by Roy Glenn
Damn!
After that night, I couldn’t get rid of him.
Nine
I was right—Cedric was an asshole. And possessive. He was always calling me, wanting to know where I was, what I was doing, who I was with. Damn, the sex wasn’t that good. In fact, it wasn’t good at all. He’d tried on several occasions to explain to me that it was the excitement of the moment and me making him wait so long, that made him a preemie, but I ain’t buying that. The excitement of the moment? Nigga, please. If you’re a premature ejaculator, you’re a premature ejaculator. And that’s cool; it’s just not cool with me.
I’d tried to tell him, get this, that it was the excitement of the moment that made me wanna have sex with him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t buying it. He swore that I was in love with him and that, that day I was showing my real feelings for him. He said that if I just gave him another chance, he’d prove that he had real staying power.
He started worrying the shit of me about it and it was getting on my last fuckin' nerve. I finally said, “Okay, Cedric, but if the sex ain’t good this time, you don’t need to ever call me again.” My thinking was that if the shit was good, I’d have me a new fuck buddy. You know, like Raymond back in college. If not, he would be so embarrassed that he would never bother me again.
I don’t have to tell you what happened the second time.
Preemie!
So, now his excuse was that I put him under so much pressure that he lost his concentration and, you know, lost it. It only made him more obsessed with me. He started sending me flowers every day, and a singing telegram. I didn’t think they still did that stuff. Cedric was following me around, calling me all the time. One night he called me twenty-seven times, but I didn’t answer the phone. He knew I was home ’cause, come to find out, he was sitting outside my building in his car the whole time. “’Bout time you answered your phone, Nina.”
“What do you want, Cedric?”
“I wanna see you.”
“Yeah well, I’m busy.”
“Probably with some other nigga, ain’t you, Nina?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” I lied.
“Why, Nina? I thought we had an understanding. You asked me to give you some time and I did that; now you with some other nigga.”
“First off, I didn’t ask you to give me some time. And if I gave you that impression, I’m sorry. What I remember sayin’ is there was no need for you to call me anymore.”
“You don’t mean that, Nina. You know you love me.”
“Nigga, please. I am not in love with you.”
“That’s ’cause you won’t give us a chance.”
“Us? There is no, us. There is nothing between us and there never will be.”
“Don’t say that, Nina.”
“We went out a few times and that’s it.”
“There was more to it and you know it.”
“What you talkin’ ’bout? I was stupid enough—or let the truth be told, horny enough—to give you some, and it wasn’t good either time. Not good for me at all.”
“I told you what the deal was with that. It won’t happen no more.”
“What, you go out and get you a fresh supply of Viagra?”
“Don’t talk to me like this, Nina. I love you.”
“I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. The more I get to know you, the more I realize what an asshole you are.”
“Don’t you talk to me like that!”
“Why not? You’re an asshole; an asshole that can’t fuck long enough to satisfy me. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll talk to you later!” I yelled and hung up the phone. I changed my phone number and got a new cell the next day. After that, I didn’t hear from him for about a month, so I just figured that he had gotten the hint and went on to terrorize some other woman. I was so wrong. Wrong to the point that he is the reason I’m sitting here now, waiting for the grand jury to decide my fate. And it all started one night when this guy named Victor called me.
It was a rainy Friday night, so I decided to relax and read The Request by LaVonda Kennedy; the book I’d been putting off for weeks. Now, once I start reading a book, especially a good book, it takes me in and I can’t stop myself. I have to suck it all in until it’s dry. I made myself a drink and settled in for a good read. It turned out to be one of the best books I ever read.
I had gotten through about a quarter of the book when the phone rang. I looked over at the display. “Bell, VR?” I didn’t recognize the name or the number. I usually didn’t answer if I didn’t know who was calling. Caller ID sure makes you anti-social. But my eyes were tired from reading in bad light; another bad habit. Besides, how long would it take to say wrong number and get back to the book? So, I answered the phone.
“Hello.”
“Can I speak to Ronda?” said a voice so deep it sent chills through me. “Damn, he has a nice voice,” I said to myself. I could feel the vibration in between my thighs.
“There’s no Ronda here. You have the wrong number,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“You’re not bothering me,” I said quickly. “I was just sittin’ here reading a book.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading. I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a nice voice?”
He began to laugh. “Maybe once or twice. My voice has taken me places and gotten me into and out of more things than I can count.”
“You should be on the radio; ’cause your voice is so sexy I could just listen to you talk all night.”
“Thank you. You have a very pleasing tone to your voice too.”
“Well, thank you,” I said and squirmed around in my chair. “No one has ever told me that before, Mr. Bell.”
