by Tiana Laveen
Integrity and objectivity are who I am or at least strive to be. I tend to be moral without being overly judgmental. I understand human frailty; no one is perfect, including me, despite the big dog and pony show I may put on in public company.
Speaking of company, I find my ideal companionship is with a beautiful woman… one on one…
Now, when it comes to love, you are talking my language.
I love being in love or, as they say, ‘Boo’ed up.’ I love kissing, hugging, cuddling, and laughing together. Spending all day in bed while it rains and just watching silly movies and making love until the sun rises is what I call a fantastically good time. Some men have to try hard to be romantic, but not me… it comes naturally. Flowers, cards, fancy dinners, homecooked meals, handwritten love letters, weekend trips to Vegas—my budget permitting, I’m doing it! I remember important rendezvous like our first date, the first time we kissed, the first time we made love… I recall the things you say, the things I wished you’d said, the way you smile at me, too… I remember the things you like, such as extra cheese on your Nachos, light ice in your Diet Coke, a tip of a teaspoon of sugar in your coffee, and no salt but plenty of butter on your popcorn. I memorize the stuff that turns you on and try my hardest to make sure that I deliver on those desires and then some. I get so turned on just by the thought of you…
I tend to be very territorial, possessive, and protective of my girlfriend or wife.
If someone talks down to you, in no seconds flat, I am on that ass…
If someone disrespects you, I have been known to have the police called on me…
I wish it weren’t true, but it is.
I don’t play that shit.
I can take a lot of shit, but when you involve my woman, my mother, or my children that I don’t yet have—you’re fucked. That’s when the smile goes away, and these hands go up, and I pack a mean ass punch. Physically, I am notorious for knocking motherfuckers out be it in a boxing ring, the boardroom, or the classroom. I am not the class bully; I am the victim’s defender. Point blank period. That knockout may just happen with my mouth, but best believe, I take a bite out of crime and can back that shit up.
I ride for the underdog because that’s part of my calling in life.
Protect the women and children by any means necessary.
If I love you, I love you with every fiber of my being. I am passionate, sensual, nasty and fun.
I am your Libra lover…
CHAPTER ONE
Roscoe’s Chicken and Trophies
LANGSTON’S FINAL POSE brought a standing ovation…
Standing under the bright lights, glistening from his forehead to the curl of his toes, his heavily oiled eight-pack abs flexed as he drew in the muscles hard at the NPC Houston Texas Bodybuilding Competition. Turning from one side slowly to the other, he relished how he’d mastered his poses to perfection. Langston didn’t even know anymore how many bodybuilding contests he’d entered and won, but he began at age sixteen and he was now thirty, still winning over guys in the early twenties with ease. He grinned wide as people jumped up and down, cheering and chanting his name. He’d travelled a long way for this, drove five hours nonstop all the way from Elsa, Texas.
“Langston Lopez!!!” someone screamed out, causing more of a frenzy.
The accolades always sent him on a euphoric high. He’d worked his ass off to achieve this level, and he’d come to collect. Less than thirty minutes later, he was awarded first place. He appeared as humble as possible, though inside he believed he rightfully deserved it. Regardless, appearing modest was essential and something he had down pat.
“Congratulation, Lopez.” One of his biggest competitors, Pete Davis, approached him, his broad and calloused hand extended for a shake.
“Thanks, man. You look good. You did a great job, too.”
Davis nodded before turning on his heels, leaving him there with his trophy in hand and three layers of spray tan that he couldn’t wait to wash away. After taking over an hour’s worth of photos and video footage, Langston did a final interview, said his goodbyes, and jumped in his truck, heading straight to the closest McDonald’s drive thru—his guilty pleasure after months of discipline with no fast food or the delicious edible ills of society that he occasionally craved. Once there, he ordered a quarter pounder with extra cheese, two large fries, a large Coke with light ice, a twelve-piece order of nuggets with sweet and sour dipping sauce, Filet-O-Fish® with extra tartar and an apple pie.
