I embarrass myself at a sex shop, come home and slave over a meal for him, and he doesn’t even care? I want to smother him to death with the sofa cushion.
“Sorry,” I say. “It was…” My voice trails off. I don’t want to tell him I made an easy meal because I was hoping he’d come home early and ravish me.
“I already ate, anyway,” he tells me.
Then, to add insult to injury, Charles reaches for the remote and starts channel surfing. This is poor, overworked Charles, so friggin’ tired that he can’t even give me a decent kiss, yet he’s up for watching TV. Why isn’t he taking two aspirin and heading straight to bed?
Charles finds a soccer game. Since when does he like soccer?
I can’t help wondering if it’s me he doesn’t like.
It hurts being rejected. Like you’ve reached inside yourself and given your very soul to someone and they spit on it. That’s how I feel. And it sucks.
Tears well up in my eyes, but my dear husband doesn’t notice. I’ve seen talk of this on
Oprah,
read about it in magazines, women wondering
What happened to the passion?
Never once in my wildest dreams would I have thought I would be one of those women.
“Oh, you moron!” Charles shouts, as if he even knows what’s going on in the game. But at least with soccer, he’s willing to pick a team and play.
Me—I’m left standing on the sidelines.
Silently, I rise from the sofa and disappear from the room.
I
am not in the mood for this.
I pop the lid on my bottle of Motrin and drop two capsules into my mouth. I down the pills with water, then lean forward on my desk and groan.
Believe me, I’ve had a stressful enough day at the television station. I certainly didn’t need a call from him.
Him
being my ex-husband. I have just gotten off the phone with the jerk, and I swear, he must be on a mission to make my life miserable. There’s a reason I divorced him, although he doesn’t seem to get it. And he should, considering his girlfriend showed up on our doorstep two and a half years ago carrying
their
child.
Do you believe that my ex actually wants a second chance with me?
But then, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. David literally believes he’s God’s gift to women. I’m sure he’s deluded himself into thinking that without him, I’ve been utterly unhappy. Which is so far from reality, let me make that perfectly clear. There was the obvious sadness when we split, but mostly, I felt free.
You see, I always sensed something was wrong in our relationship, even if I wasn’t sure what. And when I learned that he was screwing around on me, everything suddenly made sense. If he was ever faithful to me after our wedding, it was probably for about three minutes. It’s amazing the stuff people are willing to tell you once the divorce papers have been signed. I only wish these friends and family members had seen it wise to give me this information before I married the man.
Somewhere along the way, though, it seems I’ve gotten some poetic justice. As I always knew he would, David has come to his senses and realized that I am the best thing that ever happened to him. Though the divorce became final over a year ago, he wants me back in a bad way.
I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gives me to be able to reject him.
That thought makes me smile, and I sit up straight. I eye my phone warily though, hoping it won’t ring again. I am getting tired of David’s phone calls. I’ve changed my home number and my cell number, but the bad thing is he knows where I work. I can’t quite escape that one. I’m a prominent newscaster at Channel Four news.
In the last couple years, I’ve advanced from field reporter to news anchor. I can’t help but wonder if this is why David wants me back. I have a more prestigious role at the news station, one that’s giving me fame and more money. Funny that this might interest David now, because he never liked me pursuing my dream before. In fact, he once told me that he was tired of hearing his police colleagues tell him they had seen me on the news.
Karen—the woman he’d cheated with—is a teacher. Nice and safe for David; i.e., noncompetitive in terms of his job.
I have to give Karen credit, though. Apparently even she has a limit to what she will put up with. Guess she finally realized that my ex is a worthless cheater and worthless cheaters aren’t even faithful to their mistresses. Bet she now wishes she’d found an unattached man to get involved with. I do take some pleasure in this. And why shouldn’t I? I’ve never understood how some women get off on being home wreckers.
David will never admit it, but I heard through the grapevine that Karen left with their child while he was at work. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall when David returned home.
Anyway, enough about my ex. Despite my long-winded rant, I really don’t think about him. He called to say that he has changed, that if I give him another chance I will see, but I am so not going there again. He thinks it’s because there’s someone else in my life. This time, I let him believe that.
The truth is, there’s no one special in my life. I hate to say it, but the men I meet these days are losers with a capital L. If they’re not starstruck because of who I am, then they’re just plain weirdos. For the most part, if the man is someone a self-respecting woman wouldn’t be caught dead with, then you can bet he’ll hit on me. Trust me, it never fails.
