A Deeper Love Inside: The Porsche Santiaga Story

by Sister Souljah

  Elisha owns his own business and sets his own work schedule. Even though he is his own boss, he is also, as he explained to me, “the product.” Therefore, he is most often very busy, and in high demand. He could’ve ordered his driver to drive me, and his security to accompany me; however, he handles all matters involving his wife, personally and privately, attentively and compassionately.

  “You say you want me to get up, but you’re still touching me, which means we both wanna stay right here in these sheets,” Elisha said as he turned to face me.

  Soon as he started sucking on my breast, Elisha Jr. burst out of his sleep in protest. Elisha Jr. seemed to believe that my breast belonged only to him. Now our son was suckling from my right nipple, and my husband’s lips were locked around my left nipple. It felt good, and confusing. My son’s suckling makes me feel loved and needed in a really pure way. It was as though he was pulling life out of my breast and becoming more alive because of me. I felt a love for my son and from my son that seeped deep down in my bones and even circulated in my blood. My husband sucking on me was so erotic and exciting it made my pussy muscles contract wildly, which aroused me like crazy.

  Seventeen years young, I’m a wife and a mother. This whole feeling, of having a loving husband, father to our son, made me wonder why every woman wouldn’t want this exact life? Quietly, I decided that every woman does want the same feeling, things, and life, but most don’t have the confidence to pull it off, didn’t know how to make it happen, couldn’t “seal the deal,” so to speak. I do know for sure that love is completely different than business. Many women don’t know how to be sweet, don’t know how to love and be loved, don’t know how or who to allow to love them. Don’t know how to inspire their men to become great men. I almost fell into this same category. I am so happy that Elisha always had the type of love I admire, needed, and respect, “that fighting love,” the kind that doesn’t give up or give in, especially when a man can feel that his girl loves him, too, but just needs a little help and a little push to pull herself together, then merge.

  Elisha and I began playing a rhythm on Elisha Jr.’s back to get him to burp. Our hand song made us both sleepy-smile. Another thought came to me while holding our son. How could any mother not be in complete love with her children, the way I am? Then inside of one second, my 93 percent peace and true happiness shattered into pieces as I thought of my momma. Why didn’t she love me? Why didn’t, couldn’t she love me enough? I knew now that drugs were mind-changing substances. Thinking about it further, I realized that more than altering a persons mind, drugs had the power to change and erase a person’s heart.

  “Is Siri around?” Elisha asked me.

  “She sure is,” I told him honestly.

  “Tell her to get under these sheets. I wanna touch her,” Elisha played.

  “Turn around, she’s already in. She’s lying on the other side of you. But why touch her while you have me here?” I asked him. Then I put Elisha Jr. in the rocker next to our bed.

  “Siri is more freaky!” he said.

  “Siri, is that true?” I asked her.

  “I just do whatever I feel, Porsche. You said I could spend some time with Elisha. But lately you’ve been hiding from me and keeping Elisha all to yourself. Only you have been having it all.” I was facing both Elisha and Siri. Then she placed her pretty hand on Elisha’s strong arm from behind him.

  “She’s saying that I’m greedy, Elisha,” I said. He laughed.

  “You are,” he said, placing his fingers a little ways inside me. “I feel it pounding still,” he said, as his smile lit up the night.

  “What does Siri do to you that makes you ask for her when I’m loving you?” I asked.

  “She sucks me here.” He moved my fingers to his chest. “She sucks me here.” He moved my fingers to his thickness. It was rock hard, again. “And she sucks my toes!” he said.

  “Get out of here!” I said, cracking up. “She does not!” I told him.

  “I do,” Siri said softly. “And I like it a lot. And Elisha likes it too much.”

  “She says she does!” I told Elisha. But there was no way I believed it.

  “I told you. She’s sweeter than you. I know you two are best friends, but you should compete with her a little, since you are here most of the time and she only comes around every now and then.” Of course I knew Elisha had a deep and special feeling for Siri. I understand, because I have a deep and special feeling for Siri, too. She’s soft and warm, pretty, calm, and wild at the same time. She is a comfort and she always allowed Elisha whatever pleasures he could imagine. Sometimes those two went further than Elisha and I would go. Like, the photos she allowed Elisha to click of her naked and oiled body, sitting on the sound board in his studio, wearing nothing but Elisha’s expensive, colorful guitar strap. He shot the photo from behind her. Her beautiful back, small waist and seductive spine pointing a path to her pretty butt cheeks. Her legs were cocked open. And in the other shots, she was naked and in pretty poses, which suggested she was making love to Elisha’s guitar. I had told Siri she could sing for my man, the rest of the things that she did in his studio, those two got into all on their own.