Gobbling his food down in the car in a vicious way, he almost grossed himself out when bits of bread spewed out of his mouth as he burst out laughing at an idiotic car commercial on the radio. After finishing up, he cranked up his banged and bruised old Ford truck that had been with him for years, and drove to the hotel he’d booked in advance the week prior. It wasn’t much to write home about—a simple Econo Lodge room. Once in the room, he felt a cool breeze from the air-conditioning but sighed at the odor of mildew.
Man, it stinks in here! Like some old gym sock…
Stepping inside, he tossed his phone, bag filled with a change of clothing, toiletries, and his trophy onto the sunken bed draped in a lint covered, mustard yellow quilt. He turned on the clock radio, which he bet was a 1990 relic. The rhythms of ‘Don’t Stop the Dance’ by Bryan Ferry filled the room. The previous renters must’ve had it on the 80’s station. Normally, he’d shower and change backstage at the contest venue, but this time, the place was so crowded he couldn’t get a moment alone, so he just left as soon as the opportunity arose. His stomach growled despite having just ate, but he ignored it and went to the bathroom. He placed his small black toiletry bag on the sink ledge and looked around. The little bathroom looked clean enough, though a suspicious looking diamond-shaped dark stain could be seen at the top right corner of the shower enclosure.
What tha hell is that? Some portal to another dimension?
He looked at himself in the mirror for a spell, turning his face from side to side. The whites of his eyes practically sparkled against the artificially tanned skin. His black hair was heavily gelled—not his style but necessary to complete his look—and his clean-shaven face made him look like some kid that had just graduated college.
I can see the cleft in my chin now…
Running his fingertips against the side of his face, he grimaced. He missed his close shaven beard but had cut it and his mustache off completely for the competition.
“I gotta grow it back… I hate this shit… looks like I’m just starting puberty… fuckin’ ridiculous.”
He leaned to the side and turned the water on in the shower, eager to get all the oils, gels and various concoctions that covered his body removed. It screamed and sputtered from the shower head like an aquatic newborn baby and seconds later, he was undressed and turning to and fro under the warm water, ensuring that not a drop was missed in his mission to get squeaky clean. The cheap hotel soap dried his skin as he used the bar diligently, regretting now that he’d not brought his own. He felt relieved however that he’d brought his own shampoo and conditioner. It was a trial-sized Suave in an ocean blue color, but he was delighted all the same.
Flipping the top on the shampoo, he poured some into his palm and worked it into a lather all throughout his tresses. He turned the water temperature up a bit and felt the stickiness of the strands finally begin to melt away, his naturally wavy, smooth hair coming back into it’s rightful texture. Blinking a few times, he stared down at his feet and watched the swirls of soap gather around the drain, then disappear. Churns and spirals of the tanning solution mixed in with the suds, looking much like melted chocolate ice-cream with bits of oil within. Ten minutes later, he was drying himself off, applying ample deodorant and rubbing his newest tattoo of Libra scales on his shoulder with a thin layer of Vaseline.
Doing his best to wrap the tiny stiff towel around his waist, he returned to the bedroom to be greeted with the giddy, nostalgic sounds of Abba singing ‘Take a Chance on Me.’ Tempted
to turn to some rock ’n roll or rap music station, he instead was distracted by the glow of his cellphone on the bed beside his overnight bag. He picked it up and smiled as he read various congratulatory messages from friends. He typed his ‘Thanks!’ with a smiley face, then copy and pasted it to everyone. Tossing the phone back down, he dug into his bag and removed a pair of dark gray boxers and wife beater shirt. He dressed quickly, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed, watch a little television—the free HBO was a perk—and do some surfing online.
Yeah, I can at least get free Wi-Fi here… I bet it’s slow as shit though.
He grabbed a bottle of water from a six pack he’d picked up before heading out on the road and downed it, then got comfortable under the sheets, ankles crossed, phone in hand, radio turned down low, and the television broadcasting some murder show.
Oh yeah… Doreena stays here in Houston… haven’t seen her ass in a long time!