There’s something about being on television that makes people think they know you. And when guys think they know you, they’re much more forward. For example, a few weeks ago at a fund-raising event, a well-dressed black man approached me and passed me a note. It read, “You and me, outside in the gazebo in five minutes.”
Needless to say, I didn’t make that date.
I have such shitty luck with men that I have sworn off dating. I really have. What’s the point? There’s not one decent single guy out there.
But Rhonda, a camerawoman at the station, tells me I’m wrong. She swears that she’s got the perfect man for me—her cousin.
I’m not particularly interested in seeing this guy, but Rhonda has been on my case about it for months. So, despite my obvious bad luck with men, I have decided I am a glutton for punishment and have accepted a date with Rhonda’s cousin for this evening. I put off meeting Trevor for months—until I realized that Rhonda wasn’t going to drop the issue.
There is a knock on my dressing-room door. “Come in,” I call.
Rhonda pokes her head through the door. “Hey, Lishelle.”
“Hey.”
“I love your hair like that.”
I tuck some locks behind my ear. I’m still a bit self-conscious about it. When it comes to hair, I’m pretty conservative. I keep it nape length, and never color it anything other than black. At least I hadn’t. All that changed last weekend when my stylist urged me to do something different. I caved under pressure and allowed her to add some auburn highlights. Believe me, I started having a panic attack once I’d passed the point of no return. But Jenny, my stylist, promised me it would complement my skin tone. And she was right.
“Thanks,” I say to Rhonda.
“Trevor will be impressed.” She winks.
But will I be impressed with Trevor? For Rhonda’s sake, I hope so. She’s been trying for so long to get us together.
“What time are you meeting him?” she asks.
“Eight o’clock.” That will give me a little time to freshen up after the newscast is over. I plan to meet Trevor at a restaurant downtown. He offered to pick me up, but I politely declined. If I have my own car and things don’t go well, I can leave.
I’m jaded, can you tell?
“You’ll have a good time,” Rhonda assures me. “Trevor really is a sweetheart.”
“I hope so.”
Rhonda gives me a smile then disappears. Knowing I have work to do, I force myself out of my chair. I still have to get my hair and makeup done, and after that, it’s showtime.
Two hours later, my head is still pounding. I’m at the restaurant now, sitting in my car in the parking lot, dreading the thought of going inside. I just don’t know if I should do this. Knowing my luck, this date will cap off a stressful day with even more stress. I should probably just go home and go to bed.
But I am here already, resigned to my fate. I may as well try to enjoy myself. There are worse ways to spend a Thursday night than meeting a potential new boyfriend.
I apply more lipstick before getting out of the car. Then, as I walk up to the restaurant door, my stomach flutters with nerves. I hope I’m not making a mistake. Really, it’s not like I need a man, although I admit that having one might be nice.
“Hello,” I say to the male host once I’m inside. “I’m meeting someone. Crenshaw. Trevor.”
The host peruses his open schedule book. “Ah, yes. Right this way.”
My hands sweat on my Louis Vuitton clutch as I follow the host through the Macaroni Grill. This was Trevor’s choice, and a good one. It’s casual but upscale and has great food.
“Here you go.”
“Thank—” The rest of the word dies on my lips as I see a man rise. For a moment, I am stunned. Pleasantly stunned.
So
this
is Trevor. Wow. He is tall, very well groomed. A gorgeous dark-skinned brother. I am definitely impressed.
“Lishelle, hello.”
God, that smile must have broken countless hearts.
“You found the place okay?”
I force myself to speak. “Yes, yes, I did.” I smile awkwardly. “Hi.”
I extend my hand, but Trevor steps toward me and gives me a hug instead. “It’s so good to meet you. Believe me, I’m a fan.”
I smile bashfully and wave off his compliment. (I really did smile bashfully. Sheesh, what’s come over me?)
Without missing a beat, Trevor pulls out my chair for me. As I sit, I can’t help thinking that his mama must have raised him right.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some wine,” he tells me, and gestures to the chilled carafe. “It’s white, Riesling.”
“Lovely,” I practically sing.
Lovely?
Lord, when was the last time I used that word? Really, I need to tamp down on my overexcitement. Trevor is going to think I’ve been dating men from Mars.
Which isn’t exactly a stretch.
Trevor pours me a glass, then lifts his own glass in a toast. He touches it to mine and says, “To new friendships.”
“To new friendships,” I echo, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I have finally hit pay dirt.