  But I, Porsche L. Santiaga, am the dancer, the movement specialist. I don’t suck toes, but I do amazing things with my body, which keeps my husband constantly craving me. I was already stroking him. Soon as I began, he stopped talking.

  “I hope Siri does all that sucking after a hot shower,” I whispered.

  “Uh huh . . .,” he said quietly. “So let’s get in the shower, the three of us.” We did.

  • • •

  Nervous, my fingers were twitching slightly. Only Siri could see me shaking as we sat side by side on my divan facing the mirror. Elisha and I had separate bathrooms that were more like exclusive salons, and separate dressings rooms as well.

  Moments after our erotic encounter in his shower that shot water from overhead, mid-waist, and up from the floor, I was seated in my pretty camisole and panties. It’s funny in a sad way. When I am next to Elisha, I am so good. When he is not right next to me, I am not as good, but not bad either. When I tried to explain my feelings of love for him to him, all I could say is, “You are everything.” He asked me if I got that from an old song by the Stylistics. I told him I didn’t. These were just the best words to describe my true feeling.

  His mom wanted me to “know God,” but so far I only knew Elisha. She asked me if I had something I was grateful for. I told her I’m grateful for Elisha. If I close my eyes, I see him. When he’s not there, I imagine him. When I’m with him, I’m so open and joyful that I could easily explode. When I feel myself getting or going down no matter where he is, he catches me. He never allows me to sink too low. He never goes too far from me or leaves me behind. He protects me, not just my body, but my feelings and my thoughts. He gave me the best things ever, his heart and our son. He also gave me back my twins by marrying me and building us a home that was so well constructed, safe, and credible that it made me “good enough” for Midnight to allow Mercedes and Lexus to come spend some weeks with us. With Elisha I feel powerful; without him I feel vulnerable. Alone, I could earn, fight and survive. With Elisha, I could live, love, and have peace. He had tended to my heart and filled up the five holes, which no one else in the world was able to do. I wasn’t sure if this was one one of the things I needed to fix, but I was sure that I didn’t want to fix this feeling.

  “Do you know the meaning of Elisha’s name?” Momma Elon had once asked me. “Elisha, in Hebrew means, ‘God is salvation.’ Azaziah means ‘strength.’ Sheba means ‘oath.’ My name means ‘oak tree,’ and my husband Jamin’s name means ‘right hand.’ ” I was remembering her words. “We have these names for a reason,” she said, trying to ease and pull me up to her standard.

  “What about going to school? You’re so young and you need a quality education,” Momma Elon had asked.

  “Everyone going to school is trying to study so that they can get the
things that I already have,” I told her softly and respectfully and sincerely.

  “What about a job? It would give you the feeling of accomplishment and success,” Momma Elon pushed.

  “I couldn’t accept a salary job at this point, Momma Elon. I can still earn in entertainment in one night, what it takes so many workers and even executives a year of full-time work to earn,” I said. She made a thoughtful face, like she wanted to fight the point but knew what I was saying was true.

  “That’s the way it is, Momma Elon, and I didn’t set it up to work that way.” You must understand me, right? I said it, and I meant it. Being Elisha’s wife and Elisha Jr.’s mother is what I have and what I wanted most. It’s what Elisha Sr. wanted also.

  I understood what Momma Elon was getting at, that when you have a talented mind or body, you should want to keep it alert and active, by working on things and getting things done, so you could feel good about yourself. The truth was, I had more than enough to think about and do. As Mr. Sharp taught me, I was making my money work for me. Sharp and I stayed “father-daughter close.” Through him I was still flipping and investing the money I had earned before marriage. It’s just that now I do it for sport. Before, I did for survival, and mostly I did it for my momma.