He grinned from ear to ear as he searched up one of his old girlfriends who had moved to Houston over a year ago. He sent her a text:
He selected someone else at the same time just in case, for she didn’t sound too enthusiastic and his sixth sense told him it was a possible dead-end. In fact, the woman never responded to his last text. Doreena was the type of woman who kept a grudge. This would be the perfect way to stick it to him and she knew it. They used to argue like cats and dogs; hence, the relationship had ended as fast as it began but the sex had been incredible!
She must still be butthurt about me standing her up that one time… I was busy. Shit.
It was clear she may be a harder nut to crack than he initially thought and he was in no mood to put a lot of time and energy into getting some pussy that night. Feeling exhausted, he just wanted to bust a nut and go the fuck to sleep.
Option numero dos…
Oh, I know, Tara is only like 30 minutes away…
Tara was never a woman he was serious about. She was a dancer in the Houston area who had developed a crush on him after one of his shows. He’d smashed and dashed, and she’d kept calling until it became clear she wanted him to be her man. He’d stopped texting and calling her back at that point, avoiding her as if his life depended upon it. She was a sweet girl, but not girlfriend material in his book.
“Shit, man!”
He tossed his phone down, horny and discouraged as he now observed a gorgeous blond bouncing about on the screen, a pistol on her hip as she looked for the bad guy. Running his fingers through his hair, he sighed and resolved that he was far too exhausted to put forth any more effort. He needed PussyHut—pussy on delivery with a side of warm lips and wet tongue for an epic blowjob, and he needed it fast. No drama, no tears, no why-haven’t-you-called-me-in-three-years bullshit. He glanced down at his right hand and shook his head.
I guess it’s just you and me, Roscoe…
Reaching into his boxers, he took hold of his cock and began to work it in slow strokes.
My money is funny… account is low… Gym membership is about to expire and I need to renew…
Why am I thinking about this right now? That doesn’t turn me on, the fact that I have, like, only $200 to my fuckin’ name is a real buzzkill. Rent is going to be due soon. Maybe I can get some extra hours this week… spent all of my money getting down here… it was worth it though…
His eyes hooded as he worked his hand faster and faster, the promised land so close yet still so far away…
Almost there… this lady on the tube has some nice tits. Hopefully they won’t break for commercial too soon and show something that totally sinks my libido, like some abused animal commercial shit with that depressing ass, ‘Eyes of an Angel’ song playin’ in the background. How can I get off to a fuckin’ puppy with one good goddamn eye and one some sick fuck burned with a cigarette?!
He shoved the thought out of his mind as his imagination played games with his emotions, threatening his hard-on and promising to send it packing.
I should be asleep in ten minutes, twelve tops…
He glanced lazily over at his trophy that now lay on the floor atop his bag. He smiled at the damn thing, its golden hues cueing his happiness within. Joy filled him as he imagined himself driving back home with it sitting in the passenger’s seat like an old friend…
It wasn’t an old friend though, but a new one. He’d cherish it like all the others. He gasped when he came, his liquid happiness spilling onto his working fingers as they moved in a frenzy along his thick length. Minutes later, he was cleaned up, breathing heavily, and polishing off his third bottle of water. He glanced back over at the trophy on the ground and smiled…
At times, those trophies gave him far more comfort than the people that paraded around him on a daily basis. At least, with the trophies, he knew they were there for him…
‘MORE THAN A Feeling’ by Boston played through the old scratchy speakers of the American Market grocery store, which was rather busy for a Thursday afternoon. Yasmine English’s nostrils stung from the scent of cheap perfume that the old woman before her with the white, cotton ball bouffant hairdo had apparently bathed in. A line of people formed, some cursing, while others coddled crying babies. Some did both.
“Almost ready…” the old woman stated in a shaky voice as she held out one palm, the wrinkly flesh cupping a fistful of dimes and nickels. “Hold on, here… I’ve got… I’ve got uh couple of coupons for that uh… bread.”