“How did you know my name was Bell?”
“Caller ID never lies,” I said and giggled like a teenager.
“I forgot about that. But why don’t you call me Victor?”
“Okay, Victor. My name is Simone,” I lied, using my old dancing name and sounding as polite and professional as I could.
“Well, Simone, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” I said. “So, how does it happen that you’re home on a Saturday night?”
“The rain.”
“What about you? How does it happen that you’re home on a Saturday night?”
“I’m tired. Your body lets you know when you need to rest yourself, so I just took some time to myself. This afternoon my grandmother had a birthday party, so I went over there and I had the best time. It’s fun hangin’ out with old people.” I didn’t want to give up too much personal information about myself. I already had one strung out pest on my hands; the last thing I needed was another.
“A lotta wisdom goin’ on in there. You can learn a lot from old people.”
“You sure can. So I hung out over there; stuffed myself like a pig on finger food and cake and pies. It was nice, especially since I really hadn’t been out in a while.”
“Why is that?”
“I was goin’ through some shit—excuse my language.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been known to say a curse word or two, myself.”
“I know we should be able to express ourselves without cursing, but it does have its place in our vocabulary. Let’s face it, people curse. Some just take it to unnecessary levels. But yeah, I was goin’ through some really foul shit and I just needed a change.”
“That bad, huh?”
“You just don’t know the half of it.” I really didn’t feel like going into my problems with Cedric. The fact was that I was trying to forget about him altogether, and the sound of Victor’s voice was quickly making me forget all about Preemie Cedric. The way Victor sounded over the phone made me curious, and I began to wonder what the man behind this voice looked like. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Ask me anything you want, Simone
.”
“Anything?” I asked flirtatiously.
“Anything you wanna know.”
“You are black, aren’t you?”
“Last time I checked.”
“Good. Would you mind describing yourself to me?”
“I’m six two and my skin is dark. I have no hair by choice.”
“I’m glad you said by choice.”
“No, male pattern baldness hasn’t set in yet. I have a beard.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“I knew it. For some reason, I kept thinking you were thirty-four,” I said.
“Why? Do I sound thirty-four?”
“No, silly.” I laughed. “How does thirty-four sound, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Like me, I guess.” He laughed too.
“Are you fine?” I asked, bringing an abrupt end to our laughter.
“I’ve been told that a time or two, but I’ve never thought so. I consider the people who said it to be biased.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause I was involved with them at the time.”
“I’ll accept that,” I said; then I got a call on my other line, so I asked, “Victor, would you mind holding on a minute?”
When I clicked back over Victor said, “I didn’t mind you excusing yourself, but it allowed my mind to wander. Since we were on the subject, I began to give some thought to what you looked like, wondering what kind of person you are. Back in the day, what type of person you were wouldn’t have even been a concern, but those were simpler times.”
“Oh, really? Why don’t you tell me what it was like back then?”
“You see a girl; you dig her. She digs you. Only concern at that point was where and when. But things are different now.”
“Just a little.” I laughed. “You’re kind of funny.”
“Thank you. I’m glad that I amuse you.”
“So, I take it that back in the day you were livin’ on the wild side?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Well, what would you say?”
“I would say that I’ve had my share of women—my share and somebody else’s share, if I really wanted to be honest with you.”
“Do you?”
“Can I?”
“Of course, you can. You can be as honest with me as you like.”
“Good. I’ve always thought that there was entirely too much pretense in conversation between men and women.”
“You’re right. There is.” I had to agree since I had dropped a couple of lies in this conversation already.
“Each one is so busy trying not to say the wrong thing, not really saying what they mean, talking all around what they really want to say.”
“Not being yourself,” I threw in, because I was guilty of it.
“Let me ask you something”—Victor said and cleared his throat—“How many times have you said, damn, if I’d known he was like that, I woulda never got involved with him?”
“One time too many,” I said and thought about Cedric.
“See, that’s pretense. So, I’ll just be myself and hope that you do the same. Picture that, an honest relationship.”
“Interesting concept.”
“I have to try that one of these days,” he said, and I laughed.
“I don’t know if it’s possible for a man and a woman to have a completely honest relationship.”
“Why is that?”
“’Cause men lie.”
“So do women.”
“Yeah, but y’all take it to a whole nother level,” I said excitedly.
“Please. Give me a break.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means while we’re down here scheming and lyin’ on level one, a woman is on level five, running a program of lies and manipulation that is so sophisticated that our dumb asses could never even imagine, much less know what’s goin’ on.”
I had to laugh.
“You’re laughing, but I bet that you’ve run some sophisticated games on men, haven’t you, Simone?”