  There were also my special things, like my new organic garden. I had to work hard to keep it nice, especially when the seasons changed. It made me feel so good when I cooked meals for our whole family with vegetables, fruits, and herbs that I planted, watered, and grew.

  • • •

  My thoughts were tangled about whether or not I should wear my seven diamond bangles. These were sparkling jewels, the cleanest, clearest gems I had ever seen. Elisha had purchased them in Dubai on our honeymoon. He pushed and placed each one of them on my right wrist. They were so pretty it was impossible for them not to raise jealousy in the bosom of any girl—the ones with jewels, the same way as the ones without.

  I didn’t want to raise jealousy in the heart of my big sister, Winter, I thought to myself. But I did want her to fully look at me and see me in the right way. I wanted her to feel that I had done well in life even though I was the forgotten, invisible middle sister. I wanted her to see me and really believe in her heart that I was good enough, even by her incredibly high standards that she measured fashion, friendship, popularity, and beauty when she was young and free. I wanted her to look at me with her sixteen-years-young eyes, not the older incarcerated ones. I wanted her to choose me, to begin to write me some letters from prison, and anticipate my replies. I wanted her to think that I was cool and to yearn to chill with me the same way I always wanted to be holding her hand and following her around, believing that she was a queen above all other girls when I was eight. Back then when I was deep asleep, I even dreamt of chilling with Winter, without her trying to get away from me.

  “Put ’em on,” Elisha said, stepping up behind me. “Dress up for me,” he urged. As I saw the reflection of his smile spreading, my mind switched towards pleasing him.

  In a mean tailored black-wool Burberry dress and black tights, rocking my seven diamond bangles and matching diamond earrings, I slipped into my black Burberry three-quarter-length leather with the fur lining to repel the freeze. I picked up my black Epi Leather wallet, dropped it into my black Epi Leather bag, and stood staring for a minute, choosing between my black Manolo Blahniks or my Fendi riding boots. I chose the heels for Elisha. I took the boots along so I wouldn’t bust my ass if snow began to fall. I pumped my Paloma Picasso perfume twice and walked out into the corridor, down the marble stairs, and into the foyer.

  In the foyer, I pressed the intercom button and said, “Morning, Momma Elon. Elisha is coming across with Elisha Jr. I pumped enough breast milk and everything else you’ll need is in the baby bag.”

  “Ivory, breathe and don’t worry, not even a little bit,” she said in her 4 a.m. sleepy voice.

  “I’ll try,” I said. “We’ll see you tonight.” I signed off.

  She knew Ivory was not my real name. She was the type who holds on tight to an idea, things, and even more so to the people she loves, really tight. So, since I first introduced myself to her as Ivory, she held on to it. I didn’t mind. Elisha’s mom had so many good things about her, it was easy to overlook our small differences and disagreements. She was patient with me, very patient. In all things personal she was sweet, sensitive, and supportive. It was only in conducting business that she was cold. In business mode she was cold and calm and composed even as she attacked. She was never a prosecutor in her real life, but give her some friction and she could flip into one like you never seen or heard. When it came to money, she was mean, a smart and swift shark. I wasn’t mad at her for that. She kept the money train moving and oversaw Elisha’s biggest deals and dealings. She combed through his contracts with a fine-toothed comb, marking pages up with her red pen and deleting whole clauses that she said didn’t belong. She became known for putting together unprecedented deals, with perk packages so sweet they were worth almost as much as the check they had to cut just to be in business with the Immanuels.

  Elon Immanuel, Esquire got Elisha endorsements as though he was a top-rated professional athlete. But, he wasn’t an athlete. He was the super young, super charming, super smart, nineteen-year-old movie director.

  Looking at the umbrella choices, rain hats, and accessories, I wondered if I should wear my black leather Gucci gloves. I held my hands up, checking out my manicure, each fingernail half black, half white and precisely drawn without error. “Too pretty to cover up,” Siri said softly. I pulled down the Gucci gloves and dropped them into my bag just in case.

  Elisha was some minutes late. I knew he was saying a prayer, which he had said was completely new for him. Momma Elon was incredibly grateful that her son prayed now. She thought it was because of me. It wasn’t. I believed it was because during our three-week honeymoon in Dubai, he saw so many powerful, monied men bend their knees in prayer that he felt moved.