“Awww, man!” someone groaned as the old woman opened her wicker pocketbook with long, age-spot-covered fingers, two of them covered in junk jewelry. She dipped them as if in slow motion in and out of the faded paisley printed interior of the pocketbook, finger fucking the cheap fabric in search of those elusive printed savings.
“I know they’re in here somewhere…” she went on.
Yasmine offered a nervous smile to the woman, then hooked her gaze on the ever-growing line of customers and cursed under her breath. Typically, she prided herself on having the patience of a saint, but today had been one of those days she’d just as soon forget.
For the Love of Jesus and all the sweet baby angels in Heaven! Please hurry up!
She was the only one here today, with the exception of Rick, who helped stock shelves. Rick stood 5 ft. even and was shaped like a hamburger bun. He even had freckles and little cinnamon colored moles that reminded her of sesame seeds. Behind his back, she called him, ‘Mickey Rickey D’s.’ The rather lazy man only worked part time and wasn’t good on the register, often accused of over or under charging, which only resulted in angry customers or some that got an entire cartful of groceries for under $10.00, never to be seen or heard from again.
Rick was her Uncle Sonny’s girlfriend’s son, which uncle insisted that, in his absence, which happened often, she not put the young man on any registers anymore. But, at the same time, said uncle hadn’t bothered to hire anyone new to help her out. She cleared her throat, trying to garner the old woman’s attention to no avail. A man in the far back, tall, wiry and wearing a large black cowboy hat, waved his hand in the air as if he were in class and needed help with the homework assignment.
“I ain’t tryin’ to be rude, but can I give whatever money she ain’t got so we can get tha hell on?! Some of us got things tuh do!” A few people laughed and cheered on the man as he rocked back on his heels, carrying a six pack of beer under one arm.
Either the old woman was hard of hearing or had lived so long she no longer cared about others’ opinions… Yasmine preferred to think the latter.
“Ma’am,” She reached across the conveyer belt and tapped the old lady’s wrist. “Don’t worry ’bout it. I’ll just take $2.00 off your bill, okay? Is that fine?”
“But see, the one I had for bread was buy one get one free.”
“But the bread was only $.79 cents, ma’am. It’s on sale. I gave you an additional $1.21 off just for good measure.”
The woman stood there and contemplated, placing her finger against her chin as if she were a contestant
on ‘Let’s Make a Deal.’
Anna Betty Mae Jenkins or whatever the hell your name is, if you don’t take my offer and move tha hell on, these folks are going to see a show and call Elder Abuse Services!
“All right.” The old lady grinned, showing tiny, shiny teeth that looked to be hers—the original O.G.s. “That’ll do me just fine.”
Yasmine nodded as she placed the rest of the items inside a paper bag.
Rick’s no good for nothin’ ass ain’t even up here to help bag! Probably in the back sleepin’ on the flour bags, head propped up like some dummy. Can’t stand his ass… Pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun motherfucker…
She grabbed the microphone. “Rick, if you don’t mind I need help baggin’. Please come on up.”
The microphone screeched as she shoved it back in the holster, pissed as hell. The old woman went on about her way and she rang up the next customer, and then the next, and the next after that. Then came the turn of a man dressed in overalls with a bright orange shirt beneath it. His dusty dark blond hair had bits of debris, as if he’d been working on some road covered in nothing but gravel and hay. He set a pack of bologna on the conveyer belt, a forty ounce of beer, two packs of American cheese, a pack of hamburger meat, a head of lettuce, one small tomato, some mayo and ketchup, a pack of hamburger buns, and condoms. He then handed her his TANF card and waited.
“Uh, sir, I’m sorry, but neither alcohol nor contraception is covered under the TANF card. You’ll have to pay separately for that with either cash, debit or credit card.”
“What?! I ain’t never had no problems wit’ it before! I come in this store all the damn time, ain’t never been a problem!” he went on and on, repeating himself like the hook on mumble rap songs. “What would y’all prefer I do?! Tryna be responsible here, get some fuckin’ condoms, and I’m turned away at the door!”