“Yeah. Well, first of all my name is Nina. Simone is the name I used when I danced,” I confessed.
“The pleasure is all mine, Nina. And thank you for proving my point.”
“Anyway,” I said, hating to be caught in my own shit.
“Nina Simone, huh?”
“That’s what my father used to call me,” I said, and thought about my daddy. It had been a while since I had seen my parents and I missed them. I would have to try to heal the wound that had grown in our relationship.
“Do you like Nina Simone?”
“To be honest with you, Victor, I know that she was a jazz singer, but I’ve never heard her sing.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I replied, feeling just a little stupid. I mean, here I was going around using the name, and didn’t know anything about her.
“You should check out some of her music. She really does have a beautiful voice.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about her.”
“A bit. Like that’s not her real name.”
“Get outta here.”
“What, you think you’re the only one who can make up a name?”
“Okay, okay, you got me.” I hate getting called out like that, but he had me. “So, what’s her name?”
“Eunice Waymon.”
“Eunice Waymon?”
“Yup,” Victor said and I giggled a little.
“Where did Nina Simone come from then?”
“To support her family, she started working as an accompanist in an Irish bar in Atlantic City. The bar owner told her she had to sing too. So she changed her name into Nina, which means little one, and Simone, which she took from the French actress Simone Signoret.”
“I never heard of her.”
“Neither have I.”
“Good,” I said. “Now I don’t feel so bad.”
“So you dance, huh?”
“I used to. I used to dance at private parties, and then I danced at a club for a minute.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really.”
“Which did you like better?
“Private parties. I hated working in a club.”
“Why?”
“Too many people. All those men grabbing at me, trying to rub on me; I just didn’t like that. And women hittin’ on me got a little old too. See, at private parties, there’re maybe four, five men. I could handle that a lot better. When I dance for a man, I feel the music inside me, and I move to the flow. I can look into a man’s eyes while he’s watching me, and make him feel me without ever having to touch him. It’s more personal.”
“Personal, huh?”
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’, and no, I don’t sell no pussy. I know some girls do. Do it all the time. I knew one that got locked up trying to sell some pussy. You can get hooked on that money. I wasn’t tryin’ to do all that.”
“Guess you made good money dancin’, huh?”
“I got a flat fee plus tips. Depending on the crowd, I did all right.”
“Sometimes the whole dancer-customer relationship amazes me. I mean, think about it, we sit there for hours, giving sometimes large sums of money to a woman whose job is to get your money and make you feel good about giving it to her.”
“Right. And she can accomplish this most times by making you think that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and that tunnel leads to sex.”
“Most times this isn’t the case. I had a relationship like that. I used to go to this place to be entertained by a woman who called herself Starr.”
“Starr, huh? At least my stage name showed some imagination, even if I didn’t know it.” I laughed. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed that much in a conversation with a man; especially a man I’d never met. Of course, that was an issue that I planned to remedy at the first opportunity.
“It started out like every dancer-cust
omer relationship does. I tipped her while she was on stage, and when she came to thank me, I had her dance for me.”
“That’s how the club scene works—hustlin’ for every dollar you get. But you really liked her? I mean, beyond just dancing for you?”
“Yeah, I did,” Victor continued. “She was cool, quite intelligent, and pretty good company. Good enough that I became her regular customer. When she’d notice that I was in the club, she’d leave whoever she was sitting with and sit with me.”
“You must have been a good customer for her to do that.”
“I guess. But that went on whether I had money or not. Naturally, on nights when I had no money to spend, she’d leave me when she’d see a mark, but she’d always come back.”
“Bet she’d have some stories to tell.”
“She’d always have stories about the things men would say to her. Weak, lame lines. Starr gave me the rundown on all the other dancers—who was trickin’, who got high, which ones stole money, the whole nine. Some nights she wouldn’t feel like being bothered and would dance only when it was her turn on stage, or she’d dance for me when a song came on that she liked.”
“I guess she really liked you too.”
“I guess,” Victor said quietly.
I could tell by the way he talked about her that she really meant a lot to him. “You wanted to have sex with her?”
“Bad. But for as long as the relationship lasted, there was no sex. Each night some guy in a gold Lincoln would show up to get her. She’d say good night and they’d drive away, leaving me broke and feeling foolish.”
“She was just doin’ her job.”
“So what about you, Nina? What do you do now?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you do? Where do you work?”
“Oh …” I laughed. I knew what he meant. I was just trying to decide how I should answer. “I’m in business for myself,” I said quickly.
“What type of business do you do?”
“Wholesale/retail business,” I said. “You know, I buy things wholesale and resell them for a profit.”
“Really? What product, or maybe its products, do you carry?”