  “Over here, the good guys and the bad guys, the poor and the rich all bow down.” Elisha had observed with his careful director’s eyes and it moved him. He told me that before our trip, he looked at temple as a place for women, and the bending of knees and lowering of the head as a sign of weakness in men. When we reached home safely, Poppa Jamin, Azaziah, and Elisha all surprised us by praying together one night. We women left them uninterrupted. I took it like I took anything with Elisha. He was full of surprises and unembarrassed about his love, when he loved, whether it was his God or wife or his family, who he confidently brought along with us on our honeymoon. The night of the Immanuel men’s first prayer together became the start of their nightly prayers together.

  I turned to look back at our beautiful home; two of our Brooklyn brownstones were connected by a bridge that Elisha designed. In our spacious backyard, which stretched over three lots, was a tree house, not something thrown together, but a badass tree house imbedded way up in the trees. It was like a private place for me, and only those who I invited. Yet I never invited anyone accept Riot and Elisha.

  “I was so jealous of that fucking Indian in the tree house,” Elisha had once said to me. I wanted to correct him and say, “Not Indian, ‘Native,’” but I knew better.

  “Why? He wasn’t my man,” I softly told Elisha.

  “I don’t care. Just the fact that he knew you, took care of you when you fell, and you danced for him made me crazy. He told you to grow up and come back to him and you did.”

  “I didn’t!” I said, truthfully. “By the time I was fourteen, he was married. I didn’t go back for him or because of him anyway. You know that. I wasn’t never in love with him. I was in love with his drum and the beat.”

  “When you feel like running, run into our backyard. There’s plenty of room. You want to live in the trees, live in your tree house that Elisha built for you!” He smiled, but he was still fuming like it all happened yesterday! “When you wanna dance, dance in your studio. The one Elisha built for y
ou. Move your hips for me, only for me, please.” I felt him so sincere. As I had promised, I wanted to do whatever he wanted and to go wherever he went, so I moved these hips only for him and for myself when I’m alone. Maybe one day I would direct a dance studio for young beautiful angry girls like I used to be. A dance academy at juvy would probably change everything and everybody for the better, I imagined, even the warden, although I knew that there is nothing like living free alongside your family.

  Poppa Jamin, Elisha’s father, never said too much. I could see in his eyes that he understood why his son was “enthralled with his enchanting young wife.” That’s what Sheba called me, enchanting. Momma Elon thought I was “peculiar,” a daughter-in-law who was “strangely emotional.” A daughter-in-law whose moods “swing like a pendulum.” A daughter-in-law “who daydreams for hours and retreats into silence at times and cries and climbs and hides in a tall tree, where the birds live.” Despite her careful and continuous critique, Momma Elon and I had made our peace. Now we lived comfortably in the day-to-day details of being the two women who loved Elisha the most; the two women who Elisha kept at his side by choice. What sealed our bond, really sealed it, was one of my rare panic attacks that occurred during our post-honeymoon travels. We were on a seriously tight schedule. All of us had accompanied Elisha on a college tour, which wrapped up at Harvard in Massachusetts. After Harvard, we were scheduled to fly into Los Angeles, California, for a round of business talks with some executives that Momma Elon described as “Hollywood’s top brass.”

  I had been feeling sick for the past few days of the tour. Momma Elon wanted me to see a doctor. Each day, I refused. She said she was pretty certain that I was pregnant. I agreed with her, but still refused. She said I was being “ridiculous,” and that if I “were in fact pregnant,” I would have to see a doctor quite often. “Is there a physician who you are more comfortable with?” she questioned and pressed. “None,” I replied, as I sat feeling red and placing the word “ridiculous” onto a list of words that I hate and feel offended by. We both went to bed angry at one another. Before sunrise, I was sicker than I had been all week. I told Elisha I couldn’t fly for seven hours to California feeling the way I felt. When Elisha told his mom he was canceling our flights, she was so frustrated. The volume of her stern voice was propelled by the bedside speakerphone, “Of course she feels sick! She’s with child! Let her drink a ginger ale from the minibar. The feeling will pass. This is important business and Elisha you know what that means. Our itinerary is tight. If we push back one thing it will delay and change everything else. And, there’s the serious matter of your going back to school. You’ve already missed too many days.”