Two glasses of wine later, I’m feeling very relaxed. And headache free. Accepting this date with Trevor is probably the best thing I’ve done in a long, long time. I’m even thinking of inviting him home, depending on how things progress. This isn’t like me, but you have to understand, I haven’t had sex in ages, and the fact that I’m sitting across from an eligible man has sent my libido into overdrive.
Trevor has been telling me about what it’s like to work as a lawyer. (Did I tell you I’m intrigued by the legal profession? Especially when it comes to fine-looking brothers who do their best to keep creeps off the streets?) I’m sipping wine and grinning like a fool, hanging on to his every word.
“I couldn’t believe this guy. It was like, every single one of his neighbors testified to the fact that they saw him chasing the guy with a knife, heard him uttering death threats, and he totally denied it. No defense, just a straight denial. And when he fired his lawyer and proceeded to defend himself…Even the jury could hardly keep their laughter under control.”
Trevor laughs, and I do, too. It might be interesting to see Trevor in action—in court. And I’m definitely thinking that it would be
very
interesting to see him in action in the bedroom.
“Ah, well.” Trevor’s laughter subsides. “Enough about me. I want to hear all about you.”
“Me?” I point to myself, as if there’s any question as to whom he’s referring. “Oh, there’s not much to tell. Certainly nothing as interesting as what you’ve told me.”
Trevor tilts his head ever so slightly and says, “I seriously doubt that.”
I draw in a deep breath to keep my erratic heart under control. “I…I guess I do have some interesting stories. Mostly from earlier in my career, when I was a field reporter.” The truth is, I have a lot of interesting stories. But I’d rather talk about me and Trevor and whether he’s doing anything later. It’s not exactly the time to bring up this suggestion, though. “What do you want to hear about? The streakers or the death threats?”
“Death threats?”
“Oh, yeah. I was covering a story about a feud between two business owners. One guy had a cleaning business in town for twenty years. The new guy set up shop and was stealing his customers. When I asked the new guy about his business practices, he shoved my cameraman to the ground and vowed to slit my throat.”
“Whoa.”
“Nothing came of it. But there have been other instances like that, and I’ve been worried more than a few times. There are some crazy people out there.”
“What else?”
“More stories?”
Trevor shakes his head. “No, tell me about you. Your life.”
My heart flutters. Okay, so he likes me. That’s good to know, because I really like him. “Well,” I begin, “I’m from Idaho.”
“Idaho?” Trevor looks at me like I’m nuts.
“Yep.”
“Wow,” he says. “I didn’t know there were black folks in Idaho.” There are laugh lines around his eyes as he smiles.
“That’s the first thing people always say, but yes, there definitely are.”
“Atlanta’s a far way from Idaho. Why’d you move here?”
“Because I always knew there was something bigger and better out there. Not to knock Boise, but I craved big-city life. I also wanted to go to a black college, and there aren’t any there. I applied to Spelman, got accepted, and the rest is history.”
“Any regrets?”
I wonder if he’s talking about my moving to Atlanta or about us. “No. No regrets.”
“Good,” Trevor says.
Maybe it’s the wine, but my tongue is suddenly feeling loose. I lean across the table and say, “You know, I’m really glad that Rhonda matched us up. Before this, I was pretty jaded about dating. Seems I kept meeting the same type of man—the wrong one.”
“Same here,” Trevor says. “The wrong woman, I mean.”
Trevor and I share a chuckle. As our laughter dies, I glance away, wondering if I should invite him home now. No, not yet. There’s no need to rush.
So instead I ask, “When was your last relationship?” Depending on what he says, I’ll get an idea of where his head is at. If he’s hung up on someone else. As much as I want to have sex, I don’t want a one-night stand.
“It’s been a while for me,” he answers. “Four months.”
“That’s not so long,” I comment. I hope he’s over this woman. “Were you in love?”
Trevor shrugs. “I thought I was, but in the end I realized I wasn’t.”
He’s being a bit evasive. I wonder if I should be concerned. Then again, he might not want to talk about it because it was a bad breakup.
“Ever been married?” I ask.
“Nope. What about you?”
“Oh yeah. But thankfully, I came to my senses.” I force a grin. I don’t want him thinking I’m bitter. “He was the wrong man, but hey, it happens.”
I notice that Trevor’s eyes have shifted to beyond my shoulder. He seems to have tuned me out. Oh, shit. I sounded like a moron and now he’s turned off.
But his eyes linger, and I realize he’s not avoiding me but looking at something else. Or someone else.
I quickly glance over my shoulder and peruse the restaurant. I see a family of four, two young couples, a table with